The Complete Yes Minister

7 Jobs for the Boys

[At the beginning of March Jim Hacker came within a hair’s-breadth of involving himself in a scandal that would have rocked the government and brought an ignominious and premature end to his political career. Ironically Hacker would have found himself taking responsibility for events with which he had no real connection or involvement — but for which, as Minister, he would have been answerable — Ed.]

March 2nd

I arrived at the office in a rather good mood today. I’d done all my boxes. I was feeling thoroughly on top of the job. I’d handled all my PQs [Parliamentary Questions — Ed.] rather well yesterday, given a good speech last night at a dinner, and was looking forward to a broadcast that I’m due to make tomorrow. All splendid publicity. I find that people are at last beginning to know who I am, as a result of the high profile I’ve been managing recently.

I asked Bernard what the broadcast discussion would be about. NATO, I thought. Bernard said that, in fact, it would be about co-partnership in industry.

I knew it was something like that. Some sort of partnership, at any rate.

The discussion would contain the usual compulsory BBC ingredients — one politician, one employer and one trades unionist.

I noticed that the trades unionist in question was Joe Morgan, who had been the TUC representative on the Solihull project. I remarked that this was good, because it meant we could talk about the project on the air.

To my surprise, this rather non-controversial remark was greeted with much anxiety by Sir Humphrey.

‘Minister, you’re not proposing to refer to the Solihull project on the air?’

‘I certainly am,’ I said. ‘It’s a shining example of a successful collaboration between government and private industry.’

‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.

For a moment, I couldn’t think why. Then I remembered. ‘Because you said it was,’ I pointed out. ‘Why? Have you changed your mind?’

‘No,’ he said carefully, ‘but… I would be much happier if you omitted such references from the broadcast.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

He said it was premature. I pointed out that work started on the project six months ago, so it could not possibly be described as premature.

‘Precisely,’ he said, ‘rather out of date in fact.’

Remarkable! Premature and out of date?

Humphrey amended this foolishness instantly. He simply meant ‘untimely’, he claimed. So again, I asked him why?

‘What I mean is, don’t you think it will be rather uninteresting to the general public?’ he whined.

I couldn’t see why. It’s an example of partnership in industry that is really happening. Now. Extremely interesting. I said so.

Humphrey seemed to be getting desperate. ‘Quite so, Minister,’ he said. ‘It is so interesting, in fact, that there is a danger that it will obscure the main point that you wanted to make on the broadcast.’

‘What is my main point?’ I asked, suddenly unable to remember.

Humphrey also seemed to go blank. ‘Bernard, what is the Minister’s main point?’

Bernard reminded us. ‘That private projects are more socially responsible with government money, and government projects are more efficient with private investment.’

This was precisely my main point. And reference to the Solihull project will obviously underline it. Humphrey really is a wet blanket. He just goes around stirring up apathy.

But he was still not satisfied. ‘Minister,’ he persisted. ‘I must advise you very seriously with all the earnestness at my command that you do not refer to the Solihull project on the air tomorrow.’

Again I asked why? Again he dodged. But, by now, I had guessed. ‘Could it be,’ I enquired coldly, ‘that you are planning to take all the credit for this scheme at next month’s European Convention of Government Administration?’

Humphrey said, ‘I beg your pardon?’ — in other words, he didn’t deny it! So I knew I was right. And I really tore him off a strip.

‘Your keynote speech will be well reported, won’t it? Well, let me explain some facts of life, Humphrey. Politicians are the ones who are ultimately responsible to the people, and it is we who get the credit. Not civil servants.’

Humphrey intervened. He assured me that he would be only too happy for me to take the credit for this project, as long as it wasn’t tomorrow. Liar!

I brushed this procrastination aside. ‘Humphrey,’ I told him firmly, ‘I am not going to fall for it. I am going to make all the political capital I can out of this Solihull project — I know a good thing when I see one.’

[Hacker was completely mistaken. Sir Humphrey Appleby was trying to hush up all references to the Solihull project, with very good reason. Later that day Bernard Woolley, who had realised that there was more to this situation than met Hacker’s eye, sought an interview with Sir Humphrey — Ed.]

SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:[13]

It was clear to me that Sir Humphrey Appleby was engaged in a cover-up of one sort or another. However, I was adamant that I needed to be fully informed about this matter, as it did not seem possible for a £74 million building project on a nine-acre site in the middle of one of our largest cities to be swept under the carpet. Even if the brush were to be wielded by Sir Humphrey Appleby.

Sir Humphrey told me that he intended to try to use the Official Secrets Act. I remarked that I couldn’t see how the project could be kept secret, as it was so big.

‘It’s a big secret,’ replied Sir Humphrey.

I could also see no way to invoke the Official Secrets Act, when everybody knew about the project. I was young and green and had not yet fully realised that the Official Secrets Act is not to protect secrets but to protect officials.

Sir Humphrey attempted to explain his evasiveness by saying that, as the Minister had not enquired into the background of the Solihull project, he didn’t wish to know. And it was, of course, standard Civil Service practice not to bother a Minister with information about which he had not enquired.

I took my courage in both hands, and indicated that I might hint to the Minister that I believed that there was a scandal connected with the Solihull project. Naturally, I made it clear to Sir Humphrey that I might not do so were I myself to be put more fully in the picture.

Sir Humphrey then came clean, rather reluctantly. I learned that the Solihull project had been set up by Sir Humphrey, acting for the DAA in partnership with Michael Bradley of Sloane Enterprises. This had happened long before my promotion to the Private Office.

Subsequently the Solihull Report came in, containing a paragraph casting doubt on the financial soundness of Sloane Enterprises and Mr Bradley. [‘Casting doubt on the financial soundness’ means that Bradley was probably about to go bankrupt’ — Ed.]

However, by the time the Report came out, Sir Humphrey was so committed to Bradley that it seemed a better risk to him to see the project through.

Now that I knew the full facts I was in an invidious position. Naturally I could not tell the Minister something that I had learned in confidence from the Perm. Sec. Equally, I had a duty to prevent my Minister involving himself in this matter if I could. It seemed that all I could do was to remonstrate with Sir Humphrey.

I explained that if the Minister knew the full facts he would certainly not be so foolish as to broadcast them. But Sir Humphrey insisted that as a matter of principle, Ministers should never know more than they need to know. Like secret agents. Because they may be captured and tortured.

‘By terrorists?’ I asked.

‘By the BBC,’ he replied. He also explained that the situation was not lost. The bank was dithering about whether or not to foreclose — a potential disaster. He was to have lunch that week with the Bank’s Chairman, Sir Desmond Glazebrook. So, meanwhile, there must be no mention of the Solihull project on the air or to the press.

I was getting exceedingly worried about my part in what appeared to be a cover-up. I explained this to the Perm. Sec., who insisted that this was not a cover-up, it was responsible discretion exercised in the national interest to prevent unnecessary disclosure of eminently justifiable procedures in which untimely revelation would severely impair public confidence.

This sounded even worse than I thought — like Watergate! However, Sir Humphrey explained to me that Watergate was quite different. Watergate happened in America.

March 4th

Today I did the broadcast on the Solihull project, about which I am beginning to feel a little uneasy.

I drove with BW [Bernard Woolley — Ed.] to BH [Broadcasting House — Ed.]. I asked Bernard if I had correctly diagnosed Sir Humphrey’s reasons for not wanting me to mention the Solihull project on the air. This question seemed to cause Bernard considerable anguish, but he merely shook his head slowly and sadly.

So I said to him: ‘What is Humphrey’s real reason for not wanting me to mention it?’

Bernard opted for answering my question with a question, i.e. not answering — ‘Did you not think he gave six or seven very convincing reasons, Minister?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Did you think that?’

He ducked that question too. ‘I’m sure,’ he said evasively, ‘that Sir Humphrey knows what he’s doing.’

I’m sure he does. I only wish that I knew what Sir Humphrey is doing!

I decided to approach it another way. I feel, and I don’t think I’m mistaken, that Bernard has a certain sense of loyalty towards me. So I asked him what he advised me to do.

This put him into a frightful state. ‘Well,’ he said, panicking, ‘it’s not for me to advise, Minister, but if it were, I would be obliged to advise you that you would be well advised to follow Sir Humphrey’s advice.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ he dithered. ‘It’s just that, well, um, certain projects have certain aspects which, with sensitive handling, given reasonable discretion, when events permit, there is no prima facie reason why, with appropriate give and take, if all goes well, in the fullness of time, um, when the moment is ripe, um, um…’

‘Bernard!’ I interrupted him. ‘You’re blathering, Bernard.’

‘Yes Minister,’ he agreed wretchedly.

‘Why are you blathering, Bernard?’ I enquired.

‘It’s my job, Minister,’ he replied, and hung his head.

Clearly he is keeping something from me. But what? Foolishly, perhaps out of spite, I resolved to talk about the project on the air and get the matter — whatever it is — out in the open.

But I now wonder if this was a mistake.

Anyway, we recorded the broadcast and I talked, at some length, with some enthusiasm, about the Solihull project.

[We have obtained the transcript of the broadcast discussion, and reproduce below the relevant pages. Those taking part were Hacker, Joe Morgan — General Secretary of the Commercial and Administrative Workers Union — and Sir George Conway, Chairman of International Construction Ltd — Ed.]

I didn’t have time to go for a drink in the Hostility Room afterwards, but as I was leaving Joe Morgan buttonholed me.

‘Oh,’ he said, as if spontaneously, ‘I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this, Mr Hacker, but I wonder if you’d be able to put in a word for my members’ claim for a special Birmingham allowance?’

I naturally pointed out to him that I cannot conduct trades union negotiations in a BBC studio. Furthermore, it is a matter for the Department of Employment.

Then he made a curious remark. ‘I was thinking, see,’ he said, ‘that after this broadcast people might start asking questions about the Solihull project, wanting to know more about it, you understand?’

‘I hope they do,’ I said, stubbornly. Well, I do!

Then he said. ‘But, as we know…’ and he winked, ‘… there are some things…’ he winked again ‘… better not found out.’ Then he tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger and winked again. ‘I’m sure we understand each other.’

He grinned and winked again. I began to suspect that he was trying to tell me something. But what? Or — and the more probable explanation suddenly flashed into my mind — he knows something and he thinks I know too. But whatever it is, I don’t!

I played for time. I watched him wink again and asked him if he had something in his eye. ‘Only a gleam,’ he replied cheerfully.

I must have looked awfully blank. But he must have thought I was an awfully good poker player. He continued: ‘Come off it, Hacker, we’ve got you by the short and curlies. I’m asking ten per cent below London Allowance, and we’ll settle for thirty per cent below. Give you the credit for beating us down.’

‘There’s not going to be a Birmingham Allowance,’ I said abstractedly, my mind racing. ‘You’d better resign yourself to that.’

‘If anyone’s going to have to resign,’ countered Morgan, ‘it’s not going to be me.’

Resign? What was the man hinting at?

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘The Solihull project, of course. I could hardly believe it when you took all the credit for it in the broadcast. Great courage of course.’ Courage — how did that dreadful word get into the discussion? ‘But whatever possessed you?’

I didn’t know what he was on about. Cheerfully he burst into verse:

‘Cannons to the right of him

Cannons to the left of him.

Into the Valley of Death rode Mr Hacker.’

I can’t think what he was talking about. I’m getting very worried indeed.

[It appears that Sir Humphrey Appleby met Sir Desmond Glaze-brook for lunch at a club in Pall Mall on the same day as Hacker’s broadcast. Most unusually, Sir Humphrey kept no notes and made no memos as a result of that meeting. This omission — which broke the habit and training of a lifetime in Whitehall — indicates that Sir Humphrey was profoundly frightened that the matter discussed at this meeting should ever become public knowledge.

Fortunately, however, a letter came to light many years later, sent by Sir Desmond on 5 March, the next day, to his wife who was wintering in Barbados — Ed.]

59 Cadogan Square

London SW1

Dearest Snookums [Lady Glazebrook — Ed.]

Hope you’re having a lovely hols, getting nice and brown and not forcing down too much rum punch.

Things are going quite well here. I made a little progress towards getting a couple of good quangos for my retirement, at lunch yesterday with old Humphrey Appleby, Perm. Sec. at the DAA. [QUANGO — an acronym for Quasi-Autonomous Non-Governmental Organisation — Ed.]

He’s got a bit of a problem at work. He’s got into bed with some idiot whiz-kid financier called Bradley, on a building project in Solihull. It seems that the whiz-kid has taken the money and run, leaving old Humphrey holding the bag. Anyway, I couldn’t follow all the details because I’d had rather too much of the claret but, to cut a long story short, as Bradley can’t pay his bills Humphrey wants our bank to take over the contract. He promised me that HMG would turn it all into a successful and profitable venture and all that bullshit. Whoever heard of the government being involved in a successful and profitable venture? Does he think I was born yesterday?

Naturally, I’d be perfectly happy to help good old Humph. out of a jam — it can’t cost me anything, of course, since I’m retiring next year. But I told him that it’s up to the Board and it could go either way. He swallowed that, I think, or pretended to anyway. I naturally chose that moment to remark that I was hoping to hear news of the new Ministry Co-Partnership Commission. I’m after the Chairmanship — £8000 a year part-time — just the thing to boost my meagre pension, don’t you think, Snookums?

To my astonishment he told me that my name was on a shortlist for a couple of quangos. Shortlist, mark you! Bloody insult. Quangos can’t suddenly be in short supply, no government ever cuts quangos without instantly replacing them with others. [At this time there were about 8000 paid appointments within the gift of Ministers to Quangos, at a cost to the taxpayer of £5 million per year — Ed.]

Humphrey, of course, pretended it was difficult to find me a quango, rather as I’d pretended that it was difficult for the bank to find his money.

He went through the most extraordinary routine. He mentioned the Advisory Committee of Dental Establishments, and asked if I knew anything about teeth. I pointed out that I was a banker. As I knew nothing about teeth, he then ruled out the Milk Marketing Board. Can’t quite see the connection myself.

He offered the Dumping at Sea Representations Panel, asking if I lived near the sea. I asked if Knightsbridge was near enough — but apparently not. So it seems I’m out of the running for the Clyde River Purification Board too.

Then, with every bit of the meal, Humphrey had a new idea. Rump steak suggested to him the Meat Marketing Board; but I don’t know a damn thing about meat. The fact that I eat it is not quite a close enough connection. So the Meat and Livestock Commission was ruled out too. I’d ordered Dover Sole, it reminded H. of the White Fish Authority. And, as the veg. arrived, he suggested the Potato Marketing Board, the Governors of the National Vegetable Research Station, the National Biological Standards Board, or the Arable Crops and Forage Board.

With the wine he suggested the Food and Drink Training Board. When I asked for mustard he mentioned the Food Additives and Contaminants Committee, and when we saw a Steak Diane being flambéed at the next table he offered the Fire Services Examination Board, the British Safety Council, and the St John’s Ambulance.

Of course, all of this was to make his point that he too was demanding a quid pro quo. But it was rather humiliating because after all this he asked me rather querulously: if I knew nothing about any of these quangos, what did I know about? I was forced to explain that there was nothing I knew about particularly — after all, I’m a banker. It’s not required.

Then he asked me if there were any minority groups that I could represent. I suggested bankers. We are definitely in a minority. He didn’t seem to think that was the answer.

He explained to me that the ideal quango appointee is a black, Welsh, disabled woman trades unionist. He asked me if I knew one of them, but I don’t.

I remarked that women are not a minority group and nor are trades unionists. Humphrey agreed, but explained that they share the same paranoia which is, after all, the distinguishing feature of any minority group.

So at the end of this whole rigmarole he was basically saying that my quango chances boil down to his Ministry’s Industry Co-Partnership Commission, the Chairmanship of which is within the gift of his Minister.

It sounds ideal, actually. There’s lots of papers but Old Humph. made it quite clear that it’s not awfully necessary to read them; that, in fact he’d be delighted if I didn’t bother so that I wouldn’t have too much to say at the monthly meetings.

So it looks like we’ll be scratching each other’s backs. I’ll have a word with my board, he’ll have a word with his Minister, and I’ll see you on the beach next week.

Your loving

Desi-pooh.

March 5th

Had a very worrying conversation with Roy, my driver, today. Didn’t see him after recording the broadcast yesterday, because I was given a relief driver.

Roy asked me how the recording went. I said it had gone very well, that I’d talked about government partnership with industry, and that there was a most interesting project going on up in the Midlands.

I assumed he wouldn’t have heard of it. I was wrong.

‘You don’t mean the Solihull project, sir?’

I was astonished. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’ve heard of it.’

Roy chuckled.

I waited, but he said nothing. ‘What are you laughing at?’ I asked.

‘Nothing, sir,’ he said. Then he chuckled again.

He’d obviously heard something.

‘What have you heard?’ I asked.

‘Nothing. Really.’

I could see his face in the rear-view mirror. He was smiling. I didn’t like it.

He was obviously laughing at some aspect of the Solihull project. But what? For some reason, I felt a need to defend it. To my driver? I must be cracking up. But I said, ‘We regard it as a shining example of a successful collaboration between government and private enterprise.’

Roy chuckled again. He was really getting on my nerves.

‘Roy, what’s so funny?’ I demanded. ‘What do you know about all this?’

‘No more than you might pick up on about thirty journeys between the DAA and Mr Michael Bradley’s Office, 44 Farringdon Street, and 129 Birmingham Road, Solihull,’ he replied.

‘Thirty journeys?’ I was astonished. ‘Who with?’

‘Oh,’ said Roy cheerfully, ‘your predecessor, sir, and Sir Humphrey, mostly.’ He chuckled again. I could have killed him. What’s so bloody funny, I’d like to know? ‘Very cheerful they were on the first few trips. They kept talking about shining examples of successful collaboration and suchlike. Then…’, he paused for effect, ‘… then the gloom started to come down, if you know what I mean, sir?’

Gloom? What did he mean, gloom? ‘Gloom?’

‘Well, no, not gloom, exactly,’ said Roy and I relaxed momentarily. ‘More like desperation really.’

My own mood was also moving inexorably from gloom to desperation. ‘Desperation?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ said Roy. ‘You’re the one who knows the background, aren’t you, sir?’

I nodded. ‘Yes I am.’ I suppose I must have been a trifle unconvincing because my damn driver chuckled again.

‘Was there… um… any… er… any particular bit of the background you were thinking of?’ I tried to ask in a casual sort of way, still in a state of total mental chaos.

‘No,’ Roy said firmly. ‘I mean, when something’s fishy, it’s just fishy isn’t it? You don’t know which particular bit the smell’s coming from.’

‘Fishy?’ Did he know more than he was letting on? What’s fishy?

‘Well,’ continued Roy helpfully, ‘I mean, I don’t really know do I? For all I know Mr Bradley may be quite kosher, despite everything Sir Humphrey said about him. Still, you’d know more about all that than I do, sir. I’m just the driver.’

Yes, I thought bitterly. What do I know? I’m just the bloody Minister.

March 7th

I’ve spent the weekend wondering if I can get any more information out of Roy. Does he know more, or has he told me everything he knows? Perhaps he can find out more, on the driver’s network. Information is currency among the drivers. They leak all over the place. On the other hand, perhaps he’ll trade the information that I don’t know anything at all about the Solihull project — which could be very damaging to me, couldn’t it?

But the question is, how to find out if Roy knows any more without losing face myself. (Or losing any more face.) I’ve heard that drivers can be silenced with an MBE — can I get more information with the hint or promise of an MBE? But how would I drop the hint?

These are foolish and desperate thoughts. First I’ll try and get the truth out of my Permanent Secretary. Then I’ll try my Private Secretary. Only then will I turn to my driver.

It occurs to me, thinking generally around the problems that I’ve encountered in the last six months, that it is not possible to be a good Minister so long as the Civil Service is allowed complete control over its own recruitment. Perhaps it is impossible to stop the Civil Service appointing people in its own likeness, but we politicians ought to try to stop it growing like Frankenstein.

This whole matter of the Solihull project — which I am determined to get to the bottom of — has reminded me how incomplete is my picture of my Department’s activities. We politicians hardly ever know if information is being concealed, because the concealment is concealed too. We are only offered a choice of options, all of which are acceptable to the permanent officials, and in any case they force decisions on us the way magicians force cards on their audience in the three-card trick. ‘Choose any card, choose my card.’ But somehow we always choose the card they want us to choose. And how is it managed that we never seem to choose a course of action that the Civil Service doesn’t approve? Because we’re too busy to draft any of the documents ourselves, and he who drafts the document wins the day.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more the Department appears to be an iceberg, with nine-tenths of it below the surface, invisible, unknown, and deeply dangerous. And I am forced to spend my life manicuring the tip of this iceberg.

My Department has a great purpose — to bring administration, bureaucracy and red tape under control. Yet everything that my officials do ensures that not only does the DAA not achieve its purpose, but that it achieves the opposite.

Unfortunately, most government departments achieve the opposite of their purpose: the Commonwealth Office lost us the Commonwealth, the Department of Industry reduces industry, the Department of Transport presided over the disintegration of our public transport systems, the Treasury loses our money — I could go on for ever.

And their greatest skill of all is the low profile. These so-called servants of ours are immune from the facts of life. The ordinary rules of living don’t apply to civil servants: they don’t suffer from inflation, they don’t suffer from unemployment, they automatically get honours.

Jobs are never lost — the only cuts are in planned recruitment. I have found out that there were just two exemptions to the 1975 policy of a mandatory five per cent incomes policy — annual increments and professional fees: annual increments because that is how civil servants get pay rises, and professional fees on the insistence of parliamentary Counsel, the lawyers who drafted the legislation. Otherwise the legislation would never have been drafted!

So what have I learned after nearly six months in office? Merely, it seems, that I am almost impotent in the face of the mighty faceless bureaucracy. However, it is excellent that I realise this because it means that they have failed to house-train me. If I were house-trained I would now believe a) that I am immensely powerful, and b) that my officials merely do my bidding.

So there is hope. And I am resolved that I shall not leave my office tomorrow until I have got right to the bottom of this strange mystery surrounding the Solihull project. There must be some way of finding out what’s going on.

March 8th

Today was a real eye-opener.

I hadn’t seen Sir Humphrey for some days. We met, at my request, to discuss the Solihull project. I explained that I had talked rather enthusiastically about the project on the air, but I am now having second thoughts.

‘Any particular reason?’ asked Sir Humphrey politely.

I didn’t beat about the bush. ‘Humphrey,’ I said, ‘is everything all right with the Solihull project?’

‘I believe the building works are proceeding quite satisfactorily, Minister,’ he replied smoothly.

I patiently explained that that was not quite what I meant. ‘What is going on?’ I asked.

‘Building is going on, Minister,’ he reported.

‘Yes,’ I said trying to keep my temper, ‘but… something is up, isn’t it?’

‘Yes indeed,’ he replied. At last I’m getting somewhere, I thought. I relaxed.

‘What is up?’ I said.

‘The first floor is up,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘and the second is almost up.’

I began to show my annoyance. ‘Humphrey, please! I’m talking about the whole basis of the project.’

‘Ah,’ replied my Perm. Sec. gravely. ‘I see.’

‘What can you tell me about that?’

‘Well, as I understand it, Minister…’ here it comes, I thought, the truth at last, ‘… the basis is an aggregate of gravel and cement on six feet of best builder’s rubble.’

Does he take me for a complete fool?

‘Humphrey,’ I said sternly, ‘I think you know I am talking about the finance.’

So then he rabbited on about our contract with the construction company, and the usual stage payments, and all sorts of useless rubbish. I interrupted him.

‘What is it,’ I demanded, ‘that I don’t know?’

‘What do you mean, precisely?’ was his evasive reply.

In a state of mounting hysteria, I tried to explain. ‘I don’t know. It’s just that… there’s something I don’t know, and I don’t know because I can’t find the right question to ask you because I don’t know what to ask. What is it that I don’t know?’

Sir Humphrey feigned innocence.

‘Minister,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you don’t know. It could be almost anything.’

‘But,’ I persisted, ‘you are keeping things from me, aren’t you?’

He nodded.

‘What?’ I was nearly at boiling point by now. He smiled patronisingly at me. It was quite intolerable. He explained that it is the Department’s duty to protect the Minister from the great tide of irrelevant information that beats against the walls of the Department day after day.

This was not the answer I was seeking. I stood up, and made one last attempt at explaining my problem — just in case he didn’t fully understand it. ‘Look Humphrey,’ I began, ‘there is something about the Solihull project that I know I don’t know, and I know you know. I know Bernard knows. Joe Morgan knows. For heaven’s sake, even my driver knows. It’s only poor old Joe Soap here who has to stand up and talk about it in front of the British people who hasn’t got a clue what’s going on.’

Humphrey just stared at me. He said nothing. So I tried to spell it out for him.

‘Humphrey,’ I said, resisting the temptation to tear out my hair. Or his hair. ‘Will you please answer one simple question?’

‘Certainly Minister,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know!’ I yelled. ‘You tell me and I’ll ask it!’

March 10th

Today seemed to last an eternity. Ruin stared me in the face.

It began with another meeting with Humphrey. The atmosphere was distinctly frosty — Frank Weisel was there too, wanting to discuss his new paper about quangos.

I wasn’t a bit interested in discussing quangos today, which seem to have no immediate relevance to my current problems, though it was full of stuff about ‘ending the scandal of ministerial patronage’ and ‘jobs for the boys’. Humphrey described it as ‘most imaginative’ which Frank interpreted as a sign of approval. Frank hasn’t yet learned that ‘original’ and ‘imaginative’ are two of Humphrey’s most damning criticisms.

Frank’s scheme was to hand over all quango appointments to a Select Committee of Parliament. ‘Get the best men for the jobs instead of old chums, party hacks, and you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours,’ he explained with his usual charm.

It seemed to me that it was a good plan, and I suggested we put it forward for legislation.

‘It’s certainly a novel proposal,’ remarked Humphrey. ‘Novel’ — that’s the other killer!

But Humphrey went on to explain his view that there was no sense in upsetting the current system when it is working smoothly.

Smoothly? I’d never heard such nonsense. Only this morning I’d received a proposal for the Chairmanship of the new Industrial Co-partnership Commission, the latest quango. And whose name was being put up? Sir Desmond Glazebrook, of all people. ‘He’s never worked in industry,’ I said to Humphrey, ‘he’s never met a trades unionist, and he’s said a whole lot of nasty things about this government — is this the kind of suggestion a smoothly working system comes up with?’

‘But he would be an excellent Chairman,’ said Sir Humphrey.

‘He’s an ignorant buffoon,’ I explained carefully.

‘Nonetheless,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘an excellent Chairman.’

I told Humphrey that I drew the line at Glazebrook. I absolutely refused to appoint him. Over my dead body, I declared.

There was silence in the office for some moments. Then Sir Humphrey said, ‘Minister, before you make your final decision I think there is something that you ought to see.’

And he produced a Ministry file. On the cover was written SOLIHULL PROJECT — TOP SECRET. Why top secret? I opened it. I saw why. Bradley, our Department’s partner, owed £7½ million, was going bankrupt, and the entire project was in imminent danger of collapse.

I was aghast. Absolutely aghast. I asked Humphrey why I hadn’t been told any of this and he wittered on idiotically about how he was deeply conscious of the heavy burdens of my office. It seems to me that he’s made them quite a lot heavier in the last few days.

‘If this comes out,’ I said weakly, ‘it will be all over the front pages. A public scandal. A disaster.’

‘Appalling,’ added Bernard. He’s always such a comfort!

Then for a moment, Frank gave me a tiny ray of hope. ‘Hold on, Jim.’ He grabbed the file. ‘Look, this report is dated before the election. You’re in the clear.’

‘Unfortunately,’ murmured Humphrey, ‘under the convention of Ministerial responsibility, the blame must fall…’

Frank interrupted him. ‘But everyone will know it wasn’t Jim.’

‘Quite so.’ Sir Humphrey shook his head mournfully. ‘But the principle of democratic accountability requires the occasional human sacrifice — Crichel Down and all that.[14] When the pack is baying for blood… isn’t that so, Minister?’

I couldn’t speak.

Frank was undeterred. ‘Surely he has only to point to the dates?’

‘Ah, well,’ Sir Humphrey put on his most pious expression, ‘a lesser man might try to wriggle out of it. But there is only one honourable course. As the Minister is well aware.’ He gazed at me sorrowfully and shook his head again. I felt I was at my own funeral.

‘Don’t you think Frank might have a point?’ I asked, determined to fight to the last.

‘Yes,’ said Bernard, ‘except that in that broadcast, which goes out…’

‘Today,’ I interjected.

‘… today,’ continued Bernard, ‘you publicly identified yourself with the success of the project. In fact, it’ll be on the air any minute now.’

We all gaped at each other. Then Bernard rushed for the radio.

I shouted, ‘Bernard, get on to the BBC and stop it.’

Humphrey said, ‘I wish you luck, Minister, but — well, you know what the BBC are like.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but surely in a case like this, a crisis, an emergency, a scandal…’

‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘if you put it like that, they might move it to peak listening time. And then repeat it. And film it for Panorama.’

‘I’ll order them to cancel it,’ I said.

‘MINISTER TRIES TO CENSOR BBC,’ said Humphrey, gloomily dreaming up headlines again.

I could see his point, of course. It was obviously hopeless. I was just about to suggest asking them very, very nicely when Bernard hurried in holding a transistor, and out of it came my voice saying all those dreadful things about government money and private investment in a real partnership, and how I took such a great personal interest in the Solihull project and how it is symbolic of everything this government is working for — concrete proof that our policy really works in practice.

I switched it off. I couldn’t bear to listen to it. We gazed at each other, bleakly, in silence.

I waited. Nobody spoke.

Eventually I did.

‘Humphrey,’ I asked quietly, ‘why did you let me say all that?’

‘Minister,’ he assumed his I’m-just-a-humble-civil-servant manner, ‘I can only advise. I did advise. I advised most strongly. But when an adviser’s advice is unheeded…’

He petered out, only too aware that he’d kept some rather vital information back from me.

‘Advise me now,’ I said coldly.

‘Certainly Minister.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Now, it is possible Bartletts Bank will take over from Sloane Enterprises, and all will be well.’

The bank! I’d never thought of that. It seemed too good to be true!

‘But…’ said Humphrey.

Clearly it was too good to be true.

‘But… the bank is hesitant. However, the Director in charge is retiring next year and is anxious for some appointment. The Chairmanship of a quango, for instance.’

I could see no problem at all. ‘Give him one,’ I said immediately. ‘Give him that one you were proposing that fool Desmond Glaze-brook for. Who is the Director in charge, anyway?’

‘Desmond Glazebrook,’ explained Humphrey.

Suddenly it all became clear.

I felt I had to leave a decent pause before I said that actually he’s not such a bad chap really.

Frank was extraordinarily slow on the uptake. ‘He’s always attacking the government,’ he said angrily.

I explained to Frank that it does us good to appoint our opponents occasionally. It’s democratic — statesmanlike.

Frank seemed unimpressed with this point of view, and he argued and argued till finally I just told him to shut up.

I asked Humphrey who else knew about this wretched Solihull Report. Only Joe Morgan, Humphrey told me — which suddenly explained his confident claim for a Birmingham Allowance. Blackmail!

And it occurred to me at that moment that Desmond Glazebrook might need a Deputy Chairman, one with real experience of industry. A trades unionist, perhaps. I mentioned it to Humphrey, who thought it was an awfully good idea, and he immediately suggested Joe Morgan. I thought that was an awfully good idea.

‘It takes two to quango, Minister,’ smiled Humphrey, and we got them both on the phone right away.

Frank watched us in silence, and when we’d had brief chats with Desmond and Joe he had an absolutely amazing outburst — ‘This is exactly what I’ve been talking about,’ he shouted, even louder than usual. ‘This is what’s wrong with the system. Jobs for the boys. Quid pro quo. Corruption.’ I couldn’t believe my ears, Frank accusing me of corruption. What an idea! He’s obviously going off his rocker.

‘What about my quango abolition paper?’ he yelled, going red in the face.

‘Very good Frank,’ I said smoothly. ‘Imaginative. Ingenious.’

‘Novel,’ added Humphrey.

Then Frank announced that he wouldn’t let me suppress it. As if I would do such a thing! Me, suppress papers? I’m a democrat, a believer in open government. Frank must be raving mad.

‘I’ll get it to Cabinet through someone else,’ he threatened at the top of his not inconsiderable voice. ‘I’ll get it adopted as party policy. You’ll see.’

He marched to the door. Then he stopped, and turned. He had a beatific smile on his face. I didn’t like the look of it one bit. Whenever Frank smiles you know that something very nasty is about to happen. ‘The press,’ he said softly. ‘The press. If the press were to get hold of this…’

And suddenly, I had a brainwave. ‘Frank,’ I said gently, ‘I’ve been thinking. Changing the subject completely, of course, but have you ever thought about serving on a quango?’

‘Oh no,’ he replied, smiling his most unpleasant smile, ‘you’re not corrupting me!’

I explained patiently that nothing could be further from my thoughts. My idea is that, even better than abolishing the quango system, would be to make it work. And that if we set up a commission to supervise and report on the composition and activities of all quangos, it could be the answer. It could have very senior people, most Privy Councillors. I know that Frank has always secretly fancied himself hob-nobbing with Privy Councillors. I explained that such a body would need some really able people, people who have studied quangos, people who know the abuses of the system. ‘And in view of your knowledge, and concern,’ I finished, ‘Humphrey suggested your name.’

‘Privy Councillors?’ said Frank, hypnotised.

‘It’s up to you, of course,’ I added, ‘but it would be a great service to the public. How do you feel?’

‘You’re not going to change my opinions, you know,’ replied Frank thoughtfully. ‘There is such a thing as integrity.’

Humphrey and I both hastened to agree with Frank on the importance of integrity, and we pointed out that it was, in fact, his very integrity that would make him such a good member of this quango.

‘Mind you,’ Humphrey said, instinctively aware of Frank’s enormous sense of guilt which needs constant absolution and aware also of his deep commitment to the puritan work ethic, ‘it would be very hard work. I’m sure that service in this super-quango would involve a great deal of arduous foreign travel, to see how they manage these matters in other important government centres — Japan, Australia, California, the West Indies…’

‘Tahiti,’ I added helpfully.

‘Tahiti,’ agreed Sir Humphrey.

‘Yes,’ said Frank with an expression of acute suffering on his face, ‘it would be arduous, wouldn’t it?’

‘Very arduous,’ we both said. Several times.

‘But serving the public’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?’ asked Frank hopefully.

Humphrey and I murmured, ‘serving the public, exactly’ once or twice.

Then Frank said, ‘And what about my quango paper?’

I told him it would be invaluable, and that he should take it with him.

And Humphrey offered to keep a copy on the files — with the Solihull Report.