The Complete Yes Prime Minister

THE PATRON OF THE ARTS

December 3rd

Do you think perhaps asked Bernard hesitantly, I mean, would it have been wiser? you know, with hindsight, was it a mistake?

Yes Bernard, I said.

We were discussing the British Theatre Awards, a really unimportant, self-serving, narcissistic gathering, and not one on which the time of the Prime Minister should be wasted.

But Malcolm, my press officer, Bernard and I had spent the best part of an hour wondering how to handle the hideous predicament in which I find myself.

The irony is, I certainly didnt have to agree to present these awards. Malcolm recommended it! He is denying that now, of course. With respect, Prime Minister, I didnt actually recommend it. I just that the British Theatre Awards dinner was being televised live and that as the guest of honour youd be seen by twelve million people in a context of glamour, fun and entertainment. And that youd be associated with all the star actors and actresses who give pleasure to millions.

And you dont call that a recommendation? I was incredulous. It was worth ten points in the opinion polls, the way you described it.

Malcolm nodded mournfully. But Bernard was confused. Isnt it a bad idea to be associated with actors? I mean, their job is pretending to be what theyre not. And if youre seen with them, well, people might realise

He stopped short. Might realise? I stared at him, daring him to continue. Go on, Bernard, I invited him with menace.

He hesitated. Er, I mean, not realise exactly might suspect, might think that you were I mean, I dont mean theyd think you were entertaining, obviously not, I mean, they might see you were pretending Um, what was it you wanted to speak to Malcolm about? he finished desperately.

The problem would have been clear to anyone except an ivory-tower career Civil Servant like Bernard. Malcolm had assured me that it would be a non-controversial occasion: there would be no other politicians there, and actors and actresses are usually nice to politicians because they live on flattery and some of them dish it out as eagerly as they receive it.

But nobody had thought it through. Accusingly, I tapped the file in front of me. What about this? I asked.

Malcolm was embarrassed. Im sorry, Prime Minister, but we didnt know about that when we accepted the invitation.

All I can say is, he should have known. He should have found out. Thats what hes paid for. You knew the government was being criticised for not spending enough on the arts?

He shrugged. All governments are always criticised for not spending enough on the arts.

Bernard hastened to agree. Its the standard way for arts journalists to suck up to actors and directors. Thats how they get back on speaking terms after theyve given them bad reviews.

But you knew -- or should have known -- what the situation would be, I insisted.

Malcolm stubbornly refused to concede the point. No, Prime Minister, we didnt know how small the Arts Council grant increase was going to be. How could we? It was only finalised yesterday.

He was right. And it was my fault, though I didnt admit it -- I had insisted on no leaks. Hoist by my own petard again. Yesterday the news broke that thered be virtually no increase in grant for the National Theatre. And, by a hideous coincidence, the Chief Associate Director of the National Theatre is Chairman of the Awards Dinner, making the speech that introduces me, which will inevitably be full of snide remarks and sarcastic jokes, and which is bound to portray me as a mean-spirited Philistine. Live on TV, in front of twelve million people.

What about when I make my speech? I asked hopelessly. The audience will be totally hostile. There may even be boos.

Theres always lots of boos, said Malcolm. I was appalled. Was he serious? But we dont have to pay for it, he continued reassuringly. I suddenly realised he meant booze, not boos.

Booo! I hooted in explanation, and added a Sssss for good measure.

Bernard was amazed. Do actors boo? he asked, wide-eyed. I thought audiences did that.

Its an audience full of actors, I reminded him. Its their only chance in the year to do any booing, to get their own back on all the people who boo them.

Bernard made a suggestion. Why dont you go back to the Arts Minister and ask for an increase in the grant? Or, better still, send him along to the dinner instead of you. That way theyll all blame him. Thats what junior ministers are for, isnt it?

On the face of it, it was a smart idea. But on reflection I realised it wouldnt work. Hed just blame the Treasury.

You could talk to the Treasury, countered Bernard.

Ive been doing that. Thats the problem. For six weeks Ive been telling them to cut spending!

Its still better to send the Arts Minister, insisted Bernard.

Is it? I didnt believe it. Cant you see the headlines? JIM CHICKENS OUT. PRIME MINISTER RUNS AWAY FROM CRITICS.

They wouldnt say that if you had a major crisis to deal with.

I turned to Malcolm. Any major crises coming up, Malcolm?

Sadly, he shook his head. Not really, Prime Minister.

Incredible, that the lack of a crisis should be bad news for us! I racked my brains, but I couldnt think of one either. Any distant crisis we could bring forward? Malcolm and Bernard shook their heads hopelessly.

I tried to approach the problem positively. What sort of crisis would justify cancellation?

Bernard could think of plenty. The pound plunging, small war in the South Atlantic, nuclear power station catching fire

I stopped him. Bernard, I explained gently, I dont think any of those would help improve my image either.

No, but theyd justify you staying away, he said, completely forgetting that he whole idea was -- if not to improve my image -- at least to prevent it from deteriorating further.

Bernard had a sudden inspiration. I know! How about the death of a Cabinet colleague.

That would certainly do it! Is one imminent? I asked, trying not to appear too hopeful.

No, said Bernard cheerfully, glad to have solved what was, to him, an academic problem. But that would justify your absence without damaging your image, wouldnt it?

Malcolm agreed. Hes right. But we can hardly hope for that to fall on the right day. At least not by accident, he added darkly.

Was he hinting? I sincerely hope not. I could see that I really had no option, not at such short notice. Ill have to go, I decided. Ill keep a stiff upper lip. Grin and bear it.

Bernard said, You cant actually grin with a stiff upper lip because And he demonstrated. You see, stiff lips wont stretch horizontally

I might have hit him but he was saved by the bell -- the telephone bell. Sir Humphrey was outside, ever anxious to discuss the agenda for Cabinet.

I welcomed him. Ah Humphrey, never mind that agenda, I need help.

You do! Instantly I fixed my beady eye on him. You do? I wasnt sure if he was asking or agreeing.

Ive got to make a speech, I began. And I think it could be very embarrassing.

Oh Prime Minister, your speeches are nothing like as embarrassing as they used to be. In fact

These Civil Servants really are appallingly patronising. No, Humphrey. I didnt say my speech would be embarrassing. I said the occasion would be.

Indeed? Why?

I explained as impartially as I could. Itll be to an audience of hostile, narcissistic, posturing, self-righteous theatrical drunks.

The House of Commons, you mean.

I explained, in words of one syllable, that I meant the British Theatre Awards at the Dorchester [Hotel]. Being the guest of honour is not much of an honour if they dont honour the guest.

Humphrey got the point at once. The small Arts Council grant, you mean? Well, its very hard to influence the Chief Associate Director of the National Theatre, as I know only too well. Im on the Board of Governors.

I hadnt realised that. So I asked him what I do about it? How do I make the theatrical community feel that Im really one of them?

Surely, murmured Humphrey acidly, you dont want them to see you as a narcissistic, posturing, self-righteous theatrical drunk?

Not that it would be very difficult, said Bernard. I suppose he was alluding to my histrionic talents. After all, great statesmen have to be great actors. [Hacker begs an important question here Ed.] Nonetheless, the programme will be live on TV, and I can hardly risk a hostile reception.

Humphrey clearly felt that it was inevitable. With respect, Prime Minister, if one is going to walk into the lions den, you should not start by taking away the lions dinner.

So what is your advice?

Give them more of their dinner back. Increase the grant to the Arts Council. An extra two million or so would make a significant difference.

Two million? That would make it a fairly expensive dinner.

Humphrey smiled. Well, it is the Dorchester.

This was hardly an impartial recommendation. As a Governor of that subversive body [The National Theatre, not the Dorchester Hotel Ed.] he has a vested interest. And a conflict of interest too! Well, he may want to support that bloody place! But I dont owe them anything. They keep putting on plays attacking me. They set The Comedy of Errors in Ten Downing Street. And, I reminded him, they did a modern-dress Richard II, making him into a foolish, vainglorious national leader who got booted out for incompetence. Dont deny it, Humphrey! I know who they were getting at.

I was only going to suggest, Prime Minister, that it was better than setting Macbeth in Number Ten.

A feeble excuse. The truth is, they hate me there. They did a whole play attacking our nuclear policy, I reminded him. A farce.

The policy?

The play, Humphrey! He knew very well what I meant. I asked him why they did it, and why he wasnt concerned.

Its very healthy, Prime Minister.

Healthy? I couldnt see how.

Practically nobody goes to political plays. He sat back and crossed his legs urbanely. And half of those that go dont understand them. And half of those who understand them dont agree with them. And the seven who are left would have voted against the government anyway. Meanwhile, it lets people let off steam, and you look like a democratic statesman -- with a good sense of humour! -- for subsidising your critics.

I still didnt see that the pros outweighed the cons. If they want to criticism me they should pay for it themselves. From the Box Office.

Humphrey couldnt see that logic. Prime Minister, theyd never make enough money. Plays criticising the government make the second most boring theatrical evenings ever invented.

I was curious. What are the most boring?

Plays praising the government.

Personally I should have thought that theyd be much more interesting. And I still couldnt see why a theatre should insult me and then expect me to give it more money. But Humphrey explained that this is what artists always do. Undignified, isnt it? They advance towards the government on their knees, shaking their fists.

And beating me over the head with a begging bowl.

Um, Prime Minister, said Bernard, they cant beat you over the head if theyre on their knees. Not unless youre on your knees too, or unless theyve got very long arms.

I waited patiently. This pedantic wittering is the price I have to pay for Bernards undoubted efficiency. Unfortunately its this obsessive attention to detail that makes him both irritating and essential. I waited till he stopped talking, then I turned back to Malcolm.

Isnt it true that there are no votes for me in giving money to the Arts?

Yes but theres a lot of terrible publicity if you take it away.

Hes right. Its so unfair.

Humphrey spoke up for his vested interest again. Its not really unfair, Prime Minister. The arts lobby is part of the educated middle class. Its one of the few ways they can get their income tax back. Mortgage tax relief, university grants for their children, lump-sum pensions and cheap subsidised seats at the theatre, the opera and the concert. You shouldnt begrudge it to them.

I ticked him off. Humphrey, youre getting off the point.

Ah, he replied gravely, what was the point?

Unfortunately I couldnt remember. Bernard had to remind me. How to stop the Chief Associate Director of the National Theatre criticising you in his speech on Sunday.

Thats right! I turned emphatically to Humphrey. And since you know him, I suggest you have a quick word with him. You might point out that the knighthood which he might expect in the course of time is within the gift of the Prime Minister.

Humphrey wasnt impressed with this plan. Frankly, Prime Minister, he told me he couldnt care less about a knighthood.

Humphreys being silly. Everyone says that about a knighthood until its actually dangled before them.

[Sir Humphrey Appleby did indeed have lunch with Simon Monk of the National Theatre. They met in the restaurant front-of-house, where it could be guaranteed that their meeting would be completely discreet and unobserved owing to the unique food offered by that establishment. The luncheon is referred to in Simon Monks best-selling autobiography Sound and Fury Ed.]

We met in the theatre restaurant. Sir Humphrey Appleby had telephoned me previously, wanting to meet in a place where we wouldnt be overheard by people at the next table. Naturally I suggested our restaurant, where it was unlikely that there would be any people at the next table.

Sir Humphrey told me that the Prime Minister was paranoid again, about plays that attacked him. I asked Humphrey to tell Hacker that no one has ever submitted a play defending him, but Humphrey wasnt sure that would help.

Hackers in politics. Hes fair game. It seemed to me that hostile plays are just one of the crosses he had to bear. To his credit, Humphrey wasnt a bit concerned either. He can bear any number of crosses, he said with a sly grin, so long as theyre in the right place on the ballot paper.

Actually, I couldnt have cared less about Hackers problems. He doesnt spare a thought for mine. All I wanted to know was what that years Art Council grant was going to be. The Council needed the extra 30 million that it had applied for.

But Humphrey was enigmatic. My dear Simon! I couldnt disclose the figure in advance. Least of all to one of the Directors of the National Theatre.

I didnt expect him to disclose it, not in so many words. So I picked up the bowl of Grissini breadsticks that was on the table and offered them to him. Have some of these, I offered.

Humphrey carefully took three Grissini, and offered them to me.

I was appalled. Only three?

I couldnt believe it! But Humphrey nodded gloomily. Im afraid its the new diet. Three breadsticks is the absolute maximum.

Is that gross breadsticks or net breadsticks?

Net breadsticks.

I had to ask the next question, but I dreaded the answer. Then how much are we going to get at the National?

Solemnly Humphrey broke approximately one quarter off one of the breadsticks and handed it to me.

Only a quarter? But thats disastrous! How do they expect us to manage on a quarter of a million? [It should be noted that the amount in question was a raise of a quarter of a million Ed.]

Sir Humphrey looked innocent. I dont know where you got that figure from. He loves playing his little games.

I begged him to help. The problem was serious -- and genuine. A quarter of a million was not merely less than we had told the press was the absolute minimum to stave off disaster -- it was lower even than the real minimum required to stave off disaster.

Humphrey said that he could help no further. Even though hes on the Board of the Theatre he explained his first allegiance is to the Government and the Prime Minister. But this turned out to be another of his little games, for he continued: Let me make it quite clear that I am here to represent the Prime Ministers interests. Now certain things would gravely embarrass him. I must urge you on his behalf not to contemplate them.

I got my notepad out. Things were looking up. Good, I said. What are they?

He smiled. Well, you will be making the speech introducing him at the Awards dinner. It would be a courtesy to submit a draft to Number Ten in advance.

For approval? I was surprised.

Let us say for information. I saw the point. The Prime Minister is extremely anxious that your speech should not refer to the modesty of the grant increase. There are certain words he wants you to avoid: Miserly, Philistine[/i], Barbarism[/i], Skinflint, Killjoy. I was writing as fast as I could. Humphrey speaks fast. He also wants you to omit all reference to how much other countries spend on the arts.

I asked him for the figures. He immediately produced a sheet of paper. There you are. To make sure you dont mention them by accident.

I certainly wont mention them by accident, I confirmed.

Most important of all, concluded Sir Humphrey, the Prime Minister wants absolutely no comparison between the extra money your theatre needs and certain sums the Government spent last year on certain projects.

He was being more oblique than usual. I asked him to be more specific.

Well, suppose the sum you need is four million. Purely as an example, you understand. The Prime Minister earnestly hopes you will not draw attention to the fact that the Government spent five million on radar equipment for a fighter plane that had already been scrapped. Or that the Department of Energy has been able to afford to stockpile a thousand years supply of filing tabs. Or that another department has stocked up with a million tins of Vim. Not to mention a billion pounds written off the Nimrod early warning aircraft system.

Anything else we can do? I asked, writing furiously.

There are things you cant do, he reminded me hypocritically. What you could do is perhaps arrange for the Prime Minister to get an award of some sort? And let him know in advance?

This was a tall order. An award for Hacker? What on earth for? Philistine of the Year was the only title I could think of. I pointed out that he never even goes to the theatre.

To my surprise, Sir Humphrey defended him. He cant, really, hes frightened of giving the cartoonists and gossip columnists too much ammunition. He couldnt go to A Month in the Country because it would start rumours about a general election, he couldnt go to The Rivals because there have so many Cabinet Ministers after his job, and he couldnt go to The School For Scandal for fear of reminding the electorate that the Secretary of State for Education was found in bed with that primary school headmistress.

I almost felt sorry for Hacker.

And as for that Ibsen you did, An Enemy of the People Id got the point. So if you could give him some flattering honorary title, that would improve his image and appeal to his sense of self-importance

What on earth did Humphrey have in mind? Actor of the Year? For the most polished performance, disguising one backstage catastrophe after another? I suggested it.

Very droll, chuckled Humphrey. No, I think Comic Performance of the Year might be more appropriate.

I topped him Tragic Performance of the Year!

Both! said Humphrey, and we fell around.

[Hackers diary continues Ed.]

December 4th

A meeting with Nick Everitt, the Arts Minister. He was in a bit of a state. Hes been got at, hes losing his nerve! He was party to the decision about the Arts Council grant -- oh no he wasnt, I forgot hes not in the Cabinet, but its a free country, he could have resigned if he didnt want to support it! Anyway, its a Government decision, a collective decision, hes part of the Government and hes got to accept it whether it was his decision or not. Thats democracy.

Jim, he said, I think theres going to be terrible trouble when they find out how small the grant increase is.

Well just have to brazen it out, I said. Wont you?

He didnt look too happy, peering out nervously through his big rectangular glasses. Young, earnest, and a regular visitor to Glyndebourne, he didnt like being accused of Philistinism. I do think well have to try and find a bit more.

I told him wed been through it all before. He shook his head. We havent really taken the employment argument on board.

I sighed. The employment of actors cannot be allowed to dictate our fiscal policy, however famous and vocal they are. I told Nick that theyd just have to get other jobs, outside the theatre.

They cant. Actors are unemployable outside the theatre. A lot of them are unemployable in it.

Hes one hundred per cent wrong about that. Annie tells me that half the mini-cab drivers she meets are out-of-work actors.

Nick had a different explanation. Most mini-cab drivers say theyre out of work actors. Its more glamorous than describing yourself as a moonlighting nightwatchman.

Bernard raised a forefinger and looked in my direction. Apparently he felt he had a useful contribution to make to the discussion. Er, nightwatchmen cant moonlight. Its a moonlight job to start with. If they drove mini-cabs theyd be sunlighting.

Nick went through all the arguments that the Treasury had already rejected. The theatre brings in tourists, he declaimed with passion.

Fine. I stayed cool. Then the British Tourist Authority should subsidise it.

But they wont, he complained. Thats the trouble. They say theyve got better ways of attracting them.

So, I summed up, you want us to subsidise a bad way of attracting tourists. He tried to interrupt. No, Nick, we waste too much on the Arts anyway.

He flinched. Then he tried the old chestnut about how the arts are educational. Maybe -- but why should I give public money to people who use it for the very uneducational purposes of attacking me?

Wed have to spend the money anyway, said Nick, trying his final ploy. Its only a concealed way of preserving old buildings.

I couldnt see what he meant. All those theatres and art galleries and museums and opera houses are listed buildings, he pleaded. Wed have to maintain them anyway. And theyre totally useless otherwise. So we put in central heating and a curator and roll it into the grant to make it look as if were supporting the Arts.

Half true; but not persuasive enough. I have a simpler solution. Well sell them.

December 5th

This Arts Council crisis is becoming a bloody nuisance. Tonight we had a drinks and buffet party at Number Ten. A couple of hundred guests, many of them theatricals -- we always do this to attract good publicity but tonights do was organised many weeks ago and, had we known, we would have invited a more respectable bunch: backbench MPs, for instance, who never argue with me on social occasions and usually confine themselves to getting harmlessly pissed. Its a change from Annies Bar. [One of the many House of Commons bars Ed.]

As a matter of fact, Ive often thought that we should breathalyse MPs -- not when theyre driving but when theyre legislating. I would guess that well over fifty per cent are over the legal limit by seven pm. Just think of t he permanent damage they do to the nation with their impaired judgement and poor reflexes.

Anyway, we had drunken theatricals to contend with tonight. And, which was worse, sober ones! Annie, who didnt realise what was at stake, congratulated me on taking such trouble over all those lovely theatre people even though theyre not important.

I explained that they were very important. Not for their votes, which are too few to count, but for their influence.

She was surprised that they have influence.

Annie, I explained patiently, show business people have a hotline to the media. Once youve drunk a couple of pints in EastEnders the press want your opinion on everything: Britains schools, the Health Service, law and order right through to the European Monetary System. They get far more exposure than my Cabinet.

Theres no sense in it, of course. But editors want people to read their papers, so if any article starts with a picture of Dirty Den [Den Watts, a character in EastEn, a soap opera which had prominence in the latter part of the 20th century - Ed][/i] they want to read it. But who is going to read an article because of a photo of the Secretary of State for Trade and Industry?

Annie said, So all these actors turn into your supporters after a couple of drinks at Number Ten?

Some do, I told her. But not enough. Thats why we dish out a couple of CBEs or Knighthoods every year. Keeps them all hoping. And theyre less likely to knock the Government next time theyre on Wogan. [Well-known TV talk show of the 1980s on which the host, Terry Wogan, talked and the guests listened Ed.]

Simon Monk was, by a fateful chance, one of the guests at this party. His autobiography records his quiet conversation with Sir Humphrey, who had been anxiously waiting at the top of the grand circular staircase, watching out for Monks arrival Ed.]

Sir Humphrey took me aside, into a sort of panelled lobby outside the main state reception rooms. He faced away from a few bystanders and spoke softly in my ear. He wanted me to talk to Hacker that night. In fact, he implied that Id been invited to the party -- several weeks ago -- for that very purpose. The date of the grant announcement was known months back.

But isnt it better to wait till the figure is published? I asked, not really relishing a confrontation with Hacker that night.

Sir Humphrey was astonished. What on earth for?

If I try to lobby him before, he wont say anything, will he?

Sir Humphrey explained. Of course he wont say anything. You dont want him to say anything. You want him to do something.

I began to argue. Then I realised that I was getting free advice from the most skilful political operator in the land. If you wait, he muttered into my ear, the figure will be published and everyone will be committed to it. Theyll have to stick with it to save their faces. If you want to change government decisions you have to do it before anybody knows theyre being made.

Its a good principle. But, I asked, isnt that rather difficult in practice?

Yes, Humphrey answered. Thats what the Civil Service is for.

To change Government decisions? I realised that I was a complete innocent.

Yes, he smiled. Well, only the bad ones. But thats most of them, of course.

I asked Sir Humphrey what he wanted me to do. Quite simply, he wanted me to help emphasise to Hacker that a small grant might cause him great embarrassment at the Awards Dinner on Sunday.

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

Everyone was politicking furiously. Humphrey got Simon Monk into one corner. And a bunch of actors and actresses got the Prime Minister into another. And Hacker did his utmost to persuade the thespians that he was a theatre lover. Without much success, I fear.

Do you really believe in the British theatre, Prime Minister? said a deeply sceptical young actress, whose roots were showing, metaphorically and literally.

Of course. Absolutely.

Why?

Hacker said something to the effect of Well, er, its, er, its one of the great glories of England.

You mean Shakespeare? said a smooth old fellow, apparently being helpful.

Yes, said Hacker gratefully. Absolutely. Shakespeare.

Who else? asked the old smoothie. He had a very plummy voice. Id seen him at the RSC [Royal Shakespearean Company]. Cant remember his name. I liked him though.

Who else? repeated Hacker, desperately stalling while he gave himself time to think. Well, er, Shakespeare of course. And er, er, Sheridan. Oscar Wilde. Bernard Shaw. All great English playwrights.

They were all Irish, said the aggressive young actress.

Hacker tried to charm her with a smile, a fairly hopeless task. Yes, I know that, but well, Irish, English, it was all the same in those days, wasnt it?

Bernard Shaw died in 1950, said a slim young man on the edge of the group, who was apparently studying a Gainsborough on the wall with such intensity that he didnt even turn to look at the Prime Minister.

Oh Im so sorry, replied Hacker inappropriately.

A large middle-aged actress with a beautiful smile and a husky deep voice, born of thirty years of gin and Benson and Hedges, smiled warmly at him and asked if he went to the theatre a lot.

Hacker hedged. Well, of course, Id love to -- but you know how it is in this job.

The plummy old actor spoke up again, quoting the Prime Minister back at himself. Dont you think the Prime Minister ought to go. If its one of the great glories of England?

The Prime Ministers explanation was less than tactful. Oh yes, he said. But the Minister for the Arts goes. His job, really.

Why? asked the plummy actor.

Well, the Prime Minister cant do everything himself. Have to delegate the work.

The throaty actress appeared to take offence. Going to the threatre is work?

Yes. No, said Hacker indecisively. But I dont want to trespass on another ministers territory.

Does that mean, enquired the sceptical young actress with a smile, that you cant feel ill without clearing it with the Minister of Health?

Exactly, said Hacker, then realised what hed said. Not exactly, he added, trying but failing to clarify his position.

The slim young man on the edge of the group turned and asked him if he ever went to the theatre when hed been in opposition. Hacker started to explain that, even then, it had not been within his purview.

So when you say you believe in the theatre, said the young man, its like saying you believe in God. You mean you believe it exists.

Hacker denied this hotly. I think he should have been wiser to admit the truth, for he was fooling nobody.

What was the last play you went to? asked the young actress, contempt written all over her face. These people show no respect at all, you know.

Went to? repeated the Prime Minister, as if he sat at home all day and read plays. Last play? he repeated, panicked, playing for time. Ah. Well. Probably Hamlet.

Whose? asked the plummy old fellow.

Shakespeares, said the Prime Minister with confidence.

No, who played Hamlet? asked the slim young man on the edge of the group. Henry Irving? [Sir Henry Irving was a famous nineteenth-century actor and the first knight of the first nights Ed.]

Yes, said hacker, I think that might have been his name.

The acting fraternity gazed at each other, unable to grasp that the Prime Minister neither new nor cared what went on in their temples of art and culture.

I saw Sir Humphrey detach himself from Simon Monk. So detached myself from Hacker and the actors, and took the Cabinet Secretary aside for a private word.

I explained that the Prime Minister was not enjoying himself.

Hes not supposed to, retorted Humphrey. Cocktail parties at Number Ten are just a gruesome duty.

But people are asking him questions, I said.

He should be used to that.

But they werent tabled in advance. So he isnt briefed.

But hes not on the record. Does it matter?

I explained that all the people at the party were going to think that he was a Philistine.

Good Heavens! said Humphrey.

Joking apart, I emphasised that in my opinion he should be rescued. Humphrey said he would handle it.

As we approached Hacker in the theatrical crowd we passed Annie, the Prime Ministers wife, talking to a very small and dapper musician whod recently been appointed Principal Guest Conductor of one of the five London symphony orchestras. Annie may have had too much to drink.

Im interested in hi-fidelity too, she said. My husband is a high-fidelity husband.

Thats nice, said the conductor, who was famous for being exactly the opposite.

In a way, she said conspiratorially, and giggled. High fidelity but low frequency.

The conductor, who clearly found Mrs Hacker extremely attractive, seemed unsure how to reply. You mean, sort of Bang and Olufsen?

Well, Olufsen anyway, said Mrs Hacker.

[Hackers diary continues Ed.]

I was doing well with the acting fraternity. To be honest, I really didnt know that much about the theatre, but Im sure they didnt notice, theyre all so self-centred.

They all knew the Arts Council grant was to be announced any day now, and of course they all pressured me like hell. But Im pretty used to being lobbied by vested interests, and I reminded them that there were numerous other calls on the public purse that some people might consider even more important.

It is, of course, a basic rule for self-interested pressure groups that you present the case for your own financial gain as if the public interest is all you care about. Teachers present demands for their own pay rises as being for the good of education. Even as they go out on strike their leaders argue that theyre doing it for the sake of the children theyre sending home. Miners, if we are to believe them, go on strike so that old people can have cheaper coal. Health service workers -- from doctors to porters -- close down hospitals so as to save the health service for the wretched patients who cant get any treatment in the meantime.

So obviously these very pleasant entertainers, who need the love and applause of thousands of total strangers, and who therefore put on plays because dressing up and showing off in public is fun and makes them feel good, also present their demands for subsidy under the guise of the public interest -- education, usually.

So I countered by pointing out that much more money is desperately needed for genuine educational purposes, trusting that they would not mention that I was not in any case giving the money to those with a prior call. Not to mention hospitals, kidney machines

Tanks and rockets, said one of the actresses, is what you spend the money on.

H-bombs, chimed in another.

Perfectly true. But we could hardly defend ourselves from the Russians with a performance of Henry V. I said so. They werent amused.

Humphrey arrived at my side and it was with some relief that I escaped from that little group.

This isnt a drinks party, its a siege, I complained bitterly.

Humphrey merely commented that people are very concerned about the arts. Hes wrong. These people are very concerned -- the nation doesnt give a damn. If they did, theyd spend their own money on the Arts. Why should the Governments money be spent on other peoples pleasure, I asked him.

Nobody could call it pleasure, said Humphrey rather shocked. Hes a true Calvinist at heart. The point is that we have a great heritage to support. Pictures hardly anyone wants to see, music hardly anyone wants to hear, plays hardly anyone wants to watch. We cant let them die just because no ones interested.

I was curious. Why not?

Its like the Church of England, Prime Minister. People dont go to church, but they feel better because its there. The Arts are just the same. As long as theyre going on you can feel part of a civilised nation.

All very well in its way, but hes totally unpolitical and unrealistic. There are no votes in the Arts, I reminded him. Nobodys interested!

Stubbornly he refused to concede the point. Nobodys interested in the Social Science Research Council. Or the Milk Marketing Board. Or the Advisory Committee on Dental Establishments. Or the Dumping At Sea Representation Panel. But Government still pays money to support them.

Dont they do a lot of good? I asked.

Of course they dont. They hardly do anything at all.

Then, I proposed, lets abolish them.

Now he was panicked. This was not the turn that he had expected the conversation to take. No, no, Prime Minister. They are symbols. You dont fund them for doing work. You fund them to show what you approve of. Most government expenditure is symbolic. The Arts Council is a symbol.

I told him it was no good. My mind was made up. He promptly suggested that I have a word with the Chief Associate Director of the National Theatre, who by chance had also been invited to this drinks do. I didnt want to face another salvo, but Humphrey told me that hes been trying to persuade this fellow Simon Monk to make the right sort of speech at the Awards Dinner.

Thats very good of you, Humphrey, I said gratefully.

Not at all. But you might have more success than I. So Humphreys persuasion had not borne fruit.

Well, before I had time to collect my thoughts I was face to face with this theatrical wizard. He was actually perfectly polite and seemed a little ill at ease. Small, thinning hair and without the beard that Id so often seen in the newspapers, he could almost have been a politician.

I was ill at ease too. So youll be introducing me at this Awards Dinner thing? I began.

Thats right, he replied, and fell silent. We half-smiled nervously at each other for what seemed like an eternity. It became clear that if I didnt speak the conversation might never resume.

Any idea of the sort of thing youll be saying?

I suppose it all depends really.

On -- er -- on ?

Oh the size of the grant.

Just what Id been warned. And I knew he had no idea what it was to be. [The Prime Minister was not aware of the discussion with Sir Humphrey about breadsticks in the NT Restaurant Ed.] So I told him the grant was still under discussion.

Of course, he agreed. But if it turns out to be generous it would give me a chance to say something about the way this Government has got its priorities right. Believing in Britains heritage, and what Britain stands for.

I hinted that he could say something of that sort anyway, even if I couldnt persuade the Arts Minister to cough up, but he indicated that this would be difficult.

Surely you wouldnt want to make it a political occasion? I said in a voice of disapproval.

Not for myself, no. But I have a duty to the profession. Hes good! And to the Arts, he continued. My colleagues would expect me to voice their feelings.

I tried to make him understand about money for inner cities, schools, hospitals, kidney machines. He acknowledged my problem and said he proposed to solve it by making a funny speech about the government.

This was grim news indeed. Humorous attacks are the most difficult to deal with. The one thing I cant afford is to look as though Im a bad sport or have no sense of humour -- the British public never forgive you for that.

[The following morning the Prime Minister received a letter from Simon Monk. Sir Humphrey preserved it in the Cabinet Office files, and we reproduce it below. It contained a serious threat Ed.]

NTNATIONAL THEATRE

Patron HM The Queen

December 6th

Dear Mr. Hacker,

I enclose a draft of a part of my speech, for your amusement. It will make good television, dont you think, in a light-hearted way? Of course, I hope I dont have to say all this, as I would rather not embarrass you. But I do hope you understand that if we dont get a substantial rise the National Theatre will collapse -- and there will be a huge empty building on the South Bank, a decaying monument to this countrys barbarism.

Yours sincerely

Simon Monk

The Olivier Theatre

The Lyttelton Theatre

The Cottesloe Theatre

enc.

Ladies gentlemen, I thought that tonight you might be amused by some of the other ways the government has spent your money.

The money it cant afford for the arts.

Did you know that in one year a London borough spent a million pounds on hotels for families while they had 4000 empty council houses?

Did you know that another council spends 100 per week on a toenail cutting administrator? And that one city in the UK was still employing four gas lamp lighters eight years after the last gas lamp was removed? That cost a quarter of a million!

Not to mention the Council that spent 730 to have two square yards of shrubbery weeded. And the government office block thats scheduled for demolition two weeks before its completed.

And finally, do you know where all the British Local Authorities held their conference on spending cuts? The Caf Royal! [An expensive and elegant restaurant in Regent Street, London Ed.]

[Hackers diary continues Ed.]

December 6th

I got a vile, threatening letter from that man Monk this morning. Not only was it full of examples of local authority waste, it threatened that the NT would shut down if I didnt hoick the grant up. This would be cataclysmic news for me, the pres would kill me!

I called Dorothy to discuss his draft speech. Her view of it was that the TV viewers wouldnt make the distinction between wastage by local or national government -- it's all public money, the taxpayer pays the rate-support grant. And therefore they would agree with Monk that if money is wasted like that it would be inexcusable to risk the closure of the NT on financial grounds.

I decided she was right. The fact is, the National Theatre is going to call my bluff.

What is your bluff? she asked.

My bluff is: Im willing to risk the National Theatres bluff.

Whats their bluff?

Their bluff is that they think Im bluffing, whereas

Whereas you are! she said.

I realised that I no longer knew who was bluffing whom. Dorothy thought it was obvious. I couldnt see it. [Perhaps it was a case of blind mans bluff. Or bland minds bluff Ed.]

My cassette recorder was on the desk, because I was about to dictate some notes for my memoirs and a couple of personal letters. Bernard offered to clarify the situation for me. He then spoke for several minutes but I was none the wiser. So I asked him to repeat his clarification into my cassette.

Prime Minister, he said, you think that the National Theatre thinks that you are bluffing and the National Theatre thinks that you think that they are bluffing, whereas your bluff is to make the National Theatre think that you are bluffing when youre not bluffing, or if you are bluffing, your bluff is to make them think youre not bluffing. And their bluff must be that theyre bluffing, because if theyre not bluffing theyre not bluffing.

I thanked him and resumed the intelligent part of conversation with Dorothy. She asked me what my policy actually is? Am I willing to risk their closure if I dont increase the grant?

I replied, flustered. I have already stated my policy. I think. All I can do is go on restating it until until

Until you know what it is? Bernard enquired, unhelpfully.

The point is, this situation is now a real hot potato. If I dont do something it could become a banana skin.

Bernard intervened. Excuse me, Minister, a hot potato cant become a banana skin. If you dont do anything a hot potato merely becomes a cold potato.

I wonder if Bernard ever realises how close to death he sometimes comes.

December 7th

Dorothy came to me with a plan. Not a good plan, not a great plan -- but a plan of sheer genius!

In a nutshell, she recommends calling their bluff. She says I should sell the National Theatre building. And the National Film Theatre. The South Bank is a prime site, overlooking St Pauls and Big Ben.

The site, she proposed, should be sold to a property developer. Her information is that it is worth about 35 million pounds on the market. This money could be put into an Arts Trust Fund, producing -- at an average of ten per cent per annum -- 3.5 million pounds a year.

This 3.5 million of interest earned from the Trust Fund would finance the National Theatre. Not the theatre itself, because we would have sold it, but the company -- which is all that matters.

Apparently the current National Theatre building absorbs about half of the companys grant, i.e. out of a grant of 7 million about 3.5 million goes into the upkeep of that building. Dorothy contends that this is a waste of money, money that could actually be spent on productions. After all Simon Monk was complaining last week that they shouldnt have to spend their grant that way -- "the theatre is about plays and actors, not bricks and mortar.

So where would they put on plays? Answer: there are plenty of theatres in London. And all over the country. The National Theatre could rent them, like any other producer.

The scheme is perfect. The company might even have to go on tour and become genuinely national -- whereas at the moment it only serves a few Londoners and a lot of tourists. Much more money than ever before could be injected into National Theatre productions while still giving the Government that net profit of thirty million, which could then be invested to produce three million a year for the British Theatre as a whole.

I was exultant. No one could accuse me of being a Philistine any more!

She smiled. Not unless they knew you.

December 9th

The night of the Awards dinner. Confidently I arrived at the Dorchester in my dinner jacket, with Annie on my arm, actively looking forward to the encounter. If there was to be a knock-down drag-out fight tonight, I felt I stood a good chance of emerging as the champ.

Knowing that much of the audience for my speech would be experienced performers, Id taken some extra trouble. I had rehearsed in front of the mirror. Dorothy had watched my recent TV appearance and had some advice for me.

Always use full gestures. If you only gesture from the elbow up you look like an Armenian carpet salesman.

On the whole, it could be better to look like an Armenian carpet salesman than an actor. Or even a politician. But since I now see myself as a statesman, only the most statesmanlike gestures are permitted. Punchy, powerful gestures -- but always preceding the sentence, Annie tells me, never after! Gestures afterwards look weak and ineffectual.

Of course, before the speech there was the small matter of a final negotiation with Mr Monk. If all went well, I wouldnt have to say anything controversial, which would be the best outcome of all. I always remember the advice given to me by an elderly peer years ago when I first entered the Cabinet: If you want to get into the Cabinet, learn how to speak. If you want to stay in the Cabinet, learn how to keep your mouth shut.

In the ante-room before the dinner Humphrey got me together with Simon Monk. Hed now heard the news about the grant. I gave him a big smile and a sincere handshake [or was it the other way round? Ed.].

He did not smile at me. This is very bad news about the grant, Prime Minister.

Surely not? I said innocently. Its gone up.

Nothing like enough.

Enough to make it unnecessary for you to recommend closure, tonight?

Im afraid not. He was sombre, but confident.

I helped myself to a handful of peanuts. Because next year, I continued indistinctly, I think we can really do something significant. You remember you complained that 3 million of your grant goes on the upkeep of the building?

Yes?

I have a plan that would relieve you of that.

He brightened considerably. Really? That would be marvellous.

Yes, I enthused, wouldnt it? And it would make the National Theatre really national too.

Instantly he was on his guard. How do you mean?

Im thinking of selling it, I explained cheerfully.

He was aghast! He stood there, his mouth open, staring at me as though I were Attila the Hun. So I took the opportunity to explain that thats how we save three million on upkeep.

He finally found his voice. Prime Minister! Thats impossible.

No its not, its easy, I assured him. Weve had a terrific offer for the site. And we had, too.

Humphrey intervened, apparently shell-shocked. He had been quietly confident that I would submit to Simons closure bluff. But Prime Minister -- the National Theatre must have a home.

I explained that it would have. They could have offices anywhere -- Brixton or Toxteth, for instance. Or Middlesbrough.

Simon asked about theatres, about scene-building workshops.

Rent them, I explained, like everyone else. As it is, most of the workshops at the NT are closed down because of bad management and high cost.

Be like the others, I exhorted him. Perform in the West End. Or the Old Vic. And provincial theatres. Become strolling players again, not Civil Servants. Didnt you once say that the theatre was about plays and actors, not bricks and mortar?

And, while he was reeling on the ropes, I followed up with the knockout blow. I suggested Dorothys second plan -- she came up with it this morning. If anyone complained that the National Theatre needed a permanent home, we would designate all the regional theatres in the UK the National Theatre. For instance, the Heymarket Theatre in Leicester would become the National Theatre in Leicester, the Crucible would be called the National Theatre in Sheffeld, the Citizens could be subtitled National Theatre in Glasgow and so forth. You, I explained to Simon, would just run the London branch of the National Theatre.

It would be a perfectly true description. I reminded him that they are all run exactly the same way, with Artistic Directors and Administrators appointed by local boards of governors, financed by a combination of Arts Council grants, local authority grants and box office income. Why should the London branch of the National Theatre be the only branch entitled to that elevated title? And we could use the 35 million, or the 3 million annual income, to help them all. That would be terribly popular with the profession, dont you think?

Humphrey, who had not heard this plan either, was virtually speechless. His eyes were popping out of his head. Prime Minister, its barbaric! he gasped.

Spending money on actors and writers instead of buildings?

Yes, he spluttered. No, he added as, wide-eyed, he realised what he was saying.

Anyway, I concluded, its only one of the options. I might decide against it. Or I might not. I could outline it in my speech. It all depends, really.

Simon spoke at last. On what?

I smiled benignly at him. To change the subject completely, Simon, have you decided what to say in your speech yet?

He was sweating. Not finally. He knew he was beaten.

You see, I explained, thinking it over, I wasnt sure that those examples of government waste were awfully funny. But of course, its your decision. I waited. He eyed me balefully. Im sure you understand, I said, and walked away from them both.

Well, either way I was the winner. But I didnt know way it would go until the last moment. We ate the usual rubber chicken dinner with croquette potatoes -- I've never ever eaten croquette potatoes anywhere except at formal dinners -- I gave the loyal toast, the smokers were told they could smoke, and in no time it was time for the awards. Monk was introduced by the pompous ringing tones of the Toastmaster: Prime Minister and Mrs Hacker, My Lords, ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for the Chief Associate Director of the National Theatre, Mr Simon Monk.

He rose to a round of warm applause. Ladies and gentlemen, he said, you will have read this morning of the grant to the Arts Council and to the National Theatre. I know that many of us are disappointed by the amount.

Low hostile murmurs reverberated around the Banqueting Suite. Several hear hears. Lots of approving bangs on the table-tops. Simon Monk stopped and looked at me. I stared back. Little pink anger spots appeared on his cheeks and he looked back at his speech.

Of course we would all like it to be larger. But apparently this is a time of national stringency and we all have to think in terms of national needs. There are many calls on the public purse One of my favourite phrases, that! Education, inner cities, health, kidney machines.

I nodded sagely. Another murmur went round the room, this time of disappointment. Simon Monk, it was clear, was not going to attack me. And in fact, at that moment he removed a couple of pages from his speech and slipped them into his pocket. Very wise. Perhaps he knew the old adage: Never speak when you are angry. If you do youll make the best speech youll ever regret.

Simons speech was unexpectedly brief. All that was left of it was I suppose we should be glad that any increase has been possible. And grateful to our Guest of Honour whose personal intervention has made even this small increase possible.

I beamed at him. The cameras were on me, I knew. Ladies and gentlemen, said Monk, holding up his glass, I give you our Guest of Honour, the patron of the arts, the Prime Minister.

He sat down to a smattering of unenthusiastic applause. Little did his audience know, but hed made the smart move and the only possible speech.

I let him see me remove the appropriate pages from my script. And I whispered to Humphrey: Excellent speech, wasnt it?

He seemed as angry as the theatricals. Yes Prime Minister, he said, through clenched teeth! But then, old Humphreys always been a bit theatrical himself.