The Complete Yes Minister

11 The Greasy Pole

[There are times in a politician’s life when he is obliged to take the wrong decision. Wrong economically, wrong industrially, wrong by any standards — except one. It is a curious fact that something which is wrong from every other point of view can be right politically. And something which is right politically does not simply mean that it’s the way to get the votes — which it is — but also, if a policy gets the votes, then it can be argued that that policy is what the people want. And, in a democracy, how can a thing be wrong if it is what the people will vote for?

The incident in question only came to light slowly. The first reference that we can find to it is not in Jim Hacker’s diary, but in Steel Yourself, the memoirs of that uniquely outspoken Chairman of the British Chemical Corporation, the diminutive Glaswegian industrialist and scientist, Sir Wally McFarland.

McFarland was known for his plain language and his unwillingness to bow to government interference in his nationalised industry. He was an expert both on chemicals and on business management — and he believed (rightly) that Hacker knew little or nothing about either. His low regard for Hacker was matched only by his contempt for Sir Humphrey’s skill in business. Like many businessmen, he believed that in commerce the Civil Service was not safe with a whelk stall — Ed.]

From Steel Yourself:

On 16 April I had a meeting with Sir Humphrey Appleby at the Department of Administrative Affairs. It was the umpteenth meeting on the subject of the manufacture of Propanol on Merseyside under licence from the Italian Government.

To my astonishment Sir Humphrey seemed to indicate that there might be a problem with the Minister, but his language was as opaque as usual and I could not be sure of this.

I asked him if he was havering [Scottish word, meaning to be indecisive — Ed.]. He denied it, but said that we cannot take the Minister’s approval for granted.

This was and still is incomprehensible to me. The Italian government was offering us a massive contract to manufacture Propanol at our Merseyside plant. This contract meant saving a plant which we would otherwise have to close down. It meant taking people on, instead of laying them off. And it meant big export royalties. We’d been fighting for two years to win it against tough German and US competition. It seemed completely obvious that it had to go ahead.

Appleby raised some footling idiotic question about what the Minister might think. In my experience Ministers don’t think. In my ten years as Chairman of the BCC I dealt with nineteen different Ministers. They never stopped to think, even if they possessed the basic intelligence necessary for thought — which several of them did not. As a matter of fact, they were usually too lazy to talk to me because they were usually talking to the trade union leaders and bribing them not to strike.

I told Appleby my views. He denied that trade union leaders were bribed. Naturally. It may not be technically bribery, but what else do you call conversations that amount to ‘Have a quango, Tom. Have a knighthood, Dick. Have a peerage, Harry’?

Appleby said that the Minister was worried about the Propanol scheme. If so, why hadn’t anything been said till now?

At this stage I — unwisely, perhaps — brushed aside suggestions that the Minister was worried. He’d never shown any real interest in the scheme, so he could know nothing about it. Naïvely, I assumed that his ignorance would prevent him interfering. And, in any case, all Ministers are worried. I never met a Minister who wasn’t worried.

Ministers worry whenever you do anything that is bold. Anything that makes business sense. Anything that is necessary, in fact. If I had never done anything to worry any of those lily-livered, vote-grubbing, baby-kissing jellies the BCC would have gone down the tube ten years earlier than it did.

Appleby said that the Minister’s worries centred on the fact that Propanol contained Metadioxin. [Dioxin was the chemical released in the accident at Seveso, Italy, some years earlier. It was believed to cause damage to the foetus — Ed.] This was typical. Metadioxin is completely different, an inert compound. It had a clean bill of health from the FDA [Food and Drugs Administration — Ed.] in Washington. And the Henderson Committee was about to approve it.

Nonetheless, I could see that Appleby, in all his ignorance of chemistry, was still a little worried. Or else he was reflecting Hacker’s worries.

I added that the name metadioxin was now not in the proposal. The chemical was simply called Propanol, making it politically safe.

Our meeting concluded with Appleby offering assurances that the Minister was unlikely to raise any objections, as long as the matter was handled with tact. I offered to go along myself, and have a tactful word with Hacker, and persuade that egotistical blancmange that there could be no argument on the matter.

Appleby declined my offer, and answered that he would be able to manage without what he generously called my unique and refreshing brand of tact.

I was not so sure. And, again, I was locked out of the crucial meeting.

Why do governments continually hire experts to run nationalised industries on business lines, and then interfere every time you try to make a business decision?

[Hacker’s diary continues — Ed.]

June 4th

This morning Humphrey gave me some wonderful news. Or what appeared to be wonderful news.

He handed me a paper which summarised a new industrial scheme for Merseyside. In a nutshell, the plan is to turn a run-down chemical plant into one of the most profitable units in the British Chemical Corporation. Overnight it will make the BCC into the largest manufacturer of Propanol in Europe.

The benefits would be immense: capital equipment to be made in British factories, additional rateable income for the Local Authority, new jobs on Merseyside, foreign exchange from the exports, it all seemed too good to be true.

I said so.

‘But it is true, Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey, beaming.

How could it be, I asked myself. Then I asked myself, what’s the point of asking myself? So I asked Humphrey.

‘How could it be?’ I asked. ‘What’s the snag?’

‘The snag?’ repeated Humphrey.

‘Yes,’ I repeated. ‘The snag. What is the snag?’

I knew there must be some snag.

‘I don’t think I quite follow what you mean, precisely?’ Humphrey was playing for time, I could tell.

I formulated my worries even as I voiced them. ‘Well… what I mean is, this Propanol stuff is an Italian product. So why don’t they produce it in Italy?’ Humphrey was silent. This was indeed suspicious. ‘Why are they making us such a generous present?’

‘There’s no snag about this, Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘It’s wonderful news.’

I could see that if it were wonderful news, it would indeed be wonderful news.

‘Yes,’ I agreed cautiously. ‘It is wonderful news. Wonderful news, isn’t it?’ I said to Bernard, who was taking the minutes on my right.

He flashed a glance at Humphrey, then replied warily, ‘Yes, wonderful news,’ but he didn’t sound at all carefree.

I knew I’d find out nothing more, just by asking in a generalised fashion about snags. So I thought hard, I tried to find the right question. Humphrey would never actually lie to me [Well, hardly ever — Ed.] and will give me the right answers if I can only think of the right questions.

‘Good old Propanol,’ I said playing for time. Then, quite suddenly, it came to me. ‘What is Propanol?’ I asked.

‘It’s rather interesting,’ said Humphrey promptly. ‘It used to be made with dioxin, until the Seveso explosion in Northern Italy. Then they had to stop making it. Now they’ve developed a safe compound called metadioxin, but of course the Italian factory is still sealed off. So they’ve asked the BCC to make it for them.’

‘Ah,’ the fog was beginning to lift. ‘An ill wind, eh?’

‘Quite so,’ he agreed contentedly.

‘But is this new stuff perfectly safe?’

‘Perfectly,’ he replied.

‘Good,’ I said. So I was no nearer. Or was I?

‘Humphrey, are you givng me a categorical and absolute assurance that this stuff is not only safe, but one hundred per cent safe?’

‘Yes, Minister.’

Okay, so what’s up? Why do I smell danger somewhere in all this unequivocally good news? ‘Have you anything else to add, Humphrey, which you might regret later if you don’t say it now?’

‘Well Minister, I suppose I should point out that some weak Ministers might have doubts, in view of the similarity of the names, but no one with any backbone would be deflected from such a beneficial project on such a flimsy pretext.’

So that’s all that it was. The similarity of the names. Humphrey was right. I told him so in the most forthright terms. ‘Absolutely! I know the sort of Minister you mean. Political jellyfish. Frightened of taking any decision that might upset someone. After all, every decision upsets someone. Government is about doing what’s right, not doing what’s popular. Eh, Humphrey?’

Humphrey was full of approval. ‘I couldn’t have expressed it better myself, Minister.’ Conceited bugger. ‘I’ll tell Sir Wally to go ahead.’

This sounded a touch more hurried than usual. I stopped Humphrey as he walked to the door, and sought further reassurance.

‘Um… this decision will be popular, though, won’t it?’

‘Very popular,’ Humphrey replied firmly.

I still felt a certain nagging worry, somewhere in my bones. ‘Humphrey, I just want to be clear on this. You’re not asking me to take a courageous decision, are you?’

Humphrey was visibly shocked. ‘Of course not, Minister,’ he insisted. ‘Not even a controversial one. What a suggestion!’

[Readers of these diaries will doubtless recall that whereas a controversial decision will merely lose you votes, a courageous decision will lose you the election — Ed.]

Nonetheless, if I let it go at this, if anything went wrong I knew I should have to carry the can. So I suggested that perhaps we might take this matter to Cabinet.

‘In my opinion,’ Humphrey answered revealingly, ‘the less said about this the better.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ he said patiently, ‘although metadioxin is totally harmless, the name might cause anxiety in ignorant and prejudiced minds.’

I was about to tick him off for referring to my Cabinet colleagues in this way (right though he was!) when I realised that he was referring to Friends of the Earth and other crank pressure groups.

June 7th

The matter of the Propanol plant is still not fully agreed. Joan Littler, MP for Liverpool South-West, came to see me today.

I didn’t even know she was coming. I checked with Bernard, who reminded me that not only is she the PM’s PPS [Parliamentary Private Secretary, the first — and unpaid — rung on the government ladder — Ed.] but also that the new Propanol plant would be in her constituency.

I told Bernard to bring her in. To my surprise (well, not quite to my surprise) Humphrey appeared at the door and asked if he could join us.

She came in, and I introduced her to Humphrey. She’s in her late thirties, quite attractive in a pulled-through-a-hedge-backwards Shirley Williams’ sort of way, and her slightly soft feminine manner disguises a hard-nosed opportunist. And she has the PM’s ear, of course.

There was something rather aggressive about her opening gambit.

‘Look here, Jim, what’s the British Chemical Corporation up to in my constituency?’

‘Well…’ I began.

Sir Humphrey interrupted. ‘They will shortly be announcing a very exciting project involving new jobs and new investment.’

She nodded, and turned to me. ‘Yes, but there are some very worrying rumours about this project.’

‘Such as?’ I enquired in my most helpful tone.

She eyed me carefully. ‘Rumours about dangerous chemicals.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, well,’ I began, ‘obviously all chemicals have some element of danger…’

Humphrey interrupted again. ‘The Minister means that the rumours are completely unfounded and there is no cause for alarm.’

I nodded. It was a good reply.

She didn’t seem to think so. ‘All the same,’ she persisted, ‘can I have your assurance, Jim, that first of all there’ll be a full public enquiry?’

This seemed, I must say, a perfectly reasonable request. ‘Actually,’ I began, ‘there’d be no harm in having a public enquiry, it might be…’

Humphrey interjected. ‘The Minister was about to say that there is absolutely no need for a public enquiry. The whole matter has been fully investigated already and a report will be published shortly.’

Humphrey, it seemed to me, was being a little high-handed. Clearly Joan thought so too.

‘Listen,’ she said forcefully, ‘I came here to talk to Jim.’

And Humphrey, as charming as ever, replied, ‘And indeed you are talking to him.’

‘But he’s not answering! You are!’

I could quite see her point. Humphrey’s helpfulness will sometimes achieve the opposite effect from what it is designed to achieve. Unfortunately, he is insensitive to this.

‘The Minister and I,’ continued Sir Humphrey complacently, ‘are of one mind.’

She was incensed. ‘Whose mind? Your mind?’ She turned on me. ‘Listen, I’ve heard on the grapevine that this factory will be making the chemical that poisoned Seveso and the whole of Northern Italy.’

‘That’s not true,’ I replied, before Humphrey could screw things up further. I explained that the chemical in Seveso was dioxin, whereas this is metadioxin.

‘But,’ she asserted, ‘that must be virtually the same thing.’

I assured her that it was merely a similar name.

‘But,’ she insisted, ‘it’s the same name, with “meta” stuck on the front.’

‘Ah yes,’ I agreed, ‘but that makes all the difference.’

‘Why?’ she asked. ‘What does meta mean?’

Of course, I hadn’t the slightest idea. So I was forced to ask Humphrey.

‘Simple, Minister,’ he explained. ‘It means “with” or “after”, or sometimes “beyond” — it’s from the Greek, you know.’

[Like all Permanent Secretaries, Sir Humphrey Appleby was a generalist. Most of them studied classics, history, PPE or modern languages. Of course you might expect the Permanent Secretary at the Department of Administrative Affairs to have a degree in business administration, but of course you would be wrong — Ed.]

Then he went on to explain that metadioxin means ‘with’ or ‘after’ dioxin, depending on whether it’s with the accusative or the genitive: with the accusative it’s ‘beyond’ or ‘after’, with the genitive it’s ‘with’ — as in Latin, where the ablative is used for words needing a sense of with to precede them.

Bernard added — speaking for the first time in the whole meeting — that of course there is no ablative in Greek, as I would doubtless recall.

I told him I recalled no such thing, and later today he wrote me a little memo, explaining all the above Greek and Latin grammar.

However, I hoped these explanations would satisfy Joan Littler. And that, like me, she would be unwilling to reveal the limits of her education. No such luck.

‘I still don’t understand,’ she said disarmingly.

Humphrey tried snobbery. ‘Oh dear,’ he sighed, ‘I should have thought that was perfectly clear.’ It never works.

Her eyes flashed. ‘What I insist on knowing,’ she stated, ‘is what is the actual difference between dioxin and metadioxin.’

I didn’t know, of course. Humphrey sailed into the rescue. ‘It’s very simple,’ he replied grandly. ‘Metadioxin is an inert compound of dioxin.’

I hoped that that would be that. But no.

She looked at me for help. I, of course, was unable to give her any. So I looked at Humphrey.

‘Um, Humphrey,’ I said, bluffing madly, ‘I think I follow that but, er, could you, er, just explain that a little more clearly?’

He stared at me, coldly. ‘In what sense, Minister?’

I didn’t know where to start. I was going to have to think of the right question again. But Joan said: ‘What does inert mean?’

Sir Humphrey stared at her, silently. And in that glorious moment I suddenly realised that he had no idea what he was talking about either.

‘Well,’ he said eventually, ‘inert means that… it’s not… ert.’

We all stared at each other in silence.

‘Ah,’ said Joan Littler.

‘Ah,’ I said.

‘Wouldn’t ’ert a fly,’ muttered Bernard. At least, I think that’s what he said, but when I asked him to repeat it he refused and fell silent.

And again, Joan Littler persisted.

‘But,’ she pressed me, ‘what does that mean in practical terms?’

‘You mean, chemically?’ I asked her. My degree is in economics.

‘Yes, chemically,’ she said.

Again, I turned to Humphrey. ‘Yes,’ I said, beginning to enjoy myself, ‘what does it mean chemically, Humphrey?’

His eyes spun. Bluffing magnificently, he said in his most patronising voice, ‘Well, I’m not sure that I can explain in layman’s language, Minister.’

I called the bluff. ‘Do you know any chemistry, Humphrey?’ I enquired.

‘Of course not, Minister. I was in the Scholarship form.’

[At any English public school — ‘public’ meaning ‘private’, of course — the scholarship form would have meant the classics form. Indeed, if you went to a very good school indeed you might avoid learning any science at all — Ed.]

‘And while we’re at it,’ continued Joan Littler, ‘what’s a compound?’

‘You don’t know any chemistry either?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Do you?’

Suddenly, this all seemed awfully funny. None of us knew anything about the matter we were discussing. Joan, Humphrey, Bernard and I, all charged with a vital decision on a matter of government policy — and you couldn’t have found four people anywhere in the UK who understood less about it.

[It is significant that none of those present thought of telephoning Sir Wally McFarland. But then, he was merely the expert, and the chairman of the Nationalised Industry in question — Ed.]

I grinned, embarrassed, like a naughty schoolboy. ‘We ought to know something about inert compounds, oughtn’t we?’

Humphrey had no sense of humour about this, and he made a brave attempt at bluffing us again.

‘A compound is… well, you know what compound interest is, surely?’ he complained. Joan and I nodded. ‘Compound interest is a jolly good thing to enjoy. Well, that’s the sort of thing a compound is.’

I stared at him. Did he really think that would do? I looked at Joan. She was staring at him too. But reduced to silence for the first time. So I plunged in hopefully.

‘Well,’ I said, trying it on in the hope of bringing the discussion to a close, ‘that’s about it, then. To sum up, I think we’re all of the same mind, basically in agreement, broadly speaking, about this. And we are happy to continue with its development.’

Littler spoke up. ‘I’ve said no such thing.’

We were getting nowhere. So I tried to sum it up again. I pointed out that we had established that the only similarity between dioxin and metadioxin was in the name. She didn’t seem to see it.

I searched desperately for an analogy, ‘It’s like Littler and Hitler,’ I explained. ‘We’re not saying that you’re like Hitler because your name sounds similar.’

I realised that I’d been less than tactful, but the words were out. She flared up. ‘That’s hardly the point,’ she said angrily.

‘Then what is the point?’ But I knew already.

‘The point is, this factory is in my constituency.’

Of course I could see why she was worried, but if Humphrey was telling me the truth she was worried unnecessarily. ‘It’s good for the constituency.’ I said. ‘More jobs. More money. The only people who could possibly be upset by this are a few cranky environmentalists. It can’t cost us more than, on balance, a couple of hundred votes.’

‘My majority,’ she replied quietly, ‘is ninety-one.’

I hadn’t realised. She certainly had a point. I don’t want to be responsible for jeopardising a government-held marginal, especially if the sitting MP is PPS to the PM.

She pressed home her argument. ‘And don’t forget that there are three government constituencies bordering onto mine — all marginal, all with majorities of well under two thousand.’

I didn’t know what to say. While I considered the position, Sir Humphrey spoke up again. ‘Miss Littler,’ he began, ‘may I intervene once more?’ She nodded. ‘The case for the BCC manufacturing Propanol is overwhelming — am I right, Minister?’

‘Overwhelming,’ I agreed.

‘It will create jobs,’ continued Humphrey fluently, ‘it will increase income for the Local Authority, and it will secure profitable export orders.’

‘Export orders,’ I agreed.

‘Furthermore,’ he continued, ‘the chemical has been declared safe by the FDA in Washington.’

‘Washington,’ I agreed.

‘We are having,’ he went on, ‘a report prepared here as well. The Minister regards this scheme as being wholly to the advantage of your constituency and the country.’

I chimed in. ‘And if the stuff is dangerous, I promise you I’ll stop it being made here. But if the report shows it’s harmless, that would be absurd, wouldn’t it?’

She sat still for a moment, staring at me, then at Humphrey. Then she stood up. She said she wasn’t satisfied. (I can’t blame her. If it were my constituency, I’m not sure I’d be satisfied either.) She advised me to remember that the party made me an MP — and that I certainly can’t go on being a Minister if our party loses the next election.

She’s got a point there too.

Also, I have a nasty feeling that the PM will hear her point of view before the end of the week.

Humphrey looked at me after she left, obviously asking for a go-ahead. I told him that I would consider the matter further, and told Bernard to put all the relevant papers in my box to take home and study. Then the decision should become clear.

June 8th

I’ve studied all the Propanol papers and I still don’t know what to do.

So I called a meeting with Humphrey to discuss the report on Propanol that we have commissioned. I’ve been wondering if it really will be conclusively in favour of Propanol, as Sir Humphrey and Sir Wally predict.

I asked if I should meet Professor Henderson, who is chairing the report, or writing it himself or something.

Humphrey said that there was no need for such a meeting. He is apparently a brilliant biochemist and was chosen with some care.

Naturally he was chosen with care. But to what end: to produce a report that backs Sir Wally and Sir Humphrey? Naturally he was. But surely none of them would be foolish enough to cook up a report saying that metadioxin were safe if, in fact, it were dangerous. Naturally not. I think I’m going round in circles.

There was another possibility that I could raise though. ‘Suppose he produces one of those cautious wait-and-see reports?’

‘In that case,’ said Sir Humphrey cheerfully, ‘we don’t publish it, we use the American report instead.’

I was completely torn. On the one hand, the scheme is a wonderful one — the jobs, the income etc. — if it works out safely! And I’m assured it will. But if there’s an accident after I have given the go-ahead… The consequences would be too awful to contemplate.

‘Is there any chance he’ll produce a report saying the stuff’s dangerous?’ I wanted to know.

Humphrey was plainly baffled. ‘No. No chance. It isn’t dangerous,’ he said.

He clearly is totally sincere on this issue. And yet he’s suggesting we don’t publish a cautious wait-and-see type report if that’s what Henderson writes.

‘Why would you consider suppressing the Henderson report?’

He was outraged. ‘I would never suppress it, Minister. I merely might not publish it.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘All the difference in the world. Suppression is the instrument of totalitarian dictatorships. You can’t do that in a free country. We would merely take a democratic decision not to publish it.’

That makes sense. But what would I say to the press and to Parliament, I wondered? That we had hoped the Henderson Committee would show we’d made the right decision but instead they’ve said we cocked it up, so we’re pretending the report doesn’t exist? I offered this suggestion to Humphrey.

He was not amused. ‘Very droll, Minister,’ he remarked.

So I asked Humphrey, ‘What would I say, if I decided not to publish it?’

‘There is a well-established government procedure for suppressing — that is, not publishing — unwanted reports.’

This was news to me. I asked how it was done.

‘You discredit them,’ he explained simply.

How? I made notes as he spoke. It occurred to me, that his technique could be useful for discrediting some of the party’s more idiotic research papers.

Stage one: The public interest

1) You hint at security considerations.

2) You point out that the report could be used to put unwelcome pressure on government because it might be misinterpreted. [Of course, anything might be misinterpreted. The Sermon on the Mount might be misinterpreted. Indeed, Sir Humphrey Appleby would almost certainly have argued that, had the Sermon on the Mount been a government report, it should certainly not have been published on the grounds that it was a thoroughly irresponsible document: the sub-paragraph suggesting that the meek will inherit the earth could, for instance, do irreparable damage to the defence budget — Ed.]

3) You then say that it is better to wait for the results of a wider and more detailed survey over a longer time-scale.

4) If there is no such survey being carried out, so much the better. You commission one, which gives you even more time to play with.

Stage two: Discredit the evidence that you are not publishing

This is, of course, much easier than discrediting evidence that you do publish. You do it indirectly, by press leaks. You say:

(a) that it leaves important questions unanswered

(b) that much of the evidence is inconclusive

(c) that the figures are open to other interpretations

(d) that certain findings are contradictory

(e) that some of the main conclusions have been questioned

Points (a) to (d) are bound to be true. In fact, all of these criticisms can be made of a report without even reading it. There are, for instance, always some questions unanswered — such as the ones they haven’t asked. As regards (e), if some of the main conclusions have not been questioned, question them! Then they have.

Stage three: Undermine the recommendations

This is easily done, with an assortment of governmental phrases:

(a) ‘not really a basis for long-term decisions…’

(b) ‘not sufficient information on which to base a valid assessment…’

(c) ‘no reason for any fundamental rethink of existing policy…’

(d) ‘broadly speaking, it endorses current practice…’

These phrases give comfort to people who have not read the report and who don’t want change — i.e. almost everybody.

Stage four: If stage three still leaves doubts, then Discredit The Man Who Produced the Report

This must be done OFF THE RECORD. You explain that:

(a) he is harbouring a grudge against the government

(b) he is a publicity seeker

(c) he’s trying to get his knighthood

(d) he is trying to get his chair

(e) he is trying to get his Vice-Chancellorship

(f) he used to be a consultant to a multinational company or

(g) he wants to be a consultant to a multinational company

June 9th

Today the Propanol plan reached the television news, damn it. Somehow some environmental group got wind of the scheme and a row blew up on Merseyside.

The TV newsreader — or whoever writes what the newsreader reads — didn’t help much either. Though he didn’t say that Propanol was dangerous, he somehow managed to imply it — using loaded words like ‘claim’.

[We have found the transcript of the BBC Nine O’Clock News for 9 June. The relevant item is shown below Hacker seems to have a reasonable point — Ed.]

[We asked an old BBC current affairs man how the News would have treated the item if they had been in favour of the scheme, and we reproduce his ‘favourable’ version to compare with the actual one — Ed.]

June 10th

I summoned Humphrey first thing this morning. I pointed out that metadioxin is dynamite.

He answered me that it’s harmless.

I disagreed. ‘It may be harmless chemically,’ I said, ‘but it’s lethal politically.’

‘It can’t hurt anyone,’ he insisted.

I pointed out that it could finish me off.

No sooner had we begun talking than Number Ten was on the phone. The political office. Joan Littler had obviously made sure that Number Ten watched the Nine O’Clock News last night.

I tried to explain that this was merely a little local difficulty, and there were exports and jobs prospects. They asked how many jobs: I had to admit that it was only about ninety — but well-paid jobs, and in an area of high unemployment.

None of this cut any ice with Number Ten — I was talking to the Chief Political Adviser, but doubtless he was acting under orders. There was no point in fighting this particular losing battle with the PM, so I muttered (as Humphrey was listening, and Bernard was probably listening-in) that I was coming round to their point of view, i.e. that there was a risk to three or four marginals.

I rang off. Humphrey was eyeing me with a quizzical air.

‘Humphrey,’ I began carefully, ‘something has just struck me.’

‘I noticed,’ he replied dryly.

I ignored the wisecrack. I pointed out that there were perfectly legitimate arguments against this scheme. A loss of public confidence, for instance.

‘You mean votes,’ he interjected.

I denied it, of course. I explained that I didn’t exactly mean votes. Votes in themselves are not a consideration. But the public will is a valid consideration. We are a democracy. And it looks as if the public are against this scheme.

‘The public,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘are ignorant and misguided.’

‘What do you mean?’ I demanded. ‘It was the public who elected me.’

There was a pointed silence.

Then Sir Humphrey continued: ‘Minister, in a week it will all have blown over, and in a year’s time there will be a safe and successful factory on Merseyside.’

‘A week is a long time in politics,’ I answered.[28]

‘A year is a short time in government,’ responded Sir Humphrey.

I began to get cross. He may be in government. But I’m in politics. And the PM is not pleased.

Humphrey then tried to tell me that I was putting party before country. That hoary old cliché again. I told him to find a new one.

Bernard said that a new cliché could perhaps be said to be a contradiction in terms. Thank you, Bernard, for all your help!

I made one more attempt to make Humphrey understand. ‘Humphrey,’ I said, ‘you understand nothing because you lead a sheltered life. I want to survive. I’m not crossing the PM.’

He was very bitter. And very insulting. ‘Must you always be so concerned with climbing the greasy pole?’

I faced the question head on. ‘Humphrey,’ I explained, ‘the greasy pole is important. I have to climb it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ I said, ‘it’s there.’

June 11th

Today there was an astonishing piece in The Times. A leak.

I was furious.

I asked Bernard how The Times knows the wording of the Henderson Report before I do.

‘There’s been a leak, Minister,’ he explained.

The boy’s a fool. Obviously there’s been a leak. The question is, who’s been leaking?

On second thoughts, perhaps he’s not a fool. Perhaps he knows. And can’t or won’t tell.

‘It’s labelled “Confidential”,’ I pointed out.

‘At least it wasn’t labelled “Restricted”,’ he said. [RESTRICTED means it was in the papers yesterday. CONFIDENTIAL means it won’t be in the papers till today — Ed.]

I decided to put Bernard on the spot. ‘Who leaked this? Humphrey?’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he didn’t.’

‘Are you?’ I asked penetratingly.

‘Well… he probably didn’t.’

‘No?’ I was at my most penetrating.

‘Well,’ said Bernard with a sheepish smile, ‘it might have been someone else.’

‘These leaks are a disgrace,’ I told him. ‘And people think that it’s politicians that leak.’

‘It has been known, though, hasn’t it?’ said Bernard carefully.

‘In my opinion,’ I said reproachfully, ‘we are much more leaked against than leaking.’

I then read The Times story carefully through. It contained a number of phrases that I could almost hear Humphrey dictating: ‘Political cowardice to reject the BCC proposal’… ‘Hacker has no choice’, etc.

It was clear that, by means of this leak, Humphrey thinks that he has now committed me to this scheme.

Well, we shall see!

June 14th

I got my copy of the Henderson Report on Saturday, only a day after The Times got theirs. Not bad.

The Report gives me no way out of the Propanol scheme. At least, none that I can see at the moment. It says it’s a completely safe chemical.

On the other hand, The Times commits me to nothing. It is, after all, merely an unofficial leak of a draft report.

Sir Wally McFarlane was my first appointment of the day. Humphrey came too — surprise, surprise!

And they were both looking excessively cheerful.

I asked them to sit down. Then Sir Wally opened the batting.

‘I see from the press,’ he said, ‘that the Henderson Report comes down clearly on our side.’

I think perhaps he still thinks that I’m on his side. No, surely Humphrey must have briefed him. So he’s pretending that he thinks that I’m still on his side.

I was non-committal. ‘Yes, I saw that too.’

And I stared penetratingly at Humphrey.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Yes, that committee is leaking like a sieve,’ he said. I continued staring at him, but made no reply. There’s no doubt that he’s the guilty man. He continued, brazenly: ‘So Minister, there’s no real case for refusing permission for the new Plant now, is there?’

I remained non-committal. ‘I don’t know.’

Sir Wally spoke up. ‘Look, Jim. We’ve been working away at this contract for two years. It’s very important to us. I’m chairman and I’m responsible — and I tell you, as a chemist myself, that metadioxin is utterly safe.’

‘Why do you experts always think you are right?’ I enquired coldly.

‘Why do you think,’ countered Sir Wally emotionally, ‘that the more inexpert you are, the more likely you are to be right?’

I’m not an expert. I’ve never claimed to be an expert. I said so. ‘Ministers are not experts. Ministers are put in charge precisely because they know nothing…’

‘You admit that?’ interrupted Sir Wally with glee. I suppose I walked right into that.

I persevered. ‘Ministers know nothing about technical problems. A Minister’s job is to consider the wider interests of the nation and, for that reason, I cannot commit myself yet.’

Sir Wally stood up, and lost his temper. (In the reverse order, I think.) ‘Come off it, Hacker,’ he exploded, ‘this is the wrong decision and you know it. It is weak, craven and cowardly.’

Then I got angry. I stood up too. ‘I am not a coward.’

‘Sit down!’ he whispered murderously. His eyes were flashing, and he looked quite ready for a physical punch-up. I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and sat down.

He was beside himself with rage. He was spitting all over my desk as he spoke. ‘You think you’ll lose a miserable few hundred votes from a few foolish ill-informed people in those constituencies? It’s pathetic!’

‘It’s politics,’ I explained.

‘Exactly,’ he agreed contemptuously, and walked to the door.

Then he turned. ‘I shall be telephoning the Secretary of State for Industry. I’m prepared to resign if you block this one.’

He stalked out.

We gazed at each other.

After a few moments Sir Humphrey spoke. ‘How did you feel that went, Minister?’ he enquired politely.

I refused to show my concern. As breezily as I could, I replied, ‘We’ll just have to get another chairman, that’s all.’

Humphrey was incredulous. ‘Get another? Get another? No one else on earth would take that job. Nobody wants to be chairman of a nationalised industry. It’s instant ruin. They might as well accept the golden handshake on the day they start. It’s only a matter of time.’

I still refused to show any concern. ‘We’ll find someone,’ I said, with a confidence that I did not feel.

‘Yes,’ agreed Humphrey. ‘Some useless nonentity or some American geriatric.’

‘Not necessarily,’ I replied.

‘Oh no?’ enquired Sir Humphrey. ‘So how do you expect the DOI[29] to find a decent replacement when we’ve forced his predecessor to resign for taking a sound commercial decision which we blocked for political reasons?’

I could see no point in going through all that again. ‘I have no choice,’ I said simply.

Sir Humphrey tried flattery. ‘Minister,’ he wheedled. ‘A Minister can do what he likes.’

‘No,’ I explained. ‘It’s the people’s will. I am their leader. I must follow them. I have no guilty conscience. My hands are clean.’

Sir Humphrey stood up, coldly. ‘I should have thought,’ he remarked, ‘that it was frightfully difficult to keep one’s hands clean while climbing the greasy pole.’

Then he stalked out.

I really was winning friends and influencing people this morning.

I was left with good old faithful Bernard.

We sat and contemplated the various possibilities that could arise from the morning’s débâcle. Clearly we had to avoid Wally making a public fuss. We had to stop him giving interviews on Panorama or making press statements accusing me of political interference.

I am really on the horns of a dilemma. If I stop the scheme, The Times and The Daily Telegraph will say that I’m a contemptible political coward. But if I let it go ahead the Daily Mirror and the Sun will say I’m murdering unborn babies. I can’t win!

The only way out is if the Henderson Report had any doubt about the safety of metadioxin. But it hasn’t. I’ve read it very carefully.

On the other hand — I’ve suddenly realised — no one else has read it. Because it’s not quite finished. It’s still only a draft report.

Tomorrow I’ll talk to Bernard about this matter. Perhaps the answer is to meet Professor Henderson while there’s still time.

June 15th

This morning, at our daily diary session, I asked Bernard if Professor Henderson is a Cambridge man.

Bernard nodded.

‘Which college is he at?’ I asked casually.

‘King’s,’ said Bernard. ‘Why?’

I brushed it aside. ‘Just curious — wondered if it was my old college.’

Mistake! ‘Weren’t you at LSE?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes, so I was,’ I found myself saying. Feeble! I really must do better than that!

I asked Bernard to give me his file, and I asked for a Cambridge telephone directory.

Bernard spoke up bravely. ‘Minister…’ he began nervously, ‘… you do realise that… not that you have any such intention, of course… but, well, it would be most improper to try to influence an independent report of this nature.’

I agreed wholeheartedly that it would be most improper. Unthinkable, in fact. ‘But I just thought that we might go and have tea with my old friend R. A. Crichton, Provost of King’s.’ I told Bernard to get him on the phone.

Bernard did so.

‘And,’ I added, ‘who knows? Professor Henderson might easily drop in for tea with his Provost. That would be a happy coincidence, wouldn’t it?’

Bernard thought for a split second, and agreed that it would be perfectly natural, if they were both at the same college.

‘There’s nothing improper about a coincidence, is there, Bernard?’

Deadpan, he replied: ‘How can a coincidence be improper, Minister? Impropriety postulates intention, which coincidence precludes.’

Memo: I must learn to use longer words.

June 18th

I had a most satisfactory day up in Cambridge.

Tea with Crichton, my old friend at King’s. Now a peer, and very relaxed in academic life.

I asked him how it felt, going from the Commons to the Lords.

‘It’s like being moved from the animals to the vegetables,’ he replied.

By a strange coincidence Professor Henderson had been invited for tea. Crichton introduced us.

Henderson seemed slightly taken aback. ‘I must say, I didn’t expect to see the Minister,’ he said. We both agreed that it was a remarkable coincidence.

Crichton looked astonished and asked if we knew each other. I explained that we’d never met, but that Henderson was writing a report for my Department.

Crichton said that this was quite a coincidence, and Henderson and I both agreed that it was an amazing coincidence.

After that we all settled down a bit and, over the Earl Grey, Henderson remarked that I must have been very happy with the draft of his report.

I assured him that I was delighted, absolutely delighted, and I complimented him on his hard work. He, with modesty — and truth — admitted that most of the hard work had been done by the FDA in Washington.

I asked him if he’d ever done a government report before. He said he hadn’t. So I explained that his name will be attached to it forever. THE HENDERSON REPORT.

‘A kind of immortality, really,’ I added.

He seemed pleased. He smiled, and said he’d never thought of it like that before.

Then I went straight for the jugular. ‘But,’ I said casually, ‘if anything were to go wrong…’ And I paused.

He was instantly perturbed. ‘Go wrong?’ His little academic eyes blinked behind his big academic hornrims.

‘I mean,’ I said gravely, ‘if metadioxin is not quite as safe as you say it is. It’s your career — this is very courageous of you.’

Professor Henderson was now very concerned. Courageous was manifestly the last thing he ever wanted to be. He was also puzzled, and not quite getting my drift. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘None of the standard tests on metadioxin show any evidence of toxicity.’

I paused for effect. Then: ‘None of the standard tests. Quite.’

I paused again, while he panicked silently.

‘What do you mean?’ he said in a high strangled voice that didn’t quite seem to belong to this tall fellow with a high forehead and big feet.

I got out my little notebook to refresh my memory. ‘Funnily enough,’ I explained, ‘I was just making a few notes in the train on the way up here. Of course, I’m not a biochemist, you understand, but I’m told that the FDA report leaves some important questions unanswered.’

He thought about this. ‘Well…’ he said finally, and stopped.

I went on: ‘And that some of the evidence is inconclusive, that some of the findings have been questioned, and the figures are open to other interpretations.’

Henderson tried to make sense of all this. Then he said: ‘But all figures are open to…’

I interrupted him. ‘Absolutely! And that different results might come from a wider and more detailed study over a longer time scale.’

‘Well, obviously…’ he began.

‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘You see. If something did go wrong — even in ten years’ time, a delayed effect — well, the press would go straight to your report. And if it turned out you’d done laboratory trials for a multinational drug company…’

He was appalled. ‘But that was fifteen years ago.’

‘Fourteen,’ I corrected him. (This immensely useful piece of information had been revealed by his file.) ‘And you know what the press are like — “No smoke without fire.” Even if there’s no real basis. Could be a millstone round your neck.’

I could see that Henderson was wavering, so I piled on the pressure.

‘The popular press would be merciless if anything did go wrong: DEATH AGONY OF HENDERSON REPORT VICTIMS’.

Henderson was quaking in his shoes. He was in a frightful state. ‘Yes, yes, well, I, er, I don’t know what to do. I mean. I can’t change the evidence. Metadioxin is a safe drug. The report has to say so.’

He looked at me, desperately. I carefully did not fall into the trap. I was not going to make the elementary mistake of telling him what to put in his independent report.

‘Quite,’ I agreed. ‘Quite. I can see you have no choice.’

And I left him.

As I strolled across the room to refill my cup of tea, I saw dear old Crichton slide into my chair and offer Henderson a buttered crumpet.

I knew what he was going to say. He was going to tell Henderson that it’s only the phrasing of the Conclusion that you have to worry about. That’s the only part the press ever reads.

At the moment it reads: ‘On existing evidence, the Committee can see no reason not to proceed.’

I’m sure Crichton will suggest some excellent alternative. And I’m equally sure that Henderson will take his advice.

June 22nd

Victory.

I got the final version of the Henderson Report today. It’s all exactly the same, but for the end paragraph, which has undergone the teeniest bit of redrafting.

I called Bernard at once, and told him to release the report to the press.

Then I cancelled all appointments for today, took a train to Liverpool where another protest meeting was due to take place, the press office notified the press, radio and television — and, in a glorious triumphant moment, I announced at the meeting, on television, to an enthusiastic cheering crowd that I would not be giving my approval for the BCC to manufacture Propanol.

I reckon that’s four marginals won in the next general election.

When I got home tonight I saw Sir Wally on Newsnight. He made no mention of resignation — he couldn’t, of course, he’d been completely outmanoeuvred.

He simply issued a statement in which he said that if the Henderson Report was correct to cast doubt on the safety of metadioxin it was obviously impossible to consider manufacturing it on Merseyside.

June 23rd

Sir Humphrey was angrier with me today than I’ve ever seen him.

‘Do you feel like a hero?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Number Ten will be delighted.’

‘Probably one of the worst governmental decisions I have ever witnessed,’ he snarled. I wasn’t bothered by this open rudeness.

‘Probably one of the best political decisions I’ve ever made,’ I replied confidently.

Bernard was silent.

‘What do you think, Bernard?’ I asked cruelly.

Bernard looked desperate. ‘I think… that, bearing everything in mind… and, ah… after due consideration and, well… um… considering all the implications and, ah, points of view, um, that, well, in other words, I am in fact, bound to say that… you looked awfully good on television, Minister.’

Having enjoyed watching Bernard wriggle, I turned back to Humphrey. ‘Oh by the way,’ I asked, ‘can we manage a CBE for Henderson? Or a Vice-Chancellorship or something?’

Humphrey was appalled. ‘Certainly not! He’s completely unreliable and totally lacking in judgement. I still can’t think why he suddenly cast doubt on his whole report in that final paragraph.’

‘Because,’ I replied without thinking, ‘he has excellent judgement, enormous stature and great charm.’ Then I realised what I’d said.

So did Humphrey. ‘I thought you said you’d never met him.’ Quick as a flash I replied, ‘Intellectual stature.’

Humphrey was not fooled. ‘And charm?’ he enquired scathingly.

I was almost stumped. ‘He… er… he writes with charm,’ I explained unconvincingly. ‘Doesn’t he, Bernard?’

‘Yes Minister,’ replied Bernard dutifully.

Sir Humphrey’s face was a picture.