The Complete Yes Minister

2 The Official Visit

November 10th

I am finding that it is impossible to get through all the work. The diary is always full, speeches constantly have to be written and delivered, and red boxes full of papers, documents, memos, minutes, submissions and letters have to be read carefully every night. And this is only part of my work.

Here I am, attempting to function as a sort of managing director of a very large and important business and I have no previous experience either of the Department’s work or, in fact, of management of any kind. A career in politics is no preparation for government.

And, as if becoming managing director of a huge corporation were not enough, I am also attempting to do it part-time. I constantly have to leave the DAA to attend debates in the House, to vote, to go to Cabinet and Cabinet committees and party executive meetings and I now see that it is not possible to do this job properly or even adequately. I am rather depressed.

Can anyone seriously imagine the chairman of a company leaping like a dervish out of a meeting in his office every time a bell rings, no matter when, at any time of the afternoon or evening, racing like Steve Ovett to a building eight minutes down the street, rushing through a lobby, and running back to his office to continue the meeting. This is what I have to do every time the Division Bell rings. Sometimes six or seven times in one night. And do I have any idea at all what I’m voting for? Of course I don’t. How could I?

Today I arrived in the office and was immediately cast down by the sight of my in-tray. Full to overflowing. The out-tray was completely empty.

Bernard was patiently waiting for me to read some piece of impenetrable prose that he had dug up, in answer to the question I had asked him yesterday: what are my actual powers in various far-flung parts of the UK, such as Scotland and Northern Ireland?

He proudly offered me a document. It said: ‘Notwithstanding the provisions of subsection 3 of Section A of Clause 214 of the Administrative Procedures (Scotland) Act 1978, it has been agreed that, insofar as the implementation of the statutory provisions is concerned, the resolution of anomalies and uncertainties between responsible departments shall fall within the purview of the Minister for Administrative Affairs.’

I gazed blankly at it for what seemed an eternity. My mind just seemed to cloud over, as it used to at school when faced with Caesar’s Gallic Wars or calculus. I longed to sleep. And it was only 9.15 a.m. I asked Bernard what it meant. He seemed puzzled by the question. He glanced at his own copy of the document.

‘Well, Minister,’ he began, ‘it means that notwithstanding the provisions of subsection 3 of Section A of Clause 214 of…’

I interrupted him. ‘Don’t read it to me,’ I said. ‘I’ve just read it to you. What does it mean?’

Bernard gazed blankly at me. ‘What it says, Minister.’

He wasn’t trying to be unhelpful. I realised that Whitehall papers, though totally incomprehensible to people who speak ordinary English, are written in the everyday language of Whitehall Man.

Bernard hurried out into the Private Office and brought me the diary.

[The Private Office is the office immediately adjoining the Minister’s office. In it are the desks of the Private Secretary and the three or four assistant private secretaries, including the Diary Secretary — a full-time job. Adjoining the inner Private Office is the outer private office, containing about twelve people, all secretarial and clerking staff, processing replies to parliamentary questions, letters, etc.

Access to the Minister’s office is through the Private Office. Throughout the day everyone, whether outsiders or members of the Department, continually come and go through the Private Office.

The Private Office is, therefore, somewhat public — Ed.]

‘May I remind you, Minister, that you are seeing a deputation from the TUC in fifteen minutes, and from the CBI half an hour after that, and the NEB at 12 noon.’

My feeling of despair increased. ‘What do they all want — roughly?’ I asked.

‘They are all worried about the machinery for inflation, deflation and reflation,’ Bernard informed me. What do they think I am? A Minister of the Crown or a bicycle pump?

I indicated the in-tray. ‘When am I going to get through all this correspondence?’ I asked Bernard wearily.

Bernard said: ‘You do realise, Minister, that you don’t actually have to?’

I had realised no such thing. This sounded good.

Bernard continued: ‘If you want, we can simply draft an official reply to any letter.’

‘What’s an official reply?’ I wanted to know.

‘It just says,’ Bernard explained, ‘“the Minister has asked me to thank you for your letter.” Then we reply. Something like: “The matter is under consideration.” Or even, if we feel so inclined, “under active consideration!”’

‘What’s the difference between “under consideration” and “under active consideration”?’ I asked.

‘“Under consideration” means we’ve lost the file. “Under active consideration” means we’re trying to find it!’

I think this might have been one of Bernard’s little jokes. But I’m not absolutely certain.

Bernard was eager to tell me what I had to do in order to lighten the load of my correspondence. ‘You just transfer every letter from your in-tray to your out-tray. You put a brief note in the margin if you want to see the reply. If you don’t, you need never see or hear of it again.’

I was stunned. My secretary was sitting there, seriously telling me that if I move a pile of unanswered letters from one side of my desk to the other, that is all I have to do? [Crossman had a similar proposition offered, in his first weeks in office — Ed.]

So I asked Bernard: ‘Then what is the Minister for?’

‘To make policy decisions,’ he replied fluently. ‘When you have decided the policy, we can carry it out.’

It seems to me that if I do not read the letters I will be somewhat ill-informed, and that therefore the number of so-called policy decisions will be reduced to a minimum.

Worse: I would not know which were the decisions that I needed to take. I would be dependent on my officials to tell me. I suspect that there would not be very many decisions left.

So I asked Bernard: ‘How often are policy decisions needed?’

Bernard hesitated. ‘Well… from time to time, Minister,’ he replied in a kindly way.

It is never too soon to get tough. I decided to start in the Department the way I meant to continue. ‘Bernard,’ I said firmly, ‘this government governs. It does not just preside like our predecessors did. When a nation’s been going downhill you need someone to get into the driving seat, and put his foot on the accelerator.’

‘I think perhaps you mean the brake, Minister,’ said Bernard.

I simply do not know whether this earnest young man is being helpful, or is putting me down.

November 11th

Today I saw Sir Humphrey Appleby again. Haven’t seen him for a couple of days now.

There was a meeting in my office about the official visit to the UK of the President of Buranda. I had never even heard of Buranda.

Bernard gave me the brief last night. I found it in the third red box. But I’d had very little time to study it. I asked Humphrey to tell me about Buranda — like, where is it?

‘It’s fairly new, Minister. It used to be called British Equatorial Africa. It’s the red bit a few inches below the Mediterranean.’

I can’t see what Buranda has got to do with us. Surely this is an FCO job. [Foreign and Commonwealth Office — Ed.] But it was explained to me that there was an administrative problem because Her Majesty is due to be up at Balmoral when the President arrives. Therefore she will have to come to London.

This surprised me. I’d always thought that State Visits were arranged years in advance. I said so.

‘This is not a State Visit,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘It is a Head of Government visit.’

I asked if the President of Buranda isn’t the Head of State? Sir Humphrey said that indeed he was, but also the Head of Government.

I said that, if he’s merely coming as Head of Government, I didn’t see why the Queen had to greet him. Humphrey said that it was because she is the Head of State. I couldn’t see the logic. Humphrey says that the Head of State must greet a Head of State, even if the visiting Head of State is not here as a Head of State but only as a Head of Government.

Then Bernard decided to explain. ‘It’s all a matter of hats,’ he said.

‘Hats?’ I was becoming even more confused.

‘Yes,’ said Bernard, ‘he’s coming here wearing his Head of Government hat. He is the Head of State, too, but it’s not a State Visit because he’s not wearing his Head of State hat, but protocol demands that even though he is wearing his Head of Government hat, he must still be met by…’ I could see his desperate attempt to avoid either mixing metaphors or abandoning his elaborately constructed simile. ‘… the Crown,’ he finished in triumph, having thought of the ultimate hat.

I said that I’d never heard of Buranda anyway, and I didn’t know why we were bothering with an official visit from this tin-pot little African country. Sir Humphrey Appleby and Bernard Woolley went visibly pale. I looked at their faces, frozen in horror.

‘Minister,’ said Humphrey, ‘I beg you not to refer to it as a tin-pot African country. It is an LDC.’

LDC is a new one on me. It seems that Buranda is what used to be called an Underdeveloped Country. However, this term has apparently become offensive, so then they were called Developing Countries. This term apparently was patronising. Then they became Less Developed Countries — or LDC, for short.

Sir Humphrey tells me that I must be clear on my African terminology, or else I could do irreparable damage.

It seems, in a nutshell, that the term Less Developed Countries is not yet causing offence to anyone. When it does, we are immediately ready to replace the term LDC with HRRC. This is short for Human Resource-Rich Countries. In other words, they are grossly overpopulated and begging for money. However, Buranda is not an HRRC. Nor is it one of the ‘Haves’ or ‘Have-not’ nations — apparently we no longer use those terms either, we talk about the North/South dialogue instead. In fact it seems that Buranda is a ‘will have’ nation, if there were such a term, and if it were not to cause offence to our Afro-Asian, or Third-World, or Non-Aligned-Nation brothers.

‘Buranda will have a huge amount of oil in a couple of years from now,’ confided Sir Humphrey.

‘Oh I see,’ I said. ‘So it’s not a TPLAC at all.’

Sir Humphrey was baffled. It gave me pleasure to baffle him for once. ‘TPLAC?’ he enquired carefully.

‘Tin-Pot Little African Country,’ I explained.

Sir Humphrey and Bernard jumped. They looked profoundly shocked. They glanced nervously around to check that I’d not been overheard. They were certainly not amused. How silly — anyone would think my office was bugged! [Perhaps it was — Ed.]

November 12th

On my way to work this morning I had an inspiration.

At my meeting with Humphrey yesterday it had been left for him to make arrangements to get the Queen down from Balmoral to meet the Burandan President. But this morning I remembered that we have three by-elections pending in three marginal Scottish constituencies, as a result of the death of one member who was so surprised that his constituents re-elected him in spite of his corruption and dishonesty that he had a heart attack and died, and as a result of the elevation of two other members to the Lords on the formation of the new government. [The Peerage and/or the heart attack are, of course, the two most usual rewards for a career of corruption and dishonesty — Ed.]

I called Humphrey to my office. ‘The Queen,’ I announced, ‘does not have to come down from Balmoral at all.’

There was a slight pause.

‘Are you proposing,’ said Sir Humphrey in a pained manner, ‘that Her Majesty and the President should exchange official greetings by telephone?’

‘No.’

‘Then,’ said Sir Humphrey, even more pained, ‘perhaps you just want them to shout very loudly.’

‘Not that either,’ I said cheerfully. ‘We will hold the official visit in Scotland. Holyrood Palace.’

Sir Humphrey replied instantly. ‘Out of the question,’ he said.

‘Humphrey,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you’ve given this idea due consideration?’

‘It’s not our decision,’ he replied. ‘It’s an FCO matter.’

I was ready for this. I spent last night studying that wretched document which had caused me so much trouble yesterday. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, and produced the file with a fine flourish. ‘Notwithstanding the provisions of subsection 3 blah blah blah… administrative procedures blah blah blah… shall fall within the purview of the Minister for Administrative Affairs.’ I sat back and watched.

Sir Humphrey was stumped. ‘Yes, but… why do you want to do this?’ he asked.

‘It saves Her Majesty a pointless journey. And there are three marginal Scottish by-elections coming up. We’ll hold them as soon as the visit is over.’

He suddenly went rather cool. ‘Minister, we do not hold Head of Government visits for party political reasons, but for reasons of State.’

He had a point there. I’d slipped up a bit, but I managed to justify it okay. ‘But my plan really shows that Scotland is an equal partner in the United Kingdom. She is Queen of Scotland too. And Scotland is full of marginal constit…’ I stopped myself just in time, I think, ‘… depressed areas.’

But Sir Humphrey was clearly hostile to the whole brilliant notion. ‘I hardly think, Minister,’ he sneered, clambering onto his highest horse and looking down his patrician nose at me, ‘I hardly think we can exploit our Sovereign by involving her in, if you will forgive the phrase, a squalid vote-grubbing exercise.’

I don’t think there’s anything squalid about grubbing for votes. I’m a democrat and proud of it and that’s what democracy is all about! But I could see that I had to think up a better reason (for Civil Service consumption, at least) or else this excellent plan would be blocked somehow. So I asked Humphrey why the President of Buranda was coming to Britain.

‘For an exchange of views on matters of mutual interest,’ was the reply. Why does this man insist on speaking in the language of official communiqués? Or can’t he help it?

‘Now tell me why he’s coming,’ I asked with exaggerated patience. I was prepared to keep asking until I got the real answer.

‘He’s here to place a huge order with the British Government for offshore drilling equipment.’

Perfect! I went in for the kill. ‘And where can he see all our offshore equipment? Aberdeen, Clydeside.’

Sir Humphrey tried to argue. ‘Yes, but…’

‘How many oil rigs have you got in Haslemere, Humphrey?’ He wasn’t pleased by this question.

‘But the administrative problems…’ he began.

I interrupted grandly: ‘Administrative problems are what this whole Department was created to solve. I’m sure you can do it, Humphrey.’

‘But Scotland’s so remote.’ He was whining and complaining now. I knew I’d got him on the run. ‘Not all that remote,’ I said, and pointed to the map of the UK hanging on the wall. ‘It’s that pink bit, about two feet above Potters Bar.’

Humphrey was not amused — ‘Very droll, Minister,’ he said. But even that did not crush me.

‘It is going to be Scotland,’ I said with finality. ‘That is my policy decision. That’s what I’m here for, right Bernard?’

Bernard didn’t want to take sides against Humphrey, or against me. He was stuck. ‘Um…’ he said.

I dismissed Humphrey, and told him to get on with making the arrangements. He stalked out of my office. Bernard’s eyes remained glued to the floor.

Bernard is my Private Secretary and, as such, is apparently supposed to be on my side. On the other hand, his future lies with the Department which means that he has to be on Humphrey’s side. I don’t see how he can possibly be on both sides. Yet, apparently, only if he succeeds in this task that is, by definition, impossible, will he continue his rapid rise to the top. It’s all very puzzling. I must try and find out if I can trust him.

November 13th

Had a little chat with Bernard on our way back from Cardiff, where I addressed a conference of Municipal Treasurers and Chief Executives.

Bernard warned me that Humphrey’s next move, over this Scottish business, would be to set up an interdepartmental committee to investigate and report.

I regard the interdepartmental committee as the last refuge of a desperate bureaucrat. When you can’t find any argument against something you don’t want, you set up an interdepartmental committee to strangle it. Slowly. I said so to Bernard. He agreed.

‘It’s for the same reason that politicians set up Royal Commissions,’ said Bernard. I began to see why he’s a high-flyer.

I decided to ask Bernard what Humphrey really had against the idea.

‘The point is,’ Bernard explained, ‘once they’re all in Scotland the whole visit will fall within the purview of the Secretary of State for Scotland.’

I remarked that Humphrey should be pleased by this. Less work.

Bernard put me right on that immediately. Apparently the problem is that Sir Humphrey likes to go to the Palace, all dressed up in his white tie and tails and medals. But in Scotland the whole thing will be on a much smaller scale. Not so many receptions and dinners. Not so many for Sir Humphrey, anyway, only for the Perm. Sec. at the Scottish Office. Sir Humphrey might not even be invited to the return dinner, as the Burandan Consulate in Edinburgh is probably exceedingly small.

I had never given the ceremonial aspect of all this any thought at all. But according to Bernard all the glitter is frightfully important to Permanent Secretaries. I asked Bernard if Humphrey had lots of medals to wear.

‘Quite a few,’ Bernard told me. ‘Of course he got his K a long time ago. He’s a KCB. But there are rumours that he might get his G in the next Honours list.’[3]

‘How did you hear that?’ I asked. I thought Honours were always a big secret.

‘I heard it on the grapevine,’ said Bernard.

I suppose, if Humphrey doesn’t get his G, we’ll hear about it on the sour-grapevine.

[Shortly after this conversation a note was sent by Sir Humphrey to Bernard Woolley. As usual Sir Humphrey wrote in the margin — Ed.]

[Presumably by ‘all will be well’ Sir Humphrey was referring to the cancellation of the official visit, rather than another Central African country going communist — Ed.]

November 18th

Long lapse since I made any entries in the diary. Partly due to the weekend, which was taken up with boring constituency business. And partly due to pressure of work — boring Ministerial business.

I feel that work is being kept from me. Not that I’m short of work. My boxes are full of irrelevant and unimportant rubbish.

Yesterday I really had nothing to do at all in the afternoon. No engagements of any sort. Bernard was forced to advise me to go to the House of Commons and listen to the debate there. I’ve never heard such a ridiculous suggestion.

Late this afternoon I was in the office, going over the plans for the Burandan visit, and I switched on the TV news. To my horror they reported a coup d’état in Buranda. Marxist, they think. They reported widespread international interest and concern because of Buranda’s oil reserves. It seems that the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, who rejoices in the name of Colonel Selim Mohammed, has been declared President. Or has declared himself President, more likely. And no one knows what has happened to the former President.

I was appalled. Bernard was with me, and I told him to get me the Foreign Secretary at once.

‘Shall we scramble?’ he said.

‘Where to?’ I said, then felt rather foolish as I realised what he was talking about. Then I realised it was another of Bernard’s daft suggestions: what’s the point of scrambling a phone conversation about something that’s just been on the television news?

I got through to Martin at the Foreign Office.

Incredibly, he knew nothing about the coup in Buranda.

‘How do you know?’ he asked when I told him.

‘It’s on TV. Didn’t you know? You’re the Foreign Secretary, for God’s sake.’

‘Yes,’ said Martin, ‘but my TV set’s broken.’

I could hardly believe my ears. ‘Your TV set? Don’t you get the Foreign Office telegrams?’

Martin said: ‘Yes, but they don’t come in till much later. A couple of days, maybe. I always get the Foreign News from the telly.’

I thought he was joking. It seems he was not. I said that we must make sure that the official visit was still on, come what may. There are three by-elections hanging on it. He agreed.

I rang off, but not before telling Martin to let me know if he heard any more details.

‘No, you let me know,’ Martin said. ‘You’re the one with the TV set.’

November 19th

Meeting with Sir Humphrey first thing this morning. He was very jovial, beaming almost from ear to ear.

‘You’ve heard the sad news, Minister?’ he began, smiling broadly.

I nodded.

‘It’s just a slight inconvenience,’ he went on, and made a rotary gesture with both hands. ‘The wheels are in motion, it’s really quite simple to cancel the arrangements for the visit.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ I told him.

‘But Minister, we have no choice.’

‘We have,’ I countered. ‘I’ve spoken to the Foreign Secretary already.’ His face seemed to twitch a bit. ‘We are reissuing the invitation to the new President.’

‘New President?’ Humphrey was aghast. ‘But we haven’t even recognised his government.’

I made the same rotary gesture with my hands. ‘The wheels are in motion,’ I smiled. I was enjoying myself at last.

Humphrey said: ‘We don’t know who he is.’

‘Somebody Mohammed,’ I explained.

‘But… we don’t know anything about him. What’s he like?’

I pointed out, rather wittily I thought, that we were not considering him for membership of the Athenaeum Club. I said that I didn’t give a stuff what he was like.

Sir Humphrey tried to get tough. ‘Minister,’ he began, ‘there is total confusion in Buranda. We don’t know who is behind him. We don’t know if he’s Soviet-backed, or just an ordinary Burandan who’s gone berserk. We cannot take diplomatic risks.’

‘The government has no choice,’ I said.

Sir Humphrey tried a new tack. ‘We have not done the paperwork.’ I ignored this rubbish. Paperwork is the religion of the Civil Service. I can just imagine Sir Humphrey Appleby on his deathbed, surrounded by wills and insurance claim forms, looking up and saying, ‘I cannot go yet, God, I haven’t done the paperwork.’

Sir Humphrey pressed on. ‘The Palace insists that Her Majesty be properly briefed. This is not possible without the paperwork.’

I stood up. ‘Her Majesty will cope. She always does.’ Now I had put him in the position of having to criticise Her Majesty.

He handled it well. He stood up too. ‘Out of the question,’ he replied. ‘Who is he? He might not be properly brought up. He might be rude to her. He might… take liberties!’ The mind boggles. ‘And he is bound to be photographed with Her Majesty — what if he then turns out to be another Idi Amin? The repercussions are too hideous to contemplate.’

I must say the last point does slightly worry me. But not as much as throwing away three marginals. I spelt out the contrary arguments to Humphrey. ‘There are reasons of State,’ I said, ‘which make this visit essential. Buranda is potentially enormously rich. It needs oil rigs. We have idle shipyards on the Clyde. Moreover, Buranda is strategically vital to the government’s African policy.’

‘The government hasn’t got an African policy,’ observed Sir Humphrey.

‘It has now,’ I snapped. ‘And if the new President is Marxist-backed, who better to win him over to our side than Her Majesty? Furthermore, the people of Scotland have been promised an important State occasion and we cannot go back on our word.’

‘Not to mention,’ added Sir Humphrey drily, ‘three by-elections in marginal constituencies.’

‘That has nothing to do with it,’ I said, and glowered at him. He said, ‘Of course not, Minister,’ but I’m not quite sure that he believed me.

Then the phone rang. Bernard took the call. It was from Martin at the FCO.

Bernard listened, then told us that the new President of Buranda had announced his intention to visit Britain next week, in line with his predecessor’s arrangements.

I was impressed. The Foreign Office was getting the news at last. I asked Bernard if the cables had come through from Mungoville. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘The Foreign Secretary’s driver heard a news flash on his car radio.’

The upshot is that it would now be up to the PM to cancel the visit on my recommendation or Martin’s. And I have decided it is on. Another policy decision. Quite a lot of them after all. Good.

November 26th

Today was the first day of the long-awaited official visit. President Mohammed’s arrival was shown on TV. Bernard and I were watching in the office — I must admit I was slightly on tenterhooks in case he did turn out to be a bit uncouth.

A jumbo jet touched down, with BURANDAN AIRWAYS written on the side. I was hugely impressed. British Airways are having to pawn their Concordes, and here is this tiny African state with its own airline, jumbo jets and all.

I asked Bernard how many planes Burandan Airways had. ‘None,’ he said.

I told him not to be silly and use his eyes. ‘No Minister, it belongs to Freddie Laker,’ he said. ‘They chartered it last week and repainted it specially.’ Apparently most of the Have-Nots (I mean, LDCs) do this — at the opening of the UN General Assembly the runways of Kennedy Airport are jam-packed with phoney flag-carriers. ‘In fact,’ added Bernard with a sly grin, ‘there was one 747 that belonged to nine different African airlines in one month. They called it the mumbo-jumbo.’

While we watched nothing much happened on the TV except the mumbo-jumbo taxiing around Prestwick and the Queen looking a bit chilly. Bernard gave me the day’s schedule and explained that I was booked on the night sleeper from King’s Cross to Edinburgh because I had to vote in a three-line whip at the House tonight and would have to miss the last plane. Then the commentator, in that special hushed BBC voice used for any occasion with which Royalty is connected, announced reverentially that we were about to catch our first glimpse of President Selim.

And out of the plane stepped Charlie. My old friend Charlie Umtali. We were at LSE together. Not Selim Mohammed at all, but Charlie.

Bernard asked me if I were sure. Silly question. How could you forget a name like Charlie Umtali?

I sent Bernard for Sir Humphrey, who was delighted to hear that we now know something about our official visitor.

Bernard’s official brief said nothing. Amazing! Amazing how little the FCO has been able to find out. Perhaps they were hoping it would all be on the car radio. All the brief says is that Colonel Selim Mohammed was converted to Islam some years ago, they didn’t know his original name, and therefore knew little of his background.

I was able to tell Humphrey and Bernard all about his background. Charlie was a red-hot political economist, I informed them. Got the top first. Wiped the floor with everyone.

Bernard seemed relieved. ‘Well that’s all right then.’

‘Why?’ I enquired.

‘I think Bernard means,’ said Sir Humphrey helpfully, ‘that he’ll know how to behave if he was at an English University. Even if it was the LSE.’ I never know whether or not Humphrey is insulting me intentionally.

Humphrey was concerned about Charlie’s political colour. ‘When you said he was red-hot, were you speaking politically?’

In a way I was. ‘The thing about Charlie is that you never quite know where you are with him. He’s the sort of chap who follows you into a revolving door and comes out in front.’

‘No deeply held convictions?’ asked Sir Humphrey.

‘No. The only thing Charlie was deeply committed to was Charlie.’

‘Ah, I see. A politician, Minister.’

This was definitely one of Humphrey’s little jokes. He’d never be so rude otherwise. Though sometimes I suspect that Humphrey says things he really means and excuses himself by saying ‘only joking’. Nonetheless, I was able to put him down by patronising him with his own inimitable phrase. ‘Very droll, Humphrey,’ I said cuttingly. And I pointed out that as Charlie was only here for a couple of days he couldn’t do much harm anyway.

Sir Humphrey still seemed concerned. ‘Just remember, Minister,’ he said, ‘you wanted him here, not me.’

‘If you’ll excuse me, Humphrey, I must get on with my letters,’ I said, trying to hide my irritation.

‘Just before you do,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘I’d be most grateful if you would glance at this brief on African politics.’ He handed me a very bulky file. More paper. I declined to read it.

‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I think I’m all right on all that.’

‘Oh good,’ he said cheerfully, ‘because one wouldn’t want to upset the delicate power balance between FROLINAT and FRETELIN, would one?’

I think he could see that he’d got me there. So he pressed home his advantage. ‘I mean, if the new President is more sympathetic to ZIPRA than ZANLA, not to mention ZAPU and ZANU, then CARECOM and COREPER might want to bring in GRAPO, and of course that would mean going back over all that old business with ECOSOC and UNIDO and then the whole IBRD — OECD row could blow up again… and what would HMG do if that happened?’[4]

The only initials I understood in that whole thing were HMG [Her Majesty’s Government — Ed.]. As he had predicted, I said — as casually as I could — that I might as well glance through it.

‘I’ll see you on the train,’ he said, and departed smoothly. I’m afraid he won a small moral victory there.

Bernard then tried to hurry me along to the House. But the huge pile of correspondence in my in-tray was now multiplying horrifyingly and apparently reproducing itself. ‘What about all this,’ I said helplessly. ‘What can I do?’

‘Well, Minister…’ began Bernard, and his eyes flickered almost imperceptibly across to the out-tray a couple of times. I realised that I had very little choice. I picked up the whole pile of letters and moved them solemnly from the in-tray to the out-tray.

It was a funny feeling. I felt both guilty and relieved.

Bernard seemed to think I’d done the right thing. The inevitable thing, perhaps. ‘That’s right, Minister,’ he said in a kindly tone, ‘better out than in.’

November 27th

Last night was a horrendous experience, one that I do not intend to repeat in a hurry.

And today a massive crisis has yet to be solved. And it’s all my fault. And I don’t know if I can carry it off. Oh God!

I am sitting up in bed in a first-class sleeper, writing this diary, and dreading what the day has in store for me.

To begin at the beginning. Roy drove me from the House to King’s Cross. I was there in plenty of time. I found my sleeper, ordered my morning tea and biscuits, the train was just pulling out of the station and my trousers were half off when there was a panic-stricken knocking on the door.

‘Who is it?’ I called.

‘Bernard,’ said Bernard’s voice. It was Bernard. I let him in. He was breathless and sweating. I’d never seen him in such a state. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen any civil servant in such a state. They all seem so frightfully calm and controlled most of the time, in a funny way it’s rather reassuring to see that they sometimes panic just like the rest of the human race, and that when they do they just run around like headless chickens.

Bernard was clutching a pile of large brown manila envelopes.

‘Come in, Bernard,’ I said soothingly. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

‘Read this, Minister,’ he said dramatically, and thrust one of the brown envelopes at my chest.

I was thoroughly irritated. Bernard is endlessly pushing paper at me. I already had four red boxes on my bunk.

I thrust the envelope back at him. ‘No I won’t,’ I said.

‘You must,’ he said, and back it came as though we were playing pass the parcel. ‘This is top priority.’

‘You always say that about everything,’ I pointed out, and carried on removing my trousers.

Bernard informed me that he was offering me an advance copy of President Selim’s speech for tomorrow (today now — oh my God!) which had been sent around by the Burandan Embassy.

I wasn’t interested. These speeches are always the same: happy to be here, thanks for the gracious welcome, ties between our two countries, bonds of shared experience, happy and fruitful co-operation in the future, and all the usual drivel.

Bernard agreed that all of that rubbish was in the speech, but insisted that I read the important bits at once — bits he’d underlined in red ink. He then said he was distributing copies around the train. Round the train? I thought he’d gone completely crackers — but he explained that Sir Humphrey and the Foreign Secretary and the Perm. Sec. to the Foreign Sec. and our press officer and assorted other dignitaries were on the train. I hadn’t realised.

I opened the envelope and saw the most appalling sight. A speech that we cannot allow to be delivered.

Then Sir Humphrey came in, wearing, incidentally, a rather startling gold silk dressing gown with a red Chinese dragon all over it. I would never have thought of Humphrey in such a garment. Perhaps I wasn’t all that impressive, in my shirt-tails and socks.

‘Well Minister,’ Sir Humphrey began, ‘we appear to have been caught with our trousers down.’ He went on to say that he didn’t like to say that he’d told me so, but he’d told me so.

‘We’re going to have egg all over our faces,’ I said.

‘Not egg, Minister,’ he replied suavely, ‘just imperialist yoke.’

I asked him if he was trying to be funny. Because I certainly can’t see anything funny about this situation. I think he said, ‘No, just my little yoke,’ but because of the noise of the train I’m not absolutely sure.

I reiterated that something had to be done. Three Scottish by-elections hang in the balance, not counting the effects on Ulster! ‘This is a catastrophe,’ I whispered.

Sir Humphrey did not exactly seem to be at pains to minimise the situation. ‘It is indeed,’ he agreed solemnly, piling on the agony. ‘A catastrophe. A tragedy. A cataclysmic, apocalyptic, monumental calamity.’ He paused for breath, and then added bluntly: ‘And you did it.’

This was not exactly helping. ‘Humphrey,’ I reproached him. ‘You’re paid to advise me. Advise me!’

‘All in all,’ replied Sir Humphrey, ‘this is not unlike trying to advise the Captain of the Titanic after he has struck the iceberg.’

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘there must be something we can do.’

‘We could sing Abide with Me.’

There was more knocking on the door and Bernard popped in. ‘Minister, the Foreign Secretary would like a word.’

Martin came in.

‘Ah, Foreign Secretary.’ Sir Humphrey was being obsequious now.

‘Yes,’ said Martin. He knew who he was. ‘You’ve read the speech?’

Before I could reply, Sir Humphrey interrupted: ‘Yes, my Minister is concerned that the government will have egg all over its face. Scotch egg, presumably.’

I’m getting a bit tired of Humphrey’s stupid puns. I asked Martin why Selim Mohammed would want to make such a speech here. Martin reckons it’s for home consumption, to show the other African readers that he is a pukka anti-colonialist.

Bernard popped his head round the door, and suggested that we draft a statement in response to the speech. I thought that was a good idea. Whereupon he announced that he had brought along Bill Pritchard from the press office.

We had me and Humphrey and Martin and Bernard already in my sleeper. Bill Pritchard turned out to have the build of a rugger front-row forward. ‘Room for a little ’un?’ he enquired jovially, and knocked Humphrey forward onto the bunk, face first.

I asked Humphrey if a statement was a good idea.

‘Well Minister,’ he replied carefully as he stood up, still the mandarin in spite of his silly Chinese dressing gown. ‘In practical terms we have, in fact, the usual six options. One, do nothing. Two, issue a statement deploring the speech. Three, lodge an official protest. Four, cut off aid. Five, break off diplomatic relations. Six, declare war.’

This sounded like rather a lot of options. I was pleased. I asked him which we should do.

‘One: if we do nothing we implicitly agree with the speech. Two: if we issue a statement we just look foolish. Three: if we lodge a protest it will be ignored. Four: we can’t cut off aid because we don’t give them any. Five: if we break off diplomatic relations we cannot negotiate the oil rig contracts. Six: if we declare war it just might look as if we were over-reacting.’ He paused. ‘Of course, in the old days we’d have sent in a gunboat.’

I was desperate by this time. I said, ‘I suppose that is absolutely out of the question?’

They all gazed at me in horror. Clearly it is out of the question.

Bernard had absented himself during Humphrey’s résumé of the possibilities. Now he squeezed back into the compartment.

‘The Permanent Under-Secretary to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office is coming down the corridor,’ he announced.

‘Oh terrific,’ muttered Bill Pritchard. ‘It’ll be like the Black Hole of Calcutta in here.’

Then I saw what he meant. Sir Frederick Stewart, Perm. Sec. of the FCO, known as ‘Jumbo’ to his friends, burst open the door. It smashed Bernard up against the wall. Martin went flying up against the washbasin, and Humphrey fell flat on his face on the bunk. The mighty mountain of lard spoke:

‘May I come in, Minister?’ He had a surprisingly small high voice.

‘You can try,’ I said.

‘This is all we needed,’ groaned Bill Pritchard as the quivering mass of flesh forced its way into the tiny room, pressing Bill up against the mirror and me against the window. We were all standing extremely close together.

‘Welcome to the Standing Committee,’ said Humphrey as he propped himself precariously upright.

‘What do we do about this hideous thing? This hideous speech, I mean,’ I added nervously, in case Jumbo took offence. His bald head shone, reflecting the overhead lamp.

‘Well now,’ began Jumbo, ‘I think we know what’s behind this, don’t we Humpy?’

Humpy? Is this his nickname? I looked at him with new eyes. He clearly thought I was awaiting a response.

‘I think that Sir Frederick is suggesting that the offending paragraph of the speech may be, shall we say, a bargaining counter.’

‘A move in the game,’ said Jumbo.

‘The first shot in a battle,’ said Humphrey.

‘An opening gambit,’ said Bernard.

These civil servants are truly masters of the cliché. They can go on all night. They do, unless stopped. I stopped them.

‘You mean, he wants something,’ I said incisively. It’s lucky someone was on the ball.

‘If he doesn’t,’ enquired Jumbo Stewart, ‘why give us a copy in advance?’ This seems unarguable. ‘But unfortunately the usual channels are blocked because the Embassy staff are all new and we’ve only just seen the speech. And no one knows anything about this new President.’

I could see Humphrey giving me meaningful looks.

‘I do,’ I volunteered, slightly reluctantly.

Martin looked amazed. So did Jumbo.

‘They were at University together.’ Humphrey turned to me. ‘The old-boy network?’ It seemed to be a question.

I wasn’t awfully keen on this turn of events. After all, it’s twenty-five years since I saw Charlie, he might not remember me, I don’t know what I can achieve. ‘I think you ought to see him, Sir Frederick,’ I replied.

‘Minister, I think you carry more weight,’ said Jumbo. He seemed unaware of the irony.

There was a pause, during which Bill Pritchard tried unsuccessfully to disguise a snigger by turning it into a cough.

‘So we’re all agreed,’ enquired Sir Humphrey, ‘that the mountain should go to Mohammed?’

‘No, Jim’s going,’ said Martin, and got a very nasty look from his overweight Perm. Sec. and more sounds of a press officer asphyxiating himself.

I realised that I had no choice. ‘All right,’ I agreed, and turned to Sir Humphrey, ‘but you’re coming with me.’

‘Of course, said Sir Humphrey, ‘I’d hardly let you do it on your own.’

Is this another insult, or is it just my paranoia?

Later today:

Charlie Umtali — perhaps I’d better call him President Selim from now on — welcomed us to his suite at the Caledonian Hotel at 10 a.m.

‘Ah Jim.’ He rose to greet us courteously. I had forgotten what beautiful English he spoke. ‘Come in, how nice to see you.’

I was actually rather, well, gratified by this warm reception.

‘Charlie,’ I said. We shook hands. ‘Long time no see.’

‘You don’t have to speak pidgin English to me,’ he said, turned to his aide, and asked for coffee for us all.

I introduced Humphrey, and we all sat down.

‘I’ve always thought that Permanent Under-Secretary is such a demeaning title,’ he said. Humphrey’s eyebrows shot up.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It sounds like an assistant typist or something,’ said Charlie pleasantly, and Humphrey’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. ‘Whereas,’ he continued in the same tone, ‘you’re really in charge of everything, aren’t you?’ Charlie hasn’t changed a bit.

Humphrey regained his composure and preened. ‘Not quite everything.’

I then congratulated Charlie on becoming Head of State. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘though it wasn’t difficult. I didn’t have to do any of the boring things like fighting elections.’ He paused, and then added casually, ‘Or by-elections,’ and smiled amiably at us.

Was this a hint? I decided to say nothing. So after a moment he went on. ‘Jim, of course I’m delighted to see you, but is this purely a social visit or is there anything you particularly wanted to talk about? Because I do have to put the finishing touches to my speech.’

Another hint?

I told him we’d seen the advance copy. He asked if we liked it. I asked him if, as we were old friends, I could speak frankly. He nodded.

I tried to make him realise that the bit about colonialist oppression was slightly — well, really, profoundly embarrassing. I asked him if he couldn’t just snip out the whole chunk about the Scots and the Irish.

Charlie responded by saying, ‘This is something that I feel very deeply to be true. Surely the British don’t believe in suppressing the truth?’

A neat move.

Sir Humphrey then tried to help. ‘I wonder if there is anything that might persuade the President to consider recasting the sentence in question so as to transfer the emphasis from the specific instance to the abstract concept, without impairing the conceptual integrity of the theme?’

Some help.

I sipped my coffee with a thoughtful expression on my face.

Even Charlie hadn’t got it, I don’t think, because he said, after quite a pause: ‘While you’re here, Jim, may I sound you out on a proposal I was going to make to the Prime Minister at our talks?’

I nodded.

He then told us that his little change of government in Buranda had alarmed some of the investors in their oil industry. Quite unnecessarily, in his view. So he wants some investment from Britain to tide him over.

At last we were talking turkey.

I asked how much. He said fifty million pounds.

Sir Humphrey looked concerned. He wrote me a little note. ‘Ask him on what terms.’ So I asked.

‘Repayment of the capital not to start before ten years. And interest free.’

It sounded okay to me, but Humphrey choked into his coffee. So I pointed out that fifty million was a lot of money.

‘Oh well, in that case…’ began Charlie, and I could see that he was about to end the meeting.

‘But let’s talk about it,’ I calmed him down. I got another note from Humphrey, which pointed out that, if interest ran at ten per cent on average, and if the loan was interest free for ten years, he was in effect asking for a free gift of fifty million pounds.

Cautiously, I put this point to Charlie. He very reasonably (I thought) explained that it was all to our advantage, because they would use the loan to buy oil rigs built on the Clyde.

I could see the truth of this, but I got another frantic and, by now, almost illegible note from Humphrey, saying that Charlie wants us to give him fifty million pounds so that he can buy our oil rigs with our money. (His underlinings, I may say.)

We couldn’t go on passing notes to each other like naughty schoolboys, so we progressed to muttering. ‘It sounds pretty reasonable to me,’ I whispered.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Humphrey hissed.

‘Lots of jobs,’ I countered, and I asked Charlie, if we did such a deal, would he make appropriate cuts in his speech? This was now cards on the table.

Charlie feigned surprise at my making this connection, but agreed that he would make cuts. However, he’d have to know right away.

‘Blackmail,’ Sir Humphrey had progressed to a stage whisper that could be heard right across Princes Street.

‘Are you referring to me or to my proposal?’ asked Charlie.

‘Your proposal, naturally,’ I said hastily and then realised this was a trick question. ‘No, not even your proposal.’

I turned to Humphrey, and said that I thought we could agree to this. After all, there are precedents for this type of deal.[5]

Sir Humphrey demanded a private word with me, so we went and stood in the corridor.

I couldn’t see why Humphrey was so steamed up. Charlie had offered us a way out.

Humphrey said we’d never get the money back, and therefore he could not recommend it to the Treasury and the Treasury would never recommend it to Cabinet. ‘You are proposing,’ he declared pompously, ‘to buy your way out of a political entanglement with fifty million pounds of public money.’

I explained that this is diplomacy. He said it was corruption. I said ‘GCB,’ only just audibly.

There was a long pause.

‘What did you say, Minister?’

‘Nothing,’ I said.

Humphrey suddenly looked extremely thoughtful. ‘On the other hand…’ he said, ‘… we don’t want the Soviets to invest in Buranda, do we?’ I shook my head. ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ he murmured.

‘And they will if we don’t,’ I said, helping him along a bit.

Humphrey started to marshal all the arguments on my side. ‘I suppose we could argue that we, as a part of the North/South dialogue, have a responsibility to the…’

‘TPLACs?’ I said.

Humphrey ignored the crack. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘And if we were to insist on one per cent of the equity in the oil revenues ten years from now… yes, on balance, I think we can draft a persuasive case in terms of our third-world obligations, to bring in the FCO… and depressed area employment, that should carry with us both the Department of Employment and the Scottish Office… then the oil rig construction should mobilise the Department of Trade and Industry, and if we can reassure the Treasury that the balance of payments wouldn’t suffer… Yes, I think we might be able to mobilise a consensus on this.’

I thought he’d come to that conclusion. We trooped back into Charlie’s room.

‘Mr President,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘I think we can come to terms with each other after all.’

‘You know my price,’ said Charlie.

‘And you know mine,’ I said. I smiled at Sir Humphrey. ‘Everyone has his price, haven’t they?’

Sir Humphrey looked inscrutable again. Perhaps this is why they are called mandarins.

‘Yes Minister,’ he replied.