The Complete Yes Prime Minister

A DIPLOMATIC INCIDENT

September 3rd

Today, the anniversary of the day World War II broke out, was a day with a couple of extraordinarily appropriate developments, a day full of surprises but a day that will one day be seen as a great day, a day on which a new day may dawn for Britain.

[Hacker occasionally lurched into passages of purple prose. Generally they are meaningless. At best they are insignificant. But they reveal a Churchillian yearning for a meaningful and significant place in the history books which has sadly been denied him by posterity Ed.]

The main topic at the first early morning meeting with Humphrey and Bernard after my brief summer hols was the great delay that we are experiencing on the Channel Tunnel [a 1980s project for a tunnel under the English Channel, connecting Dover with Calais Ed.]. My concern is the big public ceremony to celebrate the start of the work. [Naturally Ed.] For reasons that were unclear to me, the Foreign Office have been stalling again.

Humphrey didnt see the hurry. Nor did Bernard. They say the heads of agreement havent been signed.

Typical Foreign Office lethargy. Its about time they were, I complained. It should be terrific ceremony -- big gates inaugurated, a foundation stone laid by the Rt Hon. James Hacker, the Prime Minister. Ill do a speech about this historic link, uniting two great sovereign powers. The coverage will be great. The fact that the FO hasnt agree everything with the French does not, on the face of it, seem a sufficient reason to hold everything up at a time when my opinion-poll ratings have slipped a bit.

So I told Humphrey my decision: to have a summit meeting with the French President and sort it all out myself.

Humphrey was shocked. I had no idea that you were considering such a radical approach, he said, using one of the most vicious adjectives in his vocabulary.

Well, I am.

Immediately he tried to undermine my self-confidence. Prime Minister, do you really believe that you personally are capable of concluding this negotiation with the French?

I couldnt see why it should be so difficult. Yes I do. What are the outstanding points of issue?

He replied, They are mainly concerned with sovereignty. Where do you believe the frontier should be?

The frontier? Id never considered it. He meant the frontier between Britain and France, presumably.

[This entry in the diary tells us all that we need to know about Hackers thought processes. It is as well to remember the adage: if God had intended politicians to think, he would have given them brains Ed.]

I couldnt see a problem. Whats wrong with wherever it is now?

You mean, enquired Humphrey, the three-mile limit? Who would own the middle of the tunnel?

I had meant the three-mile limit. Id never considered the middle of the tunnel at all.

[Undoubtedly so. Hacker had only considered the favourable publicity to be obtained from the opening ceremony Ed.]

You see, Humphrey explained, the British position is that we should own half each. But of course, we could follow your idea, in which case most of the tunnel would be an international zone, administered by the United Nations perhaps? Or the EEC?

I felt that the Foreign Office had got it right for once -- dividing the tunnel in the middle is perfectly fair.

But Humphrey explained that the French dont think it is fair. They want an Anglo-French frontier at Dover. A ridiculous notion! Perhaps, Humphrey suggested with a little smile, perhaps you would be happy to concede fifty per cent of the French case?

In the interests of fairness, I told Humphrey, Im always happy to concede fifty per cent.

Oh dear, replied Humphrey with evident satisfaction. Since the French have demanded one hundred per cent to start with, theyll end up with seventy-five per cent.

A trick question. Which explained Humphreys little smile. He was now looking triumphant, the silly man, because hed caught me out. Anybody could do that. [A little unintentional honesty there Ed.]

Obviously, I told him, keeping my temper with difficulty, we have to divide the tunnel in the middle. That way we can have sovereignty over half the tunnel, and so can they.

And who has sovereignty over the trains?

Id never thought of that. Humphrey, who after all has had the benefit of doing some homework on this, threw a barrage of irritating, niggling, pettifogging questions at me.

If a crime is committed on a French train in the British sector, who should have jurisdiction? The British or the French?

The British, I replied. He stared at me, that irritating little smirk playing around his lips. No, the French, I said. No, the British.

He didnt give me his opinion. He just went on with the questions. If a body is pushed out of a British train within the French sector, who has jurisdiction?

The French? I tried. No response. No, the British, I said. No, um

If, said Humphrey relentlessly, if a British lorry is loaded on to a French train in the British sector, who has jurisdiction?

I was pretty confused by now. [And, indeed, previously Ed.]

So was Bernard. Could criminal jurisdiction be divided into two legs? he asked. Home and away?

Humphrey ignored Bernard. Should we have a frontier post in the middle of the tunnel, half-way across?

Yes, I said. He stared at me and I lost confidence again. No, I added.

Or should we have customs and immigration clearance at either end?

I was beginning to see how complex the whole issue was. No, I decided initially. Yes, I concluded a moment later, having reconsidered.

Or both ends? There were limitless possibilities, it seemed.

Yes, I agreed.

Sir Humphrey hinted that I was being less than decisive. Very true. But after all, as I pointed out, these were questions for the lawyers in the negotiation.

Precisely, Prime Minister. But I thought you said you wanted to handle it yourself.

I was getting irritated. I dont want to handle abstruse points of international law, Humphrey. I want to sort out the basic political points at issue.

So, said Humphrey, in an interest of extravagant mock surprise, sovereignty is not political? How interesting. Hes got an endless supply of these cheap shots. He knew what I meant.

[Hacker was being somewhat optimistic. It is improbable that Sir Humphrey knew what Hacker meant. After years of studying this manuscript we do not know what he meant. At times we are forced to wonder whether Hacker knew what he meant Ed.]

I take it, asked Sir Humphrey, continuing this rather insolent cross-examination, that you will agree to the Tunnel being built with the most modern technology?

Of course.

Then, replied Humphrey, you have just conceded that ninety per cent of the contracts will be placed with French companies. And do you want the signs to be in French first and English second?

No! I was adamant.

The French do.

We dont agree.

You cant have your ceremony until we do.

I suggested a compromise. We could have the English first on the signs at the British end. And French first at the French end.

What about the trains?

I was becoming furious. For Gods sake, Humphrey, what does it matter?

He remained calm. It matters to the French, he explained. What about the menus? English or French?

I looked for a compromise. Cant they change the menus half-way?

He shook his head sadly. The French will be adamant. Thats why both the British and the French Concorde are spelt the French way -- with an E on the end. Of course, if you want to concede all these points with the French we could have immediate agreement with them. Alternatively --" he plunged in the knife -- you can leave it to the Foreign Office to do their best.

Do their best? It seemed that he did not expect the FO to get a good deal either.

He confirmed that this was his view. Im afraid they wont. But it will be better than you could get, Prime Minister.

Im afraid hes right. And yet, it made no sense. Humphrey, I asked, do we never get our own way with the French?

Sometimes, he allowed.

When was the last time?

Battle of Waterloo, 1815. Could he be right? While I pondered this question, delving into my encyclopaedic memory and knowledge of history, Sir Humphrey raised the vexed question of hijacking.

What if terrorists were to hijack a train? And threaten to blow up the train and the tunnel?

What a horrific thought that was! My God, I exclaimed. Lets give France jurisdiction over the whole thing. Then theyd have to handle it.

Sir Humphrey smiled a complacent smile. You see, Prime Minister? He was patronising me now. If you were handling the negotiations you would have just conceded everything to the French. In fact, I believe that the French will come up with some totally underhand ploy to regain the advantage. But no doubt you have anticipated that, Prime Minister.

The sarcasm was unmistakable. I had to concede that I could not possibly handle the negotiations. With some nations, yes. With the French, never. Also, I could see another, bigger advantage in staying out of it. If humiliating concessions have to be made, Id like the Foreign Secretary to be in charge.

Very wise, Prime Minister. At last we were in agreement. And we moved on to another matter that has been causing me the most profound ongoing irritation. May we now discuss the equally vexed question of your predecessors memoirs?

As if we hadnt had enough trouble with Chapter Eight, it seems that hed now started work on his final chapter, the one that concerns his resignation and my accession to the Premiership. And, to that end, he wanted access to certain government papers.

I asked if we couldnt find any way to stop these bloody memoirs before they ruin my career. Little did I know my wish was about to be granted.

Humphrey shook his head sadly. Memoirs, alas, are an occupational hazard. And he sighed deeply, like Eeyore.

I cant think why he was sighing. Im the one whos being skewered. And its not even what hes written that upsets me -- it's the betrayal! Until I read the first eight chapters of his book I thought he was a friend of mine!

For instance, in the draft that arrived this morning hed called me two-faced. Id shown it to Bernard.

Very wrong was Bernards gratifying comment.

I was grateful for the vote of confidence.

And unforgiveably indiscreet, Bernard went on.

Indiscreet? I looked at him, surprised.

And wrong! Bernard added emphatically.

How can he tell such lies about me? I asked rhetorically.

What lies? asked Bernard. Oh I see, he said.

Really, Bernard is sometimes remarkably slow on the uptake. How could he have thought Id changed the subject? But apparently he did.

Why has the former Prime Minister written this garbage? Simply so that hell increase the sales of the book by inventing stories? I think not. Some people lie not because it is in their interest but because it is in their nature. He is a vile, treacherous, malevolent bastard, I told Bernard, and if hes hoping to get any more honours or quangos or Royal Commissions hes got another think coming. He will not get one ounce of official recognition as long as Im here.

I regretted this outburst, because at that moment the phone rang. Bernard took the call.

Yes? look, this is important, because? Oh! Ah! Oh! Dead on arrival? I see.

Solemnly he replaced the receiver.

Bad news, Bernard? I asked.

Yes and no, he replied cautiously. Your predecessor, the previous Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, has just died of a heart attack.

What a tragedy, I said immediately. I know how to say the right things on such occasions.

Indeed, replied Bernard and Humphrey in chorus.

A great man, I said, for the record.

A great man, they repeated in unison.

He will be sorely missed, I said. After all, someones bound to miss him.

Sorely missed, echoed the double act on the other side of the Cabinet table.

And so will his memoirs, I added.

Which will never be finished, said Bernard.

Alas! sighed Humphrey.

Alas! I said.

Apparently, Prime Minister, said Bernard, he expressed a hope that he might have a state funeral, just before the end. But in view of your wish to give him no further honours

Bernard was quite wrong. A funeral was an honour that I was happy to arrange. I told Bernard that he had completely misunderstood me. I am sure, Bernard, that a tremendous number of people will want to attend his funeral.

To pay him tribute, you mean?

Of course, I said. That was certainly one reason. And to make sure hes dead is another.

[Working funerals are the best sort of summit meeting. Ostensibly arranged for another purpose, statesmen and diplomats can mingle informally at receptions, churches and gravesides, and achieve more than at ten official summits for which expectations have been aroused. This is presumably why Hacker immediately agreed to a state funeral for his late and unlamented predecessor Ed.]

September 4th

A splendid list of acceptances for the funeral already. Theyre all RSVPing like mad. So far we have seven Commonwealth Prime Ministers, the American Vice-President, the Russian Foreign Minister, and six European Prime Ministers -- excellent. And I am the host! I shall be there, among all these great statesmen, at the centre of the world stage. Bearing my grief with dignity and fortitude. Dignified grief goes down terribly well with the voters. Especially when shared with other world leaders. Marvellous thing, death. So uncontroversial.

However, there was one interesting query on the list. The French Prime Minister. I asked Bernard and Humphrey about this when we met to discuss the pleasurable matter of the funeral arrangements.

I imagine thats what the French Ambassador is coming to see you about tomorrow, said Humphrey.

I was more immediately concerned with the placing of the TV cameras. There will be plenty of room, wont there? I wanted definite assurances. We want them outside Number Ten, along the route, outside the Abbey [Westminster Abbey], inside the Abbey, and one looking straight at my pew.

Humphrey looked doubtful. That would mean putting the camera in the pulpit.

Will that be all right? I checked.

It wont leave a lot of room for the Archbishop, said Humphrey.

I understood the problem. So where will he preach from? I asked.

I think he will need the pulpit.

This was a bigger problem than Id thought. So where will my camera be?

Humphrey thought for a few moments. Well, theres always the High Altar. But the Archbishop may need that too.

Hell just have to do without it. [Apparently the Archbishop was under the impression that the funeral was a religious ceremony. Nobody had told him that it was a Party Political Broadcast Ed.]

September 5th

Today I saw the French Ambassador. Its all worse than I thought.

But first I saw Bernard. The French Ambassador is on his way. But I know what his news will be: the French Prime Minister isnt coming, the Presidents coming instead.

The President? I was overjoyed. Thats wonderful.

No, no, Prime Minister. Its terrible!

Humphrey had heard the news too and, flustered, he hurried in to join us.

I couldnt see the problem -- at first. Ive not had all that much experience with the French. Bernard could see it all too clearly.

When the Queen visited France three years ago, Prime Minister, she presented him with a Labrador puppy. And now hes bringing one of its puppies to present her with in return.

Humphrey sank into his chair, aghast. No! he gasped. Thats what Id heard! So its true!

Im afraid so, Sir Humphrey. Bernard was using his funereal voice.

I knew it, said Sir Humphrey, fatally. I knew theyd do something like this.

I still couldnt see the problem. It seems rather a nice gesture to me.

Its a gesture all right. Humphrey smiled a sour smile. But hardly a nice one.

Why not?

Because Her Majesty will have to refuse it. And there will be repercussions!

The problem, it seemed, was quarantine! Dogs cant just be imported. This puppy will have to spend six months in quarantine at Heathrow.

It still didnt seem particularly tragic to me. The French will understand that, wont they?

Of course theyll understand it. Privately. Thats why theyre doing it. But theyll refuse to understand it officially.

I suddenly saw the problem. The French were creating a diplomatic incident to get their own way over the sovereignty of the Channel Tunnel. I explained this to Humphrey and Bernard, who seemed grateful for the insight. Then, decisively, I sent for Peter Gascoigne, the Foreign Affairs Private Secretary. What do we do? I asked.

I dont know. Hed already heard the news and had apparently been struck down by depressive illness as a consequence. He had the look of a desperate man about him.

I hardly expected such a hopeless response. The Civil Service can usually think of something to do. But youre my Foreign Affairs Secretary, I informed him. I expect some positive suggestions.

Im sorry, Prime Minister, but the Home Office is responsible for quarantine.

I think he was passing the buck. Or the puppy. I sent for Graham French, the Home Affairs Private Secretary. While we waited for him I explored with Peter the possibility of getting the French to withdraw the gift.

Weve tried everything, Peter told me desperately. Weve suggested an oil painting of the puppy. A bronze. A porcelain model. Not a hope.

Cant you get them to stuff it? I asked.

Humphrey intervened. Theres nothing wed sooner oh, taxidermy? No chance.

Graham hurried in. Graham, I said, tell your chums at the Home Office that theyve got to find a way around these quarantine regulations.

He reacted rather stiffly. Im afraid thats out of the question, Prime Minister.

I wasnt expecting to be contradicted. I asked him to explain himself.

In the first place, he said, blinking at me nervously, we enforce the regulations rigorously with all British citizens and all foreign nationals. Without exception. And in the second place, the Quarantine Act is signed by the Sovereign. She cant be the only one to break her own laws. It would be quite wrong ethically and for health reasons, and is completely out of the question.

At that moment the intercom buzzed. The French Ambassador had arrived. Things were all happening too fast. Yet nothing can be postponed because the funeral is only three days from now.

So while the Ambassador waited a moment in the little waiting room next to the Cabinet Room I told my staff that we have to find a way out of this. I told Peter to get back to the Foreign Office at once and tell them to talk to the Home Office. Graham was to do the same at the Home Office. Both were to keep in touch with Bernard, who would liaise with the Palace. Humphrey was to talk to the law officers in the hope of finding legal loopholes (they all shook their heads firmly at this suggestion), and I told Humphrey hed be responsible for co-ordinating the whole thing.

What whole thing? He seemed confused.

Whatever whole thing we think up to deal with this French plot, I explained.

Oh, that whole thing. Sometimes Humphreys a bit slow. Certainly, Prime Minister. Ill set up an operations room in the Cabinet Office.

I seemed to be the only one with any ideas. I asked Humphrey if he had any suggestions. He suggested that I didnt keep the French Ambassador waiting any longer. So I sent for him and I asked Humphrey to stay and give me support.

Do I need any papers? asked Humphrey, flapping a bit at the thought of the impending confrontation.

Just a sponge and a towel, I told him grimly.

The French Ambassador spoke almost perfect English as he slipped elegantly into the room. Prime Minister. You are most kind to give me your time. He is small, slim, and utterly charming.

I told him it was a pleasure.

I understand you are anxious to finalise the agreement for the Channel Tunnel?

Yes, very much so I began, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Humphrey shaking his head slowly, almost imperceptibly, an unmistakable cautionary signal. I backtracked rapidly. But, on the other hand, no real hurry, I said. Im sure the Ambassador didnt notice.

In fact, he seemed eager to help. But it would be nice if we could reach some conclusions, wouldnt it?

Nice? I glanced at Humphrey. He shrugged. Nice, I agreed. No question.

And, continued the Ambassador, my Government feels that if we were to take advantage of the funeral -- my condolences, by the way, a tragic loss --

Tragic, tragic! I echoed tragically.

take advantage of the funeral for you and our President to ave a few words

Of course, of course, I interrupted. The only thing is, I shall be host to a large number of distinguished guests, and Im not sure

His Excellency took umbrage. You do not wish to speak to our President?

Of course I do. I smiled reassuringly. Yes. No question. Since my conversation with Humphrey a couple of days ago, Im well aware of the dangers of my becoming directly involved in negotiating with the French. So I tried to explain that Id rather simply speak than negotiate. I tried to imply that actual negotiations were slightly beneath me.

He understood that kind of arrogance. But he wouldnt let go. Dont you think that these little quarrels between friends are best resolved by just talking to each other, face to face?

Between friends, yes, I replied. Humphrey blanched.

But the Ambassador was unperturbed. I think otherwise our President would be very hurt. Not personally, but as a snurb to France. I think he meant snub. It sounded like snurb, but I dont know what a snurb is.

Anyway, I reassured the excellent Excellency that we had no intention of snurbing France, and that I regard the French as great friends.

He was pleased. I hoped hed leave, but no. He had quite a considerable agenda of his own, and we moved on to item two.

He claimed that he was concerned about his Embassys security during the Presidents visit. This was rather surprising. I looked at Humphrey. Was there any reason for concern? But no, I could tell from Humphreys expression that this was just another French ploy. Together, we assured the Ambassador that the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police has everything absolutely under control.

The Ambassador was not satisfied. My Government requests that the French police be permitted to guard our Embassy.

Humphrey was flashing me the clearest possible warning signals. His look said Say no at all costs. So I told the French Ambassador that it was impossible to grant such a request.

He pretended indignation. It is surely not impossible.

I decided to go on the attack. Are you saying that you dont trust the British police?

My Government makes no comment on the British police, he replied carefully. But the President would be happier if the French police were in charge.

I could see that Humphrey was itching to get at him. So I let Humphrey off his leash and sat back in my swivel chair.

The problem, Excellency, said Humphrey smoothly, somehow continuing to make the word Excellency sound like an insult, is that there are seventy-three Embassies in London. No doubt they would all want their own police. Most would carry machine-guns, given the opportunity. Her Majestys Government is not convinced that this would make London a safer place.

The irony went right over his head. But he seemed to accept the refusal with diplomatic good grace. My Government will be most disappointed. But now I can move on to a happier matter. Our President will be bringing a little present which he will be presenting to Her Majesty.

I forced a smile. How charming.

A little puppee, he explained unnecessarily. Why did he bother, he must have known that we knew? She comes from the litter of the very same Labrador that Her Majesty graciously presented to Monsieur le Prsident on her State visit to France.

I waited. I expressed no pleasure, no thanks. So he continued to the bitter end. Perhaps you will let us know the arrangements for the presentation?

I sighed. Your Excellency, I said patiently. It is of course more kind. A charming thought. But as you know it cannot be presented for six months. Our quarantine laws.

Of course he refused to understand. He told me it was absurd. He reminded me that the Queen presented the dog during her State visit.

I explained that we would be delighted for his President to do the same thing. But the laws the law.

Surely, enquired the Ambassador, his manner visibly cooling, your laws are only to exclude infected animals?

I concurred.

But you are not suggesting that the President of France would present the Queen of England with a diseased puppy?

No, of course not.

Then its settled.

No it is not settled. I was firm. I must ask you to suggest to the President that he find a different gift.

His Excellency informed me that this would be completely out of the question. Were it the President alone, perhaps He shrugged. But the Presidents wife, our First Lady, has her heart set on it. She is determined.

A neat move. It now appears that if I now say no, I will be insulting a lady. The first lady.

I told him that we would make every endeavour. But it may not be possible. [This is the firmest form of refusal known to the language of diplomacy Ed.]

The Ambassador rose to his feet. Prime Minister, I do not have to tell you the gravity of the affront my Government would feel if Her Majesty were to refuse a request to present a gift in exchange for the one the President accepted from her. I fear it would be interpreted as both a national and a personal insult. To the President and his wife.

Id had enough of this bullshit. I stood up too. Excellency, please ask the President not to bring that bitch with him.

Humphrey gasped. The Ambassador looked utterly stunned. And I suddenly realised the ambiguity of what Id said.

The puppy, I said hastily. I meant the puppy.

Tonight Annie and I had a quiet evening at home together, in the flat above the shop. [The top-floor flat in Number Ten Downing Street Ed.] We had to go over all her arrangements for the funeral. She wanted to know why we had to lay on so many visits for the wives. I explained that the Foreign Office likes it -- it keeps them out of the way. They cant be with their husbands, their husbands are busy.

Only at the funeral itself, said Annie.

I explained that shed missed the point of the whole funeral: theyre coming for the politics. This is a working funeral. As a matter of fact, when we were all at that funeral in Norway a few months ago, the French, the Germans and I were all so busy negotiating EEC farm quotas in the hotel that we forgot to go to the Cathedral.

Annie thought that was very funny. Didnt they notice?

We got there before it was finished. We blamed security. You can blame security for almost anything nowadays.

In fact, this funeral will be a heaven-sent opportunity. Literally! Much better than a summit, because there are no prior expectations. The public dont expect their leaders to return from a funeral with test ban agreements or farm quota reductions. So we can actually have serious negotiations, whereas a summit is just a public relations circus in which the press never give the politicians a real chance. Journalism wants to find problems. Diplomacy wants to find solutions.

Annie wanted to know if anyone at all would be coming to the funeral to pay tribute to a friend. I laughed. If only his friends came we wouldnt even fill the vestry, let alone the Abbey. No, my illustrious predecessor has undoubtedly done more for the world by dying than he ever did in the whole of his life.

She asked if the service was agreed. Funny old Annie, shes a churchgoer, she cares about these things. I told her that thered be lots of music, which was all I knew about it.

Thats nice, she said.

Yes, I said. That way, we can have useful discussions when the organs playing. Unfortunately, we have to shut up for the lesson and the prayers.

Annie smiled. She was getting the point. What about the sermon?

Thats when our guests catch up on jet-lag, I explained.

Altogether, this funeral has come at exactly the right moment. Apart from the little local problem of squelching those damn memoirs, it will improve my standing in the polls to be seen with all the world leaders and theres lots of things to sort out between NATO and the Warsaw Pact. Also its a good opportunity to make more friends in the Third World.

Jim, asked Annie, theres something Ive never understood. If were the First World and the poor are the Third World, then whos the Second?

Good question, I said. Ive never heard anyone admit to being Second World. We think its the Soviet bloc, maybe they think its us -- but because no one ever raises the question its not a problem. Diplomacy, Annie!

Above all, the Middle East is looking ominous again. Im sure that, if I could only find the time, I could bring the various warring parties together in peace and harmony. But if we dont sort out some of these problems in the next three days, well have to hope that somebody else important dies within the next three months.

September 6th

A variety of suggestions for dealing with the dog crisis poured in from the Foreign Office and the Home Office today, each more foolish than the last.

[The first came from Sir Ernest Roach, Permanent Secretary at the Home Office, and is reproduced below Ed.]

Home Office

Queen Annes Gate

London SW1H 9AT

September 6th

Memorandum

From: The Permanent Secretary

To: Bernard Woolley

Dear Bernard,

We have two possible approaches to this problem under discussion:

1. We could pass an enabling Act of Parliament, enabling this particular dog to remain in the UK. An enabling Act can enable anything.

2. We could turn the whole of Buckingham Palace into a dog quarantine zone, thus fulfilling the letter if not the spirit of the law.

Please let me have the Prime Ministers reactions.

E.R.

[Hackers diary continues Ed.]

The Home Offices first two proposals are completely cracked. An enabling Act can enable anything -- in this case it would enable me to lose the next election.

The dog quarantine zone idea leaves one fairly important question unanswered -- what would happen to the Queens other dogs?

The Foreign Office outdid the Home Office. Moments after Id sent Graham away with a flea in his ear, a memo arrived from King Charles Street. [The Foreign Office is situated at the corner of Whitehall and King Charles Street Ed.]

Foreign and Commonwealth Office

London SW1A 2AH

September 6th

Memorandum

From: The Permanent Secretary

To: Peter Gascoigne

Dear Peter,

We can only think of one technical way around this problem: make Buckingham Palace notionally an extension of the French Embassy. Then the dog could still be on foreign territory.

Reactions please.

Dick

[Hackers diary continues Ed.]

I gave them my bloody reactions! I told them that, as always, they had revealed themselves to be weak, indecisive and stupid in the face of a genuine emergency. I reminded them that I am currently engaged in a fight for the sovereignty of the Channel Tunnel. What did they suppose I felt about the sovereignty of the Palace?

The Civil Service is usually so frightfully smart and condescending -- especially the Foreign Office. Life is simple when you have so many precedents to follow; but theyre like computers: put them into a new crisis, for which theyve not been programmed, and their brains short-circuit.

[It must have been very painful for senior Foreign Office officials to be told that they were weak, indecisive and stupid. What would have made it more painful was being told by someone as weak, indecisive and stupid as Hacker. What would have made it most painful was that Hacker was correct Ed.]

Meanwhile, Number Ten was in a frenzy all day. All the phones were ringing in the Private Office all the time.

Bernard was on excellent form. He remembered to phone the Palace and check that her Majesty was never told officially that this gift has been proposed -- that way, she cannot be implicated in refusing it.

But even Bernard was at a loss on the matter of this damn dog. All he could suggest was that our Ambassador in Paris tried to nobble it slip it some poison, borrow some umbrella tips from the Bulgarians. [A reference to the murder in 1978 of Gerogi Markov, a Bulgarian dissident working for the BBCs [British Broadcasting Corporation] External Services, who was stabbed with a poisoned umbrella tip at a London bus stop Ed.]

This sounded like an extremely tricky covert operation, with profoundly embarrassing consequences if discovered. The British voter can stomach rising unemployment, rising inflation, rising taxes, a falling pound, a falling stock exchange -- but it would never re-elect me if I were thought to be implicated in the demise of a Labrador puppy, dispatched to meet its Maker in the Great Kennel in the sky under mysterious circumstances. The British know their priorities!

Meanwhile, in the absence of a solution to the problem with the French, other arrangements continued apace today. We have laid on interpreters for numerous meetings. There were even interpreters listed for my meeting with the American Vice-President, but I assume that was just a typing error. [Almost certainly correct. After all, the English-speaking nations can, with a certain generosity of spirit, be said to include the Americans. In fact, it may be thought that the special relationship between us is purely due to the fact that the Americans are no more noticeably multilingual than we are Ed.]

The Prime Ministers are flying in tomorrow and Bernard tells me that the Band of the Royal Marines is going crazy -- it has had to learn to play all the national anthems. There was great relief when we learned the Argentinians werent coming -- not because we defeated them in the Falklands but because the Argentinian national anthem is in three movements and lasts six minutes. [In fact, the long version lasts for about four minutes (depending on the speed at which it is played) and the shortened form one minute forty-eight seconds. It is interesting to note that Hacker was given this incorrect information by the anti-Argie lobby in the FO Ed.]

Seating in the Abbey was the big question today. I had to approve it. Incredibly, they had done it alphabetically, which would have resulted in Iran and Iraq sitting next to each other, plus Israel and Jordan in the same pew. We could have started World War III.

Bernard rang through to the Abbey, and was told that it had been noticed that they were all sitting together but that the feeling at the Abbey was that as they were all from the same part of the world they might feel more at home. Bernard was forced to explain that proximity does not equal affinity.

Somebody else pointed out that as Ireland was in the same pew it might make things better. I pointed out that Ireland doesnt make anything better. Not for us. Ever!

Peter, my Foreign Affairs Secretary, came up to the study to brief me on the various issues we could expect to encounter. Bernard was there too, of course.

The Spanish Ambassador says his Foreign Secretary will want a word about the unity of nations. And the Italians want a word about the European ideal.

These were clearly coded messages. I asked what they meant.

Peter translated. The Spanish want Gibraltar back and the Italians want to enlarge the EEC wine lakes. [When EEC Foreign Ministers returned home after top-level meetings, it would come as a surprise to their governments if they claimed that their time had been spent trying to promote the European ideal. The EEC was just a customs union -- politicians won brownie points only by heroically defending their national interest Ed.]

The New Zealanders, continued Peter, want an ad hoc meeting of Commonwealth leaders to discuss alleged British racist support of South Africa.

I asked why they were raising this again. It was explained to me that there were two possibilities: it was either because of their anger over EEC butter quotas which exclude New Zealand dairy products -- or maybe it was a manifestation of the guilt they feel over their about-turn on nuclear policy.

Peter proposed a royal visit for New Zealand. Send the Queen herself if possible. An excellent idea, though rather a long-term solution and no help to the immediate embarrassment unless the offer of the royal visit shuts them up. And Peter warned me that we could expect serious trouble from the South Africans anyway.

Problems with human rights? I asked.

No. Theyre trying to unload more grapefruit.

I was briefed about correct modes of address. Apparently the correct mode of address when speaking to a Cypriot Archbishop is not Your Ecstasy, its Your Beatitude. And if the Papal Envoy says We desire to wash our hands it means hes been caught short.

In the middle of all this Bernard received an urgent call from the palace. We all held our breath. Had she heard about the puppy and, if so, did she have a view?

But no: the Palace had heard that there was a problem with the red carpets at Heathrow. (Which there was, but had been solved, I know not how.) And Her Majesty was worried that the President of the Ivory Coast wishes -- apparently -- to award her the Order of the Elephant.

I boiled over. Bernard, Peter, for Gods sake! I shouted. We cant have another animal. Especially an elephant! The whole of Whitehall, the Foreign Office, the Home Office, the Cabinet Office and the DHSS [Department of Health and Social Security] have been tied up with one puppy for nearly a week. Government has been paralysed. No elephants!!

But I was mistaken. Apparently its not a real elephant that the Ivory Coast wants to send -- it's a medal. The problem is that the honour is conveyed by a wet kiss.

Im leaving that one to the FO.

September 7th

Tomorrow is the funeral of my illustrious predecessor. And today we licked the French. I dont know which of these events gives me a greater feeling of satisfaction.

But things did not start auspiciously.

First thing this morning Bernard entered the Cabinet room with two files -- one of them one inch thick, the other six inches thick.

What on earth is that, Bernard? I asked.

He indicated the slim file. The Channel Tunnel file, Prime Minister.

No, I said. The thick one.

Oh. He looked hopeless. Thats the puppy file.

How far have we reached with it?

It weighed in at three and a half pounds this morning.

The puppy?

The file, he replied seriously.

We had told the French that airport security would regretfully have to impound the puppy and quarantine it at Heathrow. The French had not replied. But in order to make it sound a little better the FO had let the French know that, as Heathrow Airport is en route from Buckingham Palace to Windsor Castle, the Queen will be able to visit it on the way.

I was surprised. Can you visit quarantined dogs?

Bernard didnt know either. If she cant, he replied, tired of the whole business, she can sort of wave as she drives down the M4.

The real question was what measures the French would feel free to take against us, after this alleged and manufactured rebuff. The likelihood was that they would go public over the story if we dont give in to them over the Channel Tunnel.

We were completely unprepared for what happened next. Sir Humphrey burst into the room unceremoniously.

Prime Minister! He was quite breathless. I have urgent news.

Good news? Hope springs eternal.

Yes and no. He was cautious. The police have just found a bomb in the grounds of the French Embassy.

I was horrified. Who put it there?

We dont know yet. Lots of people could have a motive.

Us, for a start! said Bernard.

Still, I said, trying to look on the bright side, its a good job we found it. I suppose. That must have been the good part of Humphreys news.

Humphrey had more to say. The other news is even worse. The French President isnt flying in for the funeral.

I couldnt see why that mattered. In fact, it sounded like good news to me. It still sounded like good news (not quite as good, but nearly) when Humphrey said that the President was still coming, but by car -- secretly. The plane is a security decoy, a blind.

That sounds like a good idea, I said. But I didnt see why it mattered.

Its a brilliant idea! said Humphrey, tight-lipped with anger. He can bring the bloody puppy in the car!

Humphrey was right. Was there nothing we could do? Are you prepared, Prime Minister, to give instructions for the French Presidents car to be stopped and searched as he comes here as your invited guest to the funeral? I had been completely outmanoeuvred. Are you prepared to violate their diplomatic immunity and search the diplomatic bag?

I was confused. You cant put a puppy in a bag.

It would be a doggy bag, said Bernard.

Suppose we did search, and found it? I was considering my options. That would really set the cat among the pigeons.

And let the dog out of the bag, said Bernard.

But what would be even worse suppose we were wrong? explained Humphrey. Just suppose it wasnt there.

He was right. I couldnt take the risk. Violating their diplomatic immunity wrongfully? It would be a catastrophe.

But, said Humphrey, ever the Devils Advocate, if it is in the car they will drive it into the French Embassy, and the puppy will e on French territory. Here in the middle of London.

Hanging over our heads, I observed gloomily.

Wed better pray its house-trained, said Bernard.

SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS [in conversation with the Editors]:

That evening we held a diplomatic reception at Number Ten. The evening was full of humour, mostly unintentional.

My role was, of course, to make the Prime Ministers guests welcome. Especially the French. I remember introducing Mrs Hacker to a Monsieur Berenger from UNESCO [United Nations Economic, Social and Cultural Organisation]. He was having a frightfully good time, and informed us both that he thought it was an excellent funeral. The last one hed been to was Andropovs [former head of the KGB, then General Secretary of the Communist Party and President of the USSR, then dead Ed.], which had been awfully gloomy.

I also had the pleasure of introducing him to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. I explained that Monsieur Berenger was in London as the diplomatic representative of UNESCO. Ah yes, said the bobby, pulling knowledgeably at his little white toothbrush moustache, gallant little country.

[Hackers diary continues Ed.]

Star-studded reception at Number Ten -- and yours truly wiped the floor with the French. Although in all honesty I must admit that it was a sensational French own goal which brought about my victory.

Everyone was very jolly. No one was at all sad about tomorrows funeral. The American Vice-President came armed with a new Polish joke which hed got from Gromyko [the Soviet former Foreign Minister, at the time President of the USSR]. Youve heard the new Polish joke? Jaruzelski! And he laughed long and hard. [Jaruzelski was the puppet Prime Minister of Poland Ed.]

The Vice-President wanted an urgent word about the NATO bases in Germany. It wasnt possible at the party, so we made a deal to discuss them in the Abbey tomorrow. Then he disappeared into the crowd, hopefully searching for some non-aligned countries who would speak to him. [The definition of a non-aligned country is that it is non-aligned with the United States Ed.]

And the Russians were in great form. The Soviet Ambassador sat down next to Sir Humphrey on a Sheraton sofa in the White Drawing-room and reminisced with a gang of us about my predecessor. You know, the death of a past Prime Minister is a very sad occasion.

Very sad, very said, murmured Humphrey dutifully and sipped his white wine.

But he is no loss to Britain, continued the Russian. You know what his trouble was?

A leading question. I could think of plenty of answers but I waited for the Soviet viewpoint. He had plenty here the Ambassador pointed to his forehead and plenty here he put a hand on his heart. But nothing here!! he growled, and made a grab for Sir Humphreys private parts.

Humphrey squeaked, leapt to his feet and dropped his glass of Macon Villages, while the Russian Ambassador yelled with laughter. I laughed so much that I choked and had to leave the room. And the Russian Ambassador was right, by the way.

I didnt see Humphrey after that for quite a while. He was conspicuous by his absence. I thought he was either recovering his dignity or trying to sponge the wine off his trousers. Id been looking for him because I wanted the security of his knowledge and advice when I talked to the French President, a conversation that I did not relish and couldnt postpone much longer.

Then Bernard and the Police Commissioner, an unlikely pair, unobtrusively ushered me out of the party in the State rooms, across the panelled lobby and into my study for a private word. Humphrey was waiting there.

Whats all this? I asked.

The bomb in the French Embassy garden was planted by the French police, said the Commissioner.

At first I thought he was joking. But no!

It was to see if they could catch us out. To prove our security inefficient.

This was the best news Id heard for months. They showed me a file of evidence. A matching detonator was found in their hotel. They had confessed.

I was ecstatic. The French cops smuggling explosives into the UK gave me just the opportunity I needed. I told Humphrey to give me a couple of minutes alone with the President, and to interrupt as soon as I pressed the secret buzzer that I have in my desk for that very purpose. [To contrive apparently chance interruptions Ed.]

Well, they showed Monsieur le Prsident into my study. I apologised to him for dragging him out of the party for a few moments, and indicated that I wished to discuss the Tunnel. But he didnt want to discuss the Tunnel yet. First of all, may we clear up a silly misunderstanding? About this little puppy I shall be presenting as a return gift to Her Majesty tomorrow?

So they did smuggle it in! Monsieur le Prsident, I said, putting my foot down firmly, Im extremely sorry but there is no misunderstanding. I cannot ask the Queen to break the law.

He smiled. I do not want the Queen to break the law, I merely ask the Prime Minister to bend it.

Again I apologised, formally, and said no. He was haughty, magnificent and deeply hurt. He remarked that if the French people ever learn of this rejection they would take it as a national slap in the face. As if there was any doubt that they would learn of it. Personally I believe that the French people (unlike the British) have infinitely more common sense than their leaders, and would do no such thing.

So we returned to the Tunnel. And now the President pressed home the advantage that he thought he had created. As for the Tunnel, you make it very difficult for me. The French people will not accept a second slap in the face. And you are rejecting our very reasonable proposal for French sovereignty up to but not including Dover. But setting that aside, there is also another question: which shall be the langue de prfrence? [First language Ed.]

I went to my desk, ostensibly to pick up a piece of paper and a pen. I slid my left hand beneath the desktop and pressed the buzzer. He didnt notice. Surely, I said reasonably, if half the signs put French first and half English, that would be fair.

Fair, yes, but not logical.

Does logic matter? I asked.

Does the law matter? he responded.

Of course it does, I said. Britain is the only European country without rabies.

Humphrey burst in without knocking. He was carrying the file. Monsieur le Prsident, please forgive me. Prime Minister, I think you should see this urgently.

I sat at my desk. I opened it. I read it. No! I gasped, and stared penetratingly at M. le Prsident. He didnt know what it was, of course. I read on, keeping him in suspense. Then I rose accusingly.

Monsieur le Prsident, Im afraid I have to ask you for an explanation. And I handed him the file full of evidence of the French bomb plot. He read it. His face gave away nothing.

I hope I do not have to explain the gravity of this, I said, very much hoping that I did have to.

No such luck. He looked up from the file. Prime Minister, I am deeply sorry. I must ask you to believe I had no knowledge of this.

Probably he didnt. But I wasnt letting him off the hook. Nor would he have done, in my position. This is an attempt, by guests, to deceive Her Majestys Government. And there is the serious crime of illegally smuggling explosives into the UK.

You must know, he replied reasonably, that the French Government never know what French Security are doing.

You mean you are not responsible for their actions?

This was not what he had meant. He couldnt deny responsibility. No, but if this report is true I must ask you to accept my profound regrets.

The truth of it was easily confirmed. And then Humphrey went in for the kill. You see, it makes it very difficult for the Prime Minister over the Channel Tunnel.

I agreed. When news of this bomb is published the British people will want to concede very little.

Theyll wonder if its safe to go through it! murmured Humphrey.

It might be full of official French bombs, I added.

M. le Prsident and I stared at each other. He remained silent. The ball was in my court. Of course, I suggested, in the interest of Anglo-French friendship we could overlook the crimes of your security men.

He offered to meet me half-way. Literally! I suppose we could agree to sovereignty only half-way across the Channel.

Humphrey made a note, very ostentatiously.

I said: We would like half the signs to place the English language first. And, above all, we want the opening ceremony in two months. In Dover first, and Calais second.

I think that is an excellent idea, he said with a big smile. As an expression of the warmth and trust between our two countries.

We all shook hands.

Show us a draft communiqu at the funeral tomorrow, would you, Humphrey? And make sure that none of the press find out about the bomb plant. Or the labrador puppy. After all, I said, looking pointedly at the President, If one of the stories gets out, the other is bound to as well, isnt it?

Yes, Prime Minister, he said, permitting himself the slightest trace of a smile. The communiqu would make a wholly successful and utterly joyful day out of what was already a very happy occasion!