The Complete Yes Minister

20 The Middle-Class Rip-off

September 24th

After my constituency surgery this morning, which I used to do every other Saturday but which I can now manage less often since I became a Minister, I went off to watch Aston Wanderers’ home match.

It was a sad experience. The huge stadium was half empty. The players were a little bedraggled and disheartened, there was a general air of damp and decay about the whole outing.

I went with Councillor Brian Wilkinson, Chairman of the local authority’s Arts and Leisure Committee and by trade an electrician’s mate at the Sewage Farm, and Harry Sutton, the Chairman of the Wanderers, a local balding businessman who’s done rather well on what he calls ‘import and export’. Both party stalwarts.

Afterwards they invited me into the Boardroom for a noggin. I accepted enthusiastically, feeling the need for a little instant warmth after braving the elements in the Directors’ Box for nearly two hours.

I thanked Harry for the drink and the afternoon’s entertainment.

‘Better enjoy it while the club’s still here,’ he replied darkly.

I remarked that we’d always survived so far.

‘It’s different this time,’ said Brian Wilkinson.

I realised that the invitation was not purely social. I composed myself and waited. Sure enough, something was afoot. Harry stared at Brian and said, ‘You’d better tell him.’ Wilkinson threw a handful of peanuts into his mouth, mixed in some Scotch, and told me.

‘I’ll not mince words. We had an emergency meeting of the Finance Committee last night, Aston Wanderers is going to have to call in the receiver.’

‘Bankruptcy?’ I was shocked. I mean, I knew that football clubs were generally in trouble, but this really caught me unawares.

Harry nodded. ‘The final whistle. We need one and a half million quid, Jim.’

‘Peanuts,’ said Brian.

‘No thank you,’ I said, and then realised that he was describing the sum of one and a half million pounds.

‘Government wastes that much money every thirty seconds,’ Brian added.

As a member of the government, I felt forced to defend our record. ‘We do keep stringent control on expenditure.’

It seemed the wrong thing to say. They both nodded, and agreed that our financial control was so stringent that perhaps it was lack of funds for the fare which had prevented my appearance at King Edward’s School prize-giving. I explained — thinking fast — that I’d had to answer Questions in the House that afternoon.

‘Your secretary said you had some committee meeting.’

Maybe I did. I can’t really remember that kind of trivial detail. Another bad move. Harry said, ‘You know what people round here are saying? That it’s a dead loss having a Cabinet Minister for an MP. Better off with a local lad who’s got time for his constituency.’

The usual complaint. It’s so unfair! I can’t be in six places at once, nobody can. But I didn’t get angry. I just laughed it off and said it was an absurd thing to say.

Brian asked why.

‘There are great advantages to having your MP in the Cabinet,’ I told him.

‘Funny we haven’t noticed them, have we, Harry?’

Harry Sutton shook his head. ‘Such as?’

‘Well…’ And I sighed. They always do this to you in your constituency, they feel they have to cut you down to size, to stop you getting too big for your boots, to remind you that you need them to re-elect you.

‘It reflects well on the constituency,’ I explained. ‘And it’s good to have powerful friends. Influence in high places. A friend in need.’

Harry nodded. ‘Well, listen ’ere, friend — what we need is one and a half million quid.’

I had never imagined that they thought I could solve their financial problems. Was that what they thought, I wondered? So I nodded non-committally and waited.

‘So will you use all that influence to help us?’ asked Harry.

Clearly I had to explain the facts of life to them. But I had to do it with tact and diplomacy. And without undermining my own position.

‘You see,’ I began carefully, ‘when I said influence I meant the more, er, intangible sort. The indefinable, subtle value of an input into broad policy with the constituency’s interest in mind.’

Harry was confused. ‘You mean no?’

I explained that anything I can do in a general sense to further the cause I would certainly do. If I could. But it’s scarcely possible for me to pump one and a half million into my local football club.

Harry turned to Brian. ‘He means no.’

Brian Wilkinson helped himself to another handful of peanuts. How does he stay so thin? He addressed me through the newest mouthful, a little indistinctly.

‘There’d be a lot of votes in it. All the kids coming up to eighteen, too. You’d be the hero of the constituency. Jim Hacker, the man who saved Aston Wanderers. Safe seat for life.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘That might just strike the press too. And the opposition. And the judge.’

They stared at me, half-disconsolately, half-distrustfully. Where, they were wondering, was all that power that I’d been so rashly talking about a few minutes earlier? Of course the truth is that, at the end of the day, I do indeed have power (of a sort) but not to really do anything. Though I can’t expect them to understand that.

Harry seemed to think that I hadn’t quite grasped the point. ‘Jim,’ he explained slowly, ‘if the club goes to the wall it’ll be a disaster. Look at our history.’

We all looked sadly around the room, which was lined with trophies, pennants, photos.

‘FA Cup Winners, League Champions, one of the first teams ever into Europe,’ he reminded me.

I interrupted his lecture. ‘I know all this. But be fair, Harry, it’s a local matter. Not ministerial.’ I turned to Wilkinson. ‘Brian, you’re Chairman of the Borough Arts and Leisure Committee. Can’t you do something?’

Attack is always the best form of defence. Wilkinson was instantly apologising in the same vein as me. ‘You’re joking. I spent half yesterday trying to raise seven hundred and eleven quid to repoint the chimney of the Corn Exchange Art Gallery.’

‘That miserable place?’ I asked. ‘Why not just let it fall down?’

He said he’d love to. But if it did actually fall down on somebody the Council would be liable. The Borough owns the place. And, ironically, they keep getting offers for the site. There was one from Safefare Supermarkets only last month.

It was as he said this that I had one of my great flashes of inspiration. From out of nowhere ‘The Idea’ occurred to me. An idea of such brilliance and simplicity that I myself can, even now, be hardly sure that I thought of it all by myself, completely unprompted. But I did! It is ideas of this quality that have taken me to the top of my chosen profession and will take me still higher.

But first I had a question to ask. ‘How much did Safefare offer for the site?’

Brian Wilkinson shrugged and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘About two million, I think.’

Then I hit them with it. ‘So — if you sold the art gallery you could save the football club.’

They gazed at me, and then at each other, with wild surmise. Both thinking furiously.

‘Can I have a look at it?’ I asked.

We tore out of Aston Park. The traffic had nearly cleared, the fans dispersed, the police horses had done their Saturday afternoon cavalry charge, and all the hooligans had been trampled on or arrested. We raced through the deserted early evening streets to the Corn Exchange. It was due to shut at 5.30. We got there just after it closed.

We stepped out of Harry’s Rolls in front of the art gallery, stood still, and looked up at our target. To tell the truth, I’d never really looked at it before. It is a Victorian monster, red-brick, stained glass, battlements and turrets, big and dark and gloomy.

‘Hideous, isn’t it?’ I said to Brian Wilkinson.

‘Yeah, well, it’s a Grade II listed building, isn’t it?’ he explained.

That certainly is the problem.

September 25th

Today Brian, Harry and I returned to the art gallery. Fortunately it’s open on Sundays too. Annie was pretty fed up this morning. I told her I was going to the art gallery but she didn’t believe me. It’s not really surprising — I didn’t even go into any art galleries when we went to Italy a couple of years ago. My feet get so tired.

The gallery was empty when we got there. So we found the Curator, a pleasant chubby middle-aged lady, and had a little chat with her. She was awfully pleased to see us and of course I didn’t tell her the purpose of our call. I just made it look like I was keeping a fatherly eye on the constituency.

I asked her how popular the gallery is. She answered that it is very popular, and smiled at me.

‘You mean, a lot of people come here?’

She was careful to be honest. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say a lot. But it’s very popular with those who come.’

A slightly evasive response. I pressed her for details; like, the daily average of visitors through the year.

‘Well into double figures,’ she said, as if that were rather a lot.

‘How well?’

‘Um — eleven, on average,’ she admitted, but she added emphatically that they were all very appreciative.

We thanked her for her help and pottered off to look at the pictures. My feet started aching instantly.

At Harry’s office afterwards we went over the details of the proposition. Eleven people per day at the gallery, fifteen to twenty thousand people every week at Aston Wanderers. There is no doubt in any of our minds that our plan is in the public interest.

And the plan is simplicity itself. Close the art gallery, sell it to Safefare Supermarkets, and use the money for an interest-free loan to Aston Wanderers.

Harry sounded a note of caution. ‘There’d have to be a planning inquiry. Change of use. Art gallery to supermarket.’

I could see no problem. There’s no question that this scheme will be immensely popular round here. There’s bound to be some opposition, of course — there’s opposition to everything — but art-lovers aren’t a very powerful lobby compared to the Supporters’ Club. Brian, who is also the Chairman of the Arts Committee, asked me what they could do with the paintings. I suggested that they sell them in the supermarket — if they can!

SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:[57]

Hacker had told me of this plan to save his local football club, but I paid no great attention to it. It seemed to me that it was a constituency matter and not relevant to his Ministerial role.

I was rather surprised to receive a telephone call from Sir Humphrey Appleby about it, asking what — precisely — our political master was up to.

Rather tactlessly I asked him how he found out about it, and was instantly reprimanded. ‘Not from you, Bernard, an omission you may perhaps like to explain.’

He asked for a memo. I sent him one, describing the situation and concluding with my opinion that it would be a very popular move that the local people would support. I received a stern reply, which I have always kept. It is an excellent guideline for all policy matters connected with the Arts.

[Hacker’s diary continues — Ed.]

September 29th

Bernard slipped an extra meeting with Sir Humphrey into my diary, first thing this morning.

My Permanent Secretary wanted to warn me personally that there is a reshuffle in the offing.

Naturally this made me a little nervous, as I wasn’t sure if he was dropping an early hint about my being dropped. This was not just paranoia on my part, because I still don’t know whether my deal with the Chief Whip on the matter of the bomb detonators has redounded to my credit or debit as far as the PM is concerned.

But Humphrey made it quickly clear that he was actually talking about a departmental reorganisation — what he called ‘a real reshuffle’. He was warning me that we may be given extra responsibilities.

God knows if we want them! I certainly feel that I’ve got quite enough on my plate. But Humphrey was in no doubt that it would be a definite plus.

‘We want all responsibilities, so long as they mean extra staff and bigger budgets. It is the breadth of our responsibilities that makes us important — makes you important, Minister. If you want to see vast buildings, huge staff and massive budgets, what do you conclude?’

‘Bureaucracy,’ I said.

Apparently I’d missed the point. ‘No, Minister, you conclude that at the summit there must be men of great stature and dignity who hold the world in their hands and tread the earth like princes.’

I could certainly see his point, put like that.

‘So that is the reason,’ Humphrey continued, ‘why every new responsibility must be seized and every old one guarded jealously. Entirely in your interest of course, Minister.’

A real overdose of soft soap. In my interest perhaps, but certainly not entirely in my interest. He must think I was born yesterday.

I thanked him for the information and courteously dismissed him. I can really see through him nowadays.

As he was leaving he enquired about the Corn Exchange Art Gallery proposal. I was surprised he’d heard about it as it’s not a matter for central government.

To my surprise he heaped abuse upon the scheme. ‘It’s a most imaginative idea. Very novel.’

I wondered what he’d got against it, and invited him to go on.

‘Well…’ He returned from the door to my desk, ‘I just wondered if it might not be a little unwise.’

I asked him why.

‘A valuable civic amenity,’ he replied.

I pointed out that it is a monstrosity.

He amended his view slightly. ‘A valuable civic monstrosity,’ he said, and added that it contained a most important collection of British paintings.

He’s obviously been misinformed. In fact, as I told him then and there, the collection is utterly unimportant. Third-rate nineteenth-century landscapes and a few modern paintings so awful that the Tate wouldn’t even store them in its vaults.

‘But an important representative collection of unimportant paintings,’ insisted Sir Humphrey, ‘and a great source of spiritual uplift to the passing citizenry.’

‘They never go in,’ I told him.

‘Ah, but they are comforted to know it’s there,’ he said.

I couldn’t see where this was leading, what it had to do with Humphrey Appleby, or how he could possibly have any views about this collection of paintings at all. He’s hardly ever been north of Potters Bar.

I took a stand on a principle. I reminded him that this is a constituency matter, that it concerns the Borough Council and me as constituency MP — not as Minister — and that it was nothing at all to do with him or Whitehall.

He pursed his lips and made no reply. So I asked him why he was interested. To my surprise he told me that it was a matter of principle.

This astonished me. Throughout our whole fight on the question of the bomb detonators he had insisted with religious fervour that principles were no concern of his. I reminded him of this.

‘Yes Minister.’ He conceded the point. ‘But principle is what you’ve always told me that government is all about.’

I was baffled. ‘What principle is at stake here?’

‘The principle of taking money away from the Arts and putting it into things like football. A football club is a commercial proposition. There is no cause for subsidising it if it runs out of money.’

He seemed to think that he had just made an irrefutable statement of fact.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘Why not what?’

‘Why is there no cause? There’s no difference between subsidising football and subsidising art except that lots more people are interested in football.’

‘Subsidy,’ he replied, ‘is to enable our cultural heritage to be preserved.’

But for whom? For whose benefit? For the educated middle classes. For people like Humphrey, in other words. Subsidy means they can get their opera and their concerts and their Shakespeare more cheaply than if the full cost had to be recouped from ticket sales. He thinks that the rest of the country should subsidise the pleasures of a middle-class few who want to see theatre, opera and ballet.

‘Arts subsidy,’ I told him simply, ‘is a middle-class rip-off. The middle classes, who run the country, award subsidies to their own pleasures.’

He was shocked. Genuinely shocked, I think. ‘How can you say such a thing? Subsidy is about education and preserving the pinnacles of our civilisation. Or hadn’t you noticed?’ he added scathingly.

I ordered him not to patronise me. I reminded him that I also believe in education — indeed, I am a graduate of the London School of Economics.

‘I’m glad to learn that even the LSE is not totally opposed to education,’ he remarked. I rose above his pathetic Oxbridge joke, and remarked that there is no possible objection to subsidising sport. Sport is subsidised in many ways already. And sport is educational.

Sir Humphrey’s sarcasm was in full swing. ‘Education is not the whole point,’ he said, having said that it was the whole point not two minutes earlier. ‘After all, we have sex education too — should we subsidise sex perhaps?’

‘Could we?’ asked Bernard, waking up suddenly like a hopeful Dormouse. Humphrey scowled at him.

I was enjoying the cut and thrust of our intellectual debate, particularly as I seemed to be doing most of the cutting and thrusting.

I proposed to Humphrey that we might, in fact, choose what to subsidise by the extent of public demand. I certainly can’t see anything wrong with the idea. It’s democratic at least.

Humphrey normally ignores me when I’m being provocative, unless a serious policy decision of mine is at stake. But for some reason it seemed important to him to persuade me to change my mind.

‘Minister,’ he said, pleading for me to understand his elitist point of view, ‘don’t you see that this is the thin end of the wedge. What will happen to the Royal Opera House, on this basis? The very summit of our cultural achievement.’

As a matter of fact, I don’t think that the Royal Opera House is the summit of our achievement. It’s a very good case in point — it’s all Wagner and Mozart, Verdi and Puccini. German and Italian. It’s not our culture at all. Why should we subsidise the culture of the Axis Powers?

‘The Royal Opera House,’ I explained, ‘gets about nine and a half million pounds a year of public money. For what? The public can’t afford to buy thirty- or forty-quid seats for gala nights — and even if they could, they can’t get them, there aren’t enough. The audience consists almost entirely of big business executives, block-booked by the banks and oil companies and multinationals — and people like you, Humphrey. The Royal Opera House is for the Establishment at play. Why should the workers on the terraces foot the bill for the gentry in the stalls who can well afford to pay the full price for their seats?’

He stared at me as though I’d been brought in by the cat. I waited for a response. Bernard was studying his empty notepad intently.

Finally Sir Humphrey spoke. Very quietly. ‘Minister, I am frankly appalled! This is savagery! Barbarism! That a Minister of the Crown should say such things — this is the end of civilisation as we know it. And it’s a gross distortion of the truth.’

Emotive language from Humphrey! He was indeed upset. I, on the other hand, wasn’t a bit upset and was thoroughly enjoying myself.

‘A distortion, eh?’ I replied cheerfully.

‘Yes indeed. Art cannot survive without public subsidy.’

I wound him up some more. ‘Did Shakespeare have public subsidy?’

‘Yes of course he did.’

‘No he didn’t, he had patronage. That’s quite different. It’s a rich man spending his own money, not a committee spending other people’s. Why can’t the theatre live on its wits? Is it good for art to be dependent on officials and committees? Not necessarily!’

Humphrey made incoherent choking noises. I put up my hand regally, to silence him.

‘And, if you persist in arguing in favour of subsidy, what about films? Films are art. Films are educational. Films are — God forbid! — popular with the public. More than opera, anyway. So why has the Establishment ignored film subsidy?’

He tried to reply, but I refused to yield the floor. I was having much too good a time. ‘I’ll tell you. Simply because people like you prefer opera.’

Humphrey finally broke. He shouted me down before I’d finished speaking. This has never been known before. ‘Minister, films are commercial!’ He said this with all the contempt of a man who lives in a very high publicly-funded ivory tower.

Then he stood up. Clearly he was not prepared for me to bring the meeting to a close, as is the normal protocol. He had had enough, and was leaving.

‘If you will excuse me, Minister, I have to leave early tonight. I simply cannot continue with this appalling discussion.’ And he walked swiftly to the door.

I asked him where he was going in such a hurry.

He instantly slowed down and, his eyes moving shiftily from side to side, replied that he was going nowhere in particular.

I didn’t like his walking out on me, and I told him that I insisted we talk the matter through. Apart from the immense pleasure of winding him up, I wanted to establish that my constituency affairs were nothing to do with him. Also, I was instinctively suspicious.

‘I can’t talk about this any further,’ he said, flapping a bit and looking at his watch. ‘I have to dress… I mean…’

He faltered and looked at me like a guilty hamster.

What a wonderful coincidence. I smiled lazily. ‘Dress?’ I asked as casually as I could. ‘Where are you going?’

He drew himself up and squared his shoulders.

‘Since you insist on knowing — I’m going to the Royal Opera House.’

‘Gala performance, is it?’

‘Yes it is, since you ask.’

‘Lots of Permanent Secretaries going to be there?’

‘Some, no doubt.’

I waved him away. ‘Off you go, then,’ I said graciously. ‘I don’t want to make you late for your works’ outing.’

He stared at me through narrow little eyes, filled with pure hatred. I smiled back at him.

‘Well, that’s what it is, isn’t it? What’s on tonight, by the way?’

‘The Flying Dutchman.’

‘Ah. Another of our European partners.’

He turned his head and swept out. I’d never enjoyed a meeting so much in my whole life. Bernard, I think, had never enjoyed one less.

[At the Opera that evening Sir Humphrey Appleby had a drink in the Crush Bar with Sir Ian Whitworth, Permanent Secretary of the Department of the Environment. We have found an account of the meeting in Appleby’s private diary — Ed.]

Had a chat with Ian W. over a couple of large G and Ts and those delicious little smoked salmon sandwiches in the Crush Bar.

He’s having problems with one of his Ministers. Not the Secretary of State, who is easily handled, but one of the junior Ministers: Giles Freeman, the Parly Sec.

Discussed the impending planning inquiry into the sale and redevelopment of the Corn Exchange Art Gallery site. Warned him that it was rather important that we get the right result.

Ian reminded me that his planning inspectors are absolutely independent and there can be no question of undue influence. Quite right too.

On the other hand, if it were a question of his giving certain informal guidelines, putting the inquiry in the right perspective and explaining the background to facilitate an informed appreciation of the issues and implications, he agreed that such a course would be regarded as entirely proper.

Then he asked me what it was, exactly, that I wanted him to fix. I explained that it was a question of a proposed local authority demolition of a Grade II listed building. He misunderstood my intentions at first. He said that he would be only too happy to arrange it, there would be no problems: they’d been knocking down listed buildings all over the place.

I explained that the proposal had to be rejected. This amazed him, naturally. And he demanded an explanation. I was forced to reveal that if the sale goes through the proceeds will be used to save the local football club from bankruptcy.

He was visibly shaken. We were unable to continue this conversation as the interval bell went at that moment. Never send to know for whom the bell tolls — it tolls for the Arts Council.

[Appleby Papers JAL/REL 14041]

[The following day Sir Humphrey Appleby received an urgent letter, delivered by hand, from Sir Ian Whitworth, see below — Ed.]

[A reply from Sir Humphrey Appleby — Ed.]

[Hacker’s diary continues — Ed.]

October 3rd

My usual diary session with Bernard was full of interest this morning. Though I was in a hurry today he insisted on a brief talk with me before we did anything else.

‘There is something I should like to suggest to you, Minister, if I may be so bold.’

I told him to be as bold as he liked.

He told me that, in his opinion, I shouldn’t get involved with the art gallery/football club affair. I told him he was being rather bold.

‘Better for me to be bold than for you to be stumped, Minister.’ I like Bernard. He’s wasted in Whitehall.

He then informed me that it is axiomatic in Whitehall (though news to me, I must say) that an MP should never get involved in a planning inquiry in his own constituency.

Apparently this is because the local issues are usually finely balanced. Therefore you’re bound to offend as many constituents as you please. Either way, you can’t win. The same problem as the integrated national transport policy, in fact. And Bernard emphasised that it becomes especially dangerous to become involved if there’s a powerful quango lurking in the wings.

This sounded all very sensible in theory, and I was grateful for Bernard’s support and care. But in this case I’m not sure that the local arguments are finely balanced. I told Bernard that everyone will be on the same side except for a few wet long-haired scruffy art lovers.

Bernard took this on board, and made no direct reply. He simply suggested that we now went through my diary for the morning. I thought he’d conceded my point until we examined the diary closely.

10.15 a.m.

The Secretary-General of the Arts Council

(The biggest quango of them all)

10.45 a.m.

The Historic Monuments Association

11.00 a.m.

The National Trust

11.15 a.m.

The Country Landowners’ Association

11.30 a.m.

The Council for the Protection of Rural England

11.45 a.m.

The Country Crafts and Folklore Council

I gazed at Bernard, nonplussed.

‘Rural England?’ I asked, picking one of the appointments out at random.

‘Yes,’ said Bernard and made a vague gesture towards the window. ‘There’s quite a lot of it out there.’

‘But why are all these people coming to see me?’

‘The Corn Exchange,’ he explained patiently. ‘It’s the Arts and Architecture mafia.’

‘So who are the Country Crafts and Folklore Council?’

‘The raffia mafia.’ He wasn’t joking it seems. ‘All very influential people. They’ve all come out of the woodwork. There’ll be letters in The Times, hostile articles in the Sundays, you’ll be accused of vandalism. And you can be sure they’ll orchestrate plenty of opposition in your constituency.’

I had a nasty feeling now that he could be right. But I am determined to fight on. This is one I can win.

I admonished Bernard. ‘I didn’t ask you to put any of these people in my diary, Bernard. What were you thinking of?’

‘I was thinking of Sir Humphrey, Minister. He asked me to.’

I told Bernard that I intended to support my excellent scheme, come what may.

The rest of the day was spent in interminable meetings of excruciating boredom listening to all the pressure groups. Tonight I’m feeling absolutely exhausted.

October 4th

Bernard displayed even more ingenuity and tenacity today.

Having taken on board that my art gallery demolition plan is irrevocable, he produced a document for my inspection when I arrived at the office this morning.

He was actually asking me to approve it. He described it as the Local Government Allowances Amendment No. 2 to this year’s regulations. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

He had written me a briefing, summarising the purpose of the document. It’s a Statutory Instrument to be laid before the House. ‘As Minister responsible for local government we need you to authorise that the revised Paragraph 5 of No. 2 Regulations 1971 shall come into operation on the 18th of March next, revoking Regulation 7 of the Local Government Allowances Amendment Regulations 1954 (b).’

I asked him what he meant, as I took the briefing and gazed at it.

So he showed me the explanatory note, which adds that ‘These regulations are to make provision for prescribing the amounts of attendance and financial loss allowances payable to members of local authorities.’

I didn’t pay much attention to Bernard’s summary, because I was mesmerised by the document itself. I’ve kept a copy.

[Hacker’s diary continues — Ed.]

Isn’t it remarkable that this immortal prose should be described as an ‘explanatory note’?

I finished reading it and looked at Bernard.

‘I think that’s quite clear, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Do I have to bother with all this piddling gobbledegook?’ I replied.

He was slightly put out. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Minister. I thought that this would be an opportune moment for you to ensure that, as a result of your Ministerial efforts, local councillors would be getting more money for attending council meetings.’

I suddenly realised what he was driving at. I glanced back at Bernard’s summary. There it was, in black and white and plain English: ‘Amounts of attendance and financial loss allowances payable to members of local authorities.’ So that’s what it all means!

He had done excellently. This is indeed an opportune moment to display some open-handed generosity towards members of local authorities.

He asked if he could make one further suggestion. ‘Minister, I happen to know that Sir Humphrey and Sir Ian Whitworth have been having discussions on this matter.’

‘Ian Whitworth?’

Bernard nodded. ‘The Corn Exchange is a listed building. So it’s one of his planning inspectors who will be conducting the inquiry. Sir Humphrey and Sir Ian will be laying down some “informal” guidelines for him.’

I was suspicious. Informal guidelines? What did this mean?

Bernard explained carefully. ‘Guidelines are perfectly proper. Everyone has guidelines for their work.’

It didn’t sound perfectly proper to me. ‘I thought planning inspectors were impartial,’ I said.

Bernard chuckled. ‘Oh really Minister! So they are! Railway trains are impartial too. But if you lay down the lines for them, that’s the way they go.’

‘But that’s not fair!’ I cried, regressing forty years.

‘It’s politics, Minister.’

‘But Humphrey’s not supposed to be in politics, he’s supposed to be a civil servant. I’m supposed to be the one in politics.’

Then the whole import of what I’d blurted out came home to me. Bernard was nodding wisely. Clearly he was ready and willing to explain what political moves I had to make. I asked him how Humphrey and Ian would be applying pressure to the planning inspector.

‘Planning inspectors have their own independent hierarchy. The only way they are vulnerable is to find one who is anxious for promotion.’

‘Can a Minister interfere?’

‘Ministers are our Lords and Masters.’

So that was the answer. Giles Freeman, the Parly Sec. at the Department of the Environment, is an old friend of mine. I resolved to explain the situation to Giles and get him to intervene. He could, for instance, arrange to give us a planning inspector who doesn’t care about promotion because he’s nearing retirement. Such a man might even give his verdict in the interests of the community.

All I said to Bernard was: ‘Get me Giles Freeman on the phone.’

And to my astonishment he replied: ‘His Private Secretary says he could meet you in the lobby after the vote this evening.’

I must say I was really impressed. I asked Bernard if he ever thought of going into politics. He shook his head.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, Minister, I once looked up politics in the Thesaurus.’

‘What does it say?’

‘“Manipulation, intrigue, wire-pulling, evasion, rabble-rousing, graft…” I don’t think I have the necessary qualities.’

I told him not to underestimate himself.

[Three days later Sir Humphrey Appleby received another letter from Sir Ian Whitworth — Ed.]

[We can find no written reply to this cry for help. But the following Monday Sir Humphrey and Sir Ian had lunch with Sir Arnold Robinson, the Cabinet Secretary. This account appears in Sir Humphrey’s private diary, and was apparently written in a mood of great triumph — Ed.]

At lunch with Arnold and Ian today I brought off a great coup.

Ian wanted to discuss our planning problem. I had invited Arnold because I knew that he held the key to it.

Having briefed him on the story so far, I changed the subject to discuss the Departmental reorganisation which is due next week. I suggested that Arnold makes Hacker the Cabinet Minister responsible for the Arts.

Arnold objected to that on the grounds that Hacker is a complete philistine. I was surprised at Arnold, missing the point like that. After all, the Industry Secretary is the idlest man in town, the Education Secretary’s illiterate and the Employment Secretary is unemployable.

The point is that Hacker, if he were made Minister responsible for the Arts, could hardly start out in his new job by closing an art gallery.

As for Ian, he was either puzzled or jealous, I’m not sure which. He objected that the reorganisation was not meant to be a Cabinet reshuffle. I explained that I was not suggesting a reshuffle: simply to move Arts and Telecommunications into the purview of the DAA.

There is only one problem or inconsistency in this plan: namely, putting arts and television together. They have nothing to do with each other. They are complete opposites, really.

But Arnold, like Ian, was more concerned with all the power and influence that would be vested in me. He asked me bluntly if we wouldn’t be creating a monster department, reminding me that I also have Administrative Affairs and Local Government.

I replied that Art and local government go rather well together — the art of jiggery-pokery. They smiled at my aphorism and, as neither of them could see any other immediate way of calling Hacker to heel, Arnold agreed to implement my plan.

‘Bit of an artist yourself, aren’t you?’ he said, raising his glass in my direction.

[Appleby Papers NG/NDB/FX GOP]

October 11th

Good news and bad news today. Good on balance. But there were a few little crises to be resolved.

I was due to have a meeting with my local committee about the Aston Wanderers/Art Gallery situation.

But Humphrey arrived unexpectedly and demanded an urgent word with me. I told him firmly that my mind was made up. Well, it was — at that stage!

‘Even so, Minister, you might be interested in a new development. The government reshuffle.’

This was the first I’d heard of a reshuffle. A couple of weeks ago he’d said it would be just a reorganisation.

‘Not just a reorganisation, Minister. A reorganisation. And I’m delighted to say it has brought you new honour and importance. In addition to your existing responsibilities, you are also to be the Cabinet Minister responsible for the Arts.’

This was good news indeed. I was surprised that he’d been told before I had been, but it seems he was with the Cabinet Secretary shortly after the decision was taken.

I thanked him for the news, suggested a little drinkie later to celebrate, and then told him that I was about to start a meeting.

‘Quite so,’ he said. ‘I hope you have considered the implications of your new responsibilities on the project you are discussing.’

I couldn’t at first see what rescuing a football club had to do with my new responsibilities. And then the penny dropped! How on earth would it look if the first action of the Minister for the Arts was to knock down an art gallery?

I told Bernard to apologise to the Councillors, and to say that I was delayed or something. I needed time to think!

So Humphrey and I discussed the art gallery. I told him that I’d been giving it some thought, that it was quite a decent little gallery, an interesting building, Grade II listed, and that clearly it was now my role to fight for it.

He nodded sympathetically, and agreed that I was in a bit of a fix. Bernard ushered in the Councillors — Brian Wilkinson leading the delegation, plus a couple of others — Cllrs Noble and Greensmith.

I had no idea, quite honestly, what I was going to say to them. I ordered Humphrey to stay with me, to help.

‘This is my Permanent Secretary,’ I said.

Brian Wilkinson indicated Bernard. ‘You mean he’s only a temp?’ Bernard didn’t look at all pleased. I couldn’t tell if Brian was sending him up or not.

I was about to start the meeting with a few cautious opening remarks when Brian plunged in. He told me, with great enthusiasm, that it was all going great. All the political parties are with the plan. The County Council too. It was now unstoppable. All he needed was my Department’s approval for using the proceeds from the sale of the art gallery as a loan to the club.

I hesitated. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well — um… there is a snag.’

Wilkinson was surprised. ‘You said there weren’t any.’

‘Well, there is.’ I couldn’t elaborate on this terse comment because I just couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

My mind was blank. I was absolutely stuck. I said things like ‘apparently… it seems… it has emerged,’ and then I passed the buck, ‘I think Sir Humphrey can explain it better,’ I said desperately.

All eyes turned to Sir Humphrey.

‘Um… well. It just can’t be done, you see,’ he said. It looked for a dreadful moment that he was going to leave it at that — but then, thank God, inspiration struck. ‘It’s because the art gallery is a trust. Terms of the original bequest. Or something,’ he finished lamely.

I picked up the ball and carried on running with it, blindly. ‘That’s it,’ I agreed emphatically, ‘a trust. We’ll just have to find something else to knock down. A school. A church. A hospital. Bound to be something,’ I added optimistically.

Councillor Brian Wilkinson’s jaw had dropped. ‘Are we supposed to tell people that you’ve gone back on your word? It was your idea to start with.’

‘It’s the law,’ I whined, ‘not me.’

‘Well, why didn’t you find this out till now?’

I had no answer. I didn’t know what to say. I broke out in a cold sweat. I could see that this could cost me my seat at the next election. And then dear Bernard came to the rescue.

He was surreptitiously pointing at a file on my desk. I glanced at it — and realised that it was the gobbledegook amending Regulation 7 of the Amendment of Regulations Act regulating the Regulation of the Amendments Act, 1066 and all that.

But what was it all about? Cash for Councillors? Of course!

My confidence surged back. I smiled at Brian Wilkinson and said, ‘Let me be absolutely frank with you. The truth of the matter is, I might be able to get our scheme through. But it would take a lot of time.’

Wilkinson interrupted me impatiently. ‘Okay, take the time. We’ve spent enough.’

‘Yes,’ I replied smoothly, ‘but then something else would have to go by the board. And the other thing that’s taking my time at the moment is forcing through this increase in Councillors’ expenses and allowances. I can’t put my personal weight behind both schemes.’

I waited. There was silence. So I continued. ‘I mean, I suppose I could forget the increased allowances for Councillors and concentrate on the legal obstacles of the art gallery sale.’

There was another silence. This time I waited till one of the others broke it.

Finally Wilkinson spoke. ‘Tricky things — legal obstacles,’ he remarked. I saw at once that he understood my problem.

So did Humphrey. ‘This is a particularly tricky one,’ he added eagerly.

‘And at the end of the day you might still fail?’ asked Wilkinson.

‘Every possibility,’ I replied sadly.

Wilkinson glanced quickly at his fellow Councillors. None of them were in disagreement. I had hit them where they lived — in the wallet.

‘Well, if that’s the way it is, okay,’ Wilkinson was agreeing to leave the art gallery standing. But he was still looking for other ways to implement our scheme because he added cheerfully, ‘There’s a chance we may want to close Edge Hill Road Primary School at the end of the year. That site could fetch a couple of million, give or take.’

The meeting was over. The crisis was over. We all told each other there were no ill-feelings, and Brian and his colleagues agreed that they would make it clear locally that we couldn’t overcome the legal objections.

As he left, Brian Wilkinson told me to carry on the good work.

Humphrey was full of praise. ‘A work of art, Minister. Now, Minister, you have to see the PM at Number Ten to be officially informed of your new responsibilities. And if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and dress.’

‘Another works’ outing?’

‘Indeed,’ he said, without any air of apology.

I realised that, as Minister responsible for the Arts, the Royal Opera House now came within my purview. And I’ve hardly ever been.

‘Um… can I come too?’ I asked tentatively.

‘Yes Minister,’ he replied with great warmth.

And we had a jolly good evening — good music, great singing, smart people and some delicious little smoked salmon sandwiches in the Crush Bar.

Maybe I was wrong. The middle classes are entitled to a few perks, aren’t they?

² As soon as possible.