The Complete Yes Minister

3 The Economy Drive

December 7th

On the train going up to town after a most unrestful weekend in the constituency, I opened up the Daily Mail. There was a huge article making a personal attack on me.

I looked around the train. Normally the first-class compartment is full of people reading The Times, the Telegraph, or the Financial Times. Today they all seemed to be reading the Daily Mail.

When I got to the office Bernard offered me the paper and asked me if I’d read it. I told him I’d read it. Bernard told me that Frank had read it, and wanted to see me. Then Frank came in and asked me if I’d read it. I told him I’d read it.

Frank then read it to me. I don’t know why he read it to me. I told him I’d read it. It seemed to make him feel better to read it aloud. It made me feel worse.

I wondered how many copies they sell every day. ‘Two million, three million?’ I asked Bernard.

‘Oh no, Minister,’ he answered as if my suggested figures were an utterly outrageous overestimate.

I pressed him for an answer. ‘Well, how many?’

‘Um… four million,’ he said with some reluctance. ‘So only… twelve million people have read it. Twelve or fifteen. And lots of their readers can’t read, you know.’

Frank was meanwhile being thoroughly irritating. He kept saying, ‘Have you read this?’ and reading another appalling bit out of it. For instance: ‘Do you realise that more people serve in the Inland Revenue than the Royal Navy?’ This came as news to me, but Bernard nodded to confirm the truth of it when I looked at him.

‘“Perhaps,”’ said Frank, still reading aloud from that bloody paper, ‘“Perhaps the government thinks that a tax is the best form of defence.”’

Bernard sniggered, till he saw that I was not amused. He tried to change his snigger into a cough.

Frank then informed me, as if I didn’t already know, that this article is politically very damaging, and that I had to make slimming down the Civil Service a priority. There’s no doubt that he’s right, but it’s just not that easy.

I pointed this out to Frank. ‘You know what?’ he said angrily. ‘You’re house-trained already.’

I didn’t deign to reply. Besides, I couldn’t think of an answer.

[The Civil Service phrase for making a new Minister see things their way is ‘house-training’. When a Minister is so house-trained that he automatically sees everything from the Civil Service point of view, this is known in Westminster as the Minister having ‘gone native’ — Ed.]

Sir Humphrey came in, brandishing a copy of the Daily Mail. ‘Have you read this?’ he began.

This was too much. I exploded. ‘Yes. Yes! Yes!!! I have read that sodding newspaper. I have read it, you have read it, we have all bloody read it. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?’

‘Abundantly, Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey coldly, after a brief pained silence.

I recovered my temper, and invited them all to sit down. ‘Humphrey,’ I said, ‘we simply have to slim down the Civil Service. How many people are there in this Department?’

‘This Department?’ He seemed evasive. ‘Oh well, we’re very small.’

‘How small?’ I asked, and receiving no reply, I decided to hazard a guess. ‘Two thousand?… three thousand?’ I suggested, fearing the worst.

‘About twenty-three thousand I think, Minister?’

I was staggered. Twenty-three thousand people? In the Department of Administrative Affairs? Twenty-three thousand administrators, all to administer other administrators?

‘We’ll have to do an O & M,’ I said. [Organisation and Method Study — Ed.] ‘See how many we can do without.’

‘We did one of those last year,’ said Sir Humphrey blandly. ‘And we discovered we needed another five hundred people. However, Minister, we could always close your Bureaucratic Watchdog Department.’[6]

I’d been expecting this. I know Humphrey doesn’t like it. How could he? But we are not cutting it. Firstly, it’s a very popular measure with the voters. And secondly, it’s the only thing I’ve achieved since I’ve been here.

‘It is a chance for the ordinary citizen to help us find ways to stop wasting government money,’ I reiterated.

‘The public,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘do not know anything about wasting public money. We are the experts.’

I grinned. ‘Can I have that in writing?’

Humphrey got very tetchy. ‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ he snapped. ‘The Watchdog Office is merely a troublemaker’s letter box.’

‘It stays,’ I replied.

We gazed at each other, icily. Finally Sir Humphrey said: ‘Well, offhand, I don’t know what other economies to suggest.’

This was ludicrous. ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me,’ I asked, ‘that there’s nothing we can cut down on?’

He shrugged. ‘Well… I suppose we could lose one or two of the tea ladies.’

I exploded again. I told him not to be ridiculous. I told him I wanted facts, answers. I listed them:

How many people work here?

What do they all do?

How many buildings do we have?

Who and what is in these buildings?

I spelt it out. I demanded a complete study. First of all we’ll put our own house in order. Then we’ll deal with the rest of Whitehall. With a complete study, we’ll be able to see where to cut costs, cut staff, and cut procedures.

Sir Humphrey listened with some impatience. ‘The Civil Service, Minister,’ he responded when I paused for breath, ‘merely exists to implement legislation that is enacted by Parliament. So long as Parliament continues to legislate for more and more control over people’s lives, the Civil Service must grow.’

‘Ha!’ Frank made a derisive noise.

Sir Humphrey turned towards him with a glassy stare. ‘Am I to infer that Mr Weisel disagrees with me?’

‘Ha!’ repeated Frank.

Frank was getting on my nerves too. ‘Frank, either laugh thoroughly, or not at all,’ I instructed.

‘Minister.’ Humphrey stood up. ‘I am fully seized of your requirements, so if you’ll excuse me I think I’d better set the wheels in motion.’

After Sir H. left Frank told me that there was a cover-up going on. Apparently a North-West Regional controller has achieved cuts of £32 million in his region alone. And the Civil Service has suppressed news of it. I asked why. ‘They don’t want cuts,’ said Frank impatiently. ‘Asking Sir Humphrey to slim down the Civil Service is like asking an alcoholic to blow up a distillery.’

I asked Bernard if this story were true. Bernard said that he didn’t know, but, if so, he would be aghast. I asked them both to check up on it. Bernard said he’d find out through the grapevine, and I arranged with Frank to do some more ferreting.

[Sometime in the next few days Bernard Woolley had an interview with Sir Humphrey Appleby. Sir Humphrey wrote a memo following the meeting, which we found in the DAA Personnel Files at Walthamstow — Ed.]

Woolley came at 5.15 p.m. to discuss the £32 million saved by the NW controller. I remarked that I was aghast.

Woolley said he also was aghast, and that it was incredible that we knew nothing of this.

He sometimes reveals himself as worryingly naïf. I, of course, know all about it. I am merely aghast that it has got out. It might result in our getting less money from the Treasury in next year’s PESC review. [PESC is the Public Expenditure Scrutiny Committee — Ed.]

I felt I would learn more about Bernard Woolley if I made the conversation informal. [To do so, Sir Humphrey would have moved from behind his desk to the conversation area, remarking that it was after 5.30 p.m. and offering Woolley a sherry — Ed.] Then I asked him why he was looking worried. He revealed that he genuinely wanted the DAA to save money.

This was shocking. Clearly he has not yet grasped the fundamentals of our work.

There has to be some way to measure success in the Service. British Leyland can measure success by the size of its profits. [British Leyland was the name of the car manufacturer into which billions of pounds of taxpayers’ money was paid in the 1980s in an attempt to produce full employment in the West Midlands. To be more accurate, BL measured its failure by the size of its losses — Ed.] However, the Civil Service does not make profits or losses. Ergo, we measure success by the size of our staff and our budget. By definition a big department is more successful than a small one. It seems extraordinary that Woolley could have passed through the Civil Service College without having understood that this simple proposition is the basis of our whole system.

Nobody had asked the NW controller to save £32 million. Suppose everybody did it? Suppose everybody started saving money irresponsibly all over the place?

Woolley then revealed another curious blind-spot when he advanced the argument that the Minister wanted cuts. I was obliged to explain the facts of life:

Ministers come, and Ministers go. The average Minister lasts less than eleven months in any Department.

[In his ten years as Chairman of British Steel, Sir Monty Finniston dealt with no less than nineteen Ministers at the Department of Industry — Ed.]

It is our duty to assist the Minister to fight for the Department’s money despite his own panic reactions.

However, the Minister must be allowed to panic. Politicians like to panic. They need activity — it is their substitute for achievement.

The argument that we must do everything a Minister demands because he has been ‘democratically chosen’ does not stand up to close inspection. MPs are not chosen by ‘the people’ — they are chosen by their local constituency party, i.e. thirty-five men in grubby raincoats or thirty-five women in silly hats. The further ‘selection’ process is equally a nonsense: there are only 630 MPs and a party with just over 300 MPs forms a government — and of these 300, 100 are too old and too silly to be ministers, and 100 too young and too callow. Therefore there are about 100 MPs to fill 100 government posts. Effectively no choice at all.

It follows that as Ministers have had no proper selection or training, it is our patriotic duty to arrange for them to make the right decision as often as possible.

I concluded by teaching Woolley how to explain the saving of £32 million to the Minister. I offered the following possibilities. Say that: (a) they have changed their accounting system in the North-West. or (b) redrawn the boundaries, so that this year’s figures are not comparable. or (c) the money was compensation for special extra expenditure of £16 million a year over the last two years, which has now stopped. or (d) it is only a paper saving, so it will all have to be spent next year. or (e) a major expenditure is late in completion, and therefore the region will be correspondingly over budget next year. [Known technically as phasing — Ed.] or (f) there has been an unforeseen but important shift of personnel and industries to other regions whose expenditure rose accordingly. or (g) some large projects were cancelled for reasons of economy early in the accounting period with the result that the expenditure was not incurred but the budget had already been allocated.

Woolley seemed to understand. I am concerned that he has not had adequate training so far. I intend to keep a close watch on him because, in spite of all this, I still think he shows promise.

He volunteered information that Frank Weisel was ferreting. Naturally, I arranged a government car to assist him. [It was standard Civil Service practice to provide government cars for troublesome outsiders. The driver would, at the very least, be relied on to report where he had been, if only to account for the mileage.

Drivers are one of the most useful sources of information in Whitehall. Their passengers are frequently indiscreet, forgetting that everything they say in the back seat can be overheard in the front. Furthermore, Ministers tend to forget confidential documents, and leave them behind in the car.

Information is Whitehall’s most valuable currency. Drivers barter information — Ed.]

[The following series of memos between Sir Humphrey Appleby and Sir Frederick Stewart were found in a Ministry file — Ed.]

A note from Sir Frederick Stewart, Permanent Secretary to the FCO:

A reply from Sir Humphrey to sir Frederick Stewart:

A reply from Sir Frederick:

A reply from Sir Humphrey:

[Hacker’s diary continues — Ed.]

December 15th

Today we had the big meeting on expenditure cuts. Frank has been ferreting for a couple of weeks. The meeting didn’t actually end the way I thought it would, but we do now have a real programme of action, though not the one I expected.

At the meeting were Sir Humphrey, Bernard, and Frank who had come up with what seemed to be some astounding revelations about wastage in our midst. I told Sir Humphrey that he would be pretty surprised by it all, and that the new facts seemed to be a frightening indictment of bureaucratic sloppiness and self-indulgence.

Sir Humphrey seemed very concerned and intrigued, and was eager to learn where there might be scope for dramatic economies.

Frank had prepared two files, one on Manpower and one on Buildings. I decided to look at Buildings first.

‘Chadwick House,’ I began. ‘West Audley Street.’

‘A huge building,’ said Frank, ‘with only a handful of people working there.’

Sir Humphrey said he happened to know about Chadwick House. ‘It is certainly underused at the moment, but it is the designated office for the new Commission on the Environment. We’re actually wondering if it’ll be big enough when all the staff move in.’

This seemed fair enough. So I went on to Ladysmith Buildings, Walthamstow. It is totally empty.

‘Of course,’ said Sir Humphrey.

I asked him what he meant.

‘Security, Minister, I can say no more.’

‘Do you mean M16?’ I asked.

Sir Humphrey shook his head, and said nothing. So I asked him what he did mean.

‘We do not admit that M16 exists,’ he replied.

I’ve never heard anything so daft. I pointed out that absolutely everyone knows that it exists.

‘Nevertheless, we do not admit it. Not everyone around this table has been vetted.’

Vetted is such a silly expression. I remarked that it sounds like something you do to cats.

‘Yes, but not ferrets, Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey sharply, eyeing Frank. ‘Ladysmith Buildings is top secret.’

‘How,’ I asked sarcastically, ‘can a seven-storey building in Walthamstow be a secret?’

‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ replied Humphrey, with (I think) a twinkle in his eye. It was all quite amicable, but I could see that he had no intention of discussing anything that was remotely to do with security while Frank was present. I had no intention of asking Frank to leave, so, reluctantly, I was forced to move on to the next two white elephants.

‘Wellington House, Hyde Park Road. Estimated value, seven and a half million pounds. Westminster Old Hall, Sackville Square, estimated value, eleven million pounds. Both buildings with a tiny staff, and entirely full of filing cabinets.’

‘May I ask the source of these valuations?’ Sir Humphrey enquired.

‘Going rate for office property in the area,’ said Frank.

‘Ah. Unfortunately,’ said Sir Humphrey in his most helpful tone, ‘neither building would actually fetch the going rate.’

I asked why not.

‘Wellington House has no fire escape or fire doors and the fabric of the building would not stand the alteration, so it can’t be sold as offices.’

‘Then how can we use it?’ enquired Frank aggressively.

‘Government buildings do not need fire safety clearance.’

‘Why?’ demanded Frank.

‘Perhaps,’ Humphrey offered, ‘because Her Majesty’s Civil Servants are not easily inflamed.’ This time he chuckled. Another of his little jokes. He seemed to be increasingly pleased with himself. I don’t care for this.

[In fact, government buildings have to comply with most statutory fire requirements, but not with regard to means of escape! — Ed.]

We were not getting very far with our economies, so I asked why Westminster Old Hall couldn’t be sold as offices.

‘It’s a Class One listed building. Can’t change current user designation. The Environment, you know.’

We were getting nowhere fast. Frank moved on, and suggested we sold 3 to 17 Beaconsfield Street.

‘That,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘has a three-level reinforced-concrete basement.’

‘So?’ I said.

‘It is there in case,’ said Sir Humphrey. I waited for him to complete his sentence, but after a while it became apparent that he thought he had already done so.

‘In case?’ I asked eventually.

‘You know, Minister,’ he said, his voice pregnant with hidden meaning. ‘Emergency Government Headquarters, if and when.’

I was baffled. ‘If and when what?’

Humphrey was now at his most enigmatic. ‘If and when… you know what,’ he replied so quietly that I could hardly hear him.

‘What?’ I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.

‘If and when you know what?’

‘I don’t know what,’ I said confused. ‘What?’

‘What?’ Now Sir Humphrey seemed confused.

‘What do you mean, if and when you know what? If and when, I know what — what?’

At last Humphrey decided to make his meaning clear. ‘When the chips are down, Minister, and the balloon goes up and the lights go out… there has to be somewhere to carry on government, even if everything else stops.’

I considered this carefully for a few moments. ‘Why?’ I asked.

Humphrey appeared to be absolutely staggered by this question. He explained to me, as if I were a backward five-year-old, ‘Government doesn’t stop merely because the country’s been destroyed. Annihilation is bad enough, without anarchy to make it even worse.’

Obviously Humphrey was concerned about the danger of a lot of rebellious cinders.

However, this is clearly an MoD matter [Ministry of Defence matter — Ed.] and I can see it is beyond my power to do anything about 3 to 17 Beaconsfield Street.

There was one more virtually unused building on Frank’s list. It was my last shot. ‘What about the Central Registry?’ I enquired, without any real hope.

‘No planning permission,’ said Sir Humphrey, with a bland smile of a man who knows he’s won five rounds and is way ahead on points.

Frank suddenly intervened. ‘How does he know all this?’ he enquired belligerently, and turned accusingly to Sir Humphrey. ‘You knew where I’d been.’

This hadn’t occurred to me, but Frank was obviously right. I was about to lay into Humphrey on that score, when Humphrey said to me, most disarmingly: ‘Of course we knew where he’d been. Why, was he supposed to be spying?’

I wasn’t ready for that particular googly. I realised at once that I was on a very sticky wicket.

Humphrey pressed home his advantage. ‘I mean, we do believe in open enquiries, don’t we?’

There was no answer to this, so, in my most businesslike fashion, I closed the Buildings file. [In any case, it would have been impossible to sell all these government buildings simultaneously. If you put government property in London on the market all at once, you would destroy the market — like diamonds — Ed.]

I turned to Manpower. Here, I felt I was on rock-solid ground.

‘Apparently,’ I began, ‘there are ninety civil servants in Sunderland exactly duplicating the work of ninety others here in Whitehall.’

Humphrey nodded. ‘That stems from a cabinet decision. Job Creation in the North-East.’

At last we were in agreement about something. ‘Let’s get rid of them,’ I proposed.

Frank chimed in eagerly, ‘Yes, that would get rid of ninety civil servants at a stroke.’ Somehow, the way Frank spits out the words ‘civil servants’ makes them sound more contemptible than petty thieves. If I were a civil servant I think Frank’s style would offend me, though Sir Humphrey doesn’t seem too bothered, I must say.

But he picked up Frank’s phrase ‘at a stroke’. [Actually, Edward Heath’s phrase, originally applied to price reductions which, needless to say, never occurred — Ed.] ‘Or indeed,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘at a strike.’

‘What?’ I said.

‘Personally, Minister, I should be wholeheartedly in favour of such a move. A considerable economy. But… I should remind you that it is a depressed area. Hence the original job creation scheme. It would show great political courage for the government to sack staff in a depressed marginal constituency.’

We sat for a while in silence. I must say, I think it was rather sporting of Humphrey to remind me that a marginal constituency was at stake. Normally civil servants take no interest in those vital political calculations.

Clearly, I couldn’t possibly risk a strike up there. But I was feeling really hopeless about these economies by now. I decided to put the ball back into Humphrey’s court.

‘Look, Humphrey,’ I said, ‘this is all very well… but… well, I just don’t believe that there are no savings to be made in the Civil Service. I see waste everywhere.’

‘I agree with you, Minister,’ came the reply, much to my surprise. ‘There is indeed scope for economy…’

‘Then…’ I interrupted, ‘… where, for God’s sake?’

And to my surprise, Sir Humphrey suddenly became very positive. ‘I sometimes feel that the whole way we do things is on too lavish a scale. You know, cars, furnishings, private office staff, entertainment, duplicating machines….’

This was marvellous. I couldn’t agree more. I nodded enthusiastically.

‘There is a difficulty, however,’ he added. My heart sank again, but I waited to hear what it was. ‘It does cause profound resentment if those at the top continue to enjoy the convenience and comforts they have withdrawn from those below them, not to mention the deeply damaging publicity….’

He broke off, and waited to see how I reacted. I wasn’t awfully keen, I must admit. It became clear that Humphrey’s scheme was that he and I should set a personal example. Economy begins at home, and we can’t expect others to do what we don’t do ourselves, and so forth.

I challenged Humphrey. ‘Would it really save that much?’

‘Directly, no,’ he said. ‘But as an example to the whole public service… incalculable!’

Then Frank came up with the decisive argument in favour of Humphrey’s plan. He pointed out that there would be lots of great publicity in it. He suggested the sort of newspaper headlines we’d be getting: THE MINISTER SHOWS THE WAY, or SLIMLINE GOVERNMENT, HACKER SETS EXAMPLE. We might even get a first-name headline: SAVE IT, SAYS JIM.

I gave Humphrey the okay to put the scheme into practice as soon as possible. I shall be interested to see how it works. At this moment, I have high hopes.

December 20th

Sunday morning. I’m writing this at home, in the constituency.

Haven’t had time to make any entries in the diary for some days because this economy drive is creating a lot of extra work for me. However, I’m sure it’s all going to be worth it.

It was a dreadful journey home on Friday night. I got home in the middle of the night. Annie had gone to bed. Apparently she’d made supper for us, and it had spoiled.

I’d tried to get a taxi to get me from Whitehall to Euston, but there was a thunderstorm and no taxis were available. So I’d gone by tube, carrying three red boxes which are immensely heavy when filled, and I’d missed the train at Euston. So I got home very tired and wet.

I apologised for waking Annie, and told her about my troublesome journey.

‘What happened to the chauffeur-driven car?’ she asked anxiously.

‘I’ve got rid of it,’ I explained proudly. ‘I’ve also got rid of the chauffeur, all the grand office furniture, and the drinks cabinet, and half my private office staff.’

‘You’ve been sacked!’ she said. Annie often jumps to the most ridiculous alarmist conclusions. I explained that it was an economy drive and that I was setting an example of no frills, no luxuries and no privileges.

Annie couldn’t seem to understand. ‘You’re bloody mad!’ she exploded. ‘For twenty years as a backbencher you have complained that you had no facilities and no help. Now you’ve been given them, and you’re throwing them away.’

I tried to explain it, but she wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways. ‘For twenty years you’ve wanted to be a success — why did you want it if it brings no greater comfort than failure?’

I explained that this move would give me much greater power in the end.

Annie was unimpressed. ‘And how will you travel when you’re Prime Minister? Hitch-hike?’

Why can’t she understand?

December 21st

Great progress today with the economy drive.

The office work is getting a bit behind, with twelve fewer people in my Private Office. Bernard is working overtime, and so am I, but clearly we didn’t need all those people out there, reading my letters and writing my letters, and making appointments and answering phones, and drafting replies to questions and — basically — protecting me from the outside world. I don’t need all those people to shield me. I am the people’s representative, I should be available to one and all, shouldn’t I?

However, we have to avoid screw-ups like this morning, when I arrived an hour and a half late to open a conference. What made it even more unfortunate was that it was the Business Efficiency Conference!

And, because we’ve abolished the night shift for cleaners (a really useful economy, in my view), I had a cleaning lady in my office vacuuming. Bernard and I had to shout at the tops of our voices as we discussed the week’s diary. But I’m sure these little wrinkles can be ironed out.

Tomorrow I have a vital meeting with Mr Brough, Director of Manpower Planning for the North-East Region, on the subject of staff reductions. I’ve never met him, but Bernard tells me he’s eager to make cuts.

The biggest progress is in the media coverage I’m getting. A front-page story in the Express. Couldn’t be better.

SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:[7]

I remember Jim Hacker’s first economy drive only too well. I suspected, green though I still was, that Sir Humphrey Appleby had created a potentially disastrous situation.

It was impossible for me to run the Private Office single-handed, with just a couple of typists to help. Errors were bound to occur, and sooner or later there would be a calamity.

The calamity occurred sooner than even I expected. On 21 December, the day after Hacker had received some favourable publicity, Ron Watson arrived at the Department without an appointment. Watson was the General Secretary of the Civil Service Transport and Associated Government Workers.

He demanded to see the Minister at once, because of what he described as ‘disturbing’ rumours about cut-backs and redundancies affecting his members. The rumours were clearly generated by the numerous press stories of which Jim Hacker was so ludicrously proud.

I told Watson that nobody could see the Minister without an appointment, and left the Private Office to go to the Whips’ Office. I was even having to run errands myself, as we were so short-staffed. Had we been fully staffed, Watson would never even have got as far as Hacker’s Private Office without an appointment. I left a typist to arrange an appointment for Watson to see Hacker.

Apparently, after I left the room, Brough of Manpower Planning telephoned to say he had missed his train from Newcastle, and could not keep his appointment. Watson overheard, realised that Hacker was free at that moment, and walked straight into his office.

And because there were no other Private Secretaries, due to the economy drive, no one stopped him. And no one warned the Minister that he was meeting Watson instead of Brough.

No greater mishap could have occurred.

December 22nd

Today, everything collapsed in ruins. Total disaster.

I was expecting Mr Brough of Manpower Planning (NE Region) at 3 p.m. A man walked into my office and naturally I assumed he was Brough.

‘Mr Brough?’ I said.

‘No,’ he said, ‘my name’s Ron Watson. Mr Brough has had to cancel the meeting.’

Naturally, I assumed that Watson had been sent by Brough, and had come instead. So I interrupted, thanked him for coming and asked him to sit down and said, ‘Look, Mr Watson, before we start there’s one point I have to emphasise. This simply must not get out. If the unions were to hear of this all hell would break loose.’

‘I see,’ he said.

‘Of course there are going to be redundancies,’ I continued. ‘You can’t slim down a giant bureaucracy without getting rid of people. Ultimately, lots of people.’

He asked me if I wouldn’t be holding discussions with the unions first.

I continued to dig my own grave. ‘We’ll go through the usual charade of consultation first,’ I said, blithely unaware of the impending catastrophe, ‘but you know what trades unionists are like. Just bloody-minded, and as thick as two short planks.’ How could I have spoken like this to a total stranger?

‘All of them?’ he asked politely.

I was surprised by this question. I thought he should know, after all, he had to negotiate with them. ‘Pretty well,’ I said. ‘All they’re interested in is poaching members from each other or getting themselves on the telly — and they can never keep their big mouths shut.’

I remember quite clearly every word that I spoke. Each one is branded on my heart. Furthermore, it’s all written down in front of me — in an interview that Watson gave to the Standard as soon as he left my office.

Then the man asked me about drivers and transport service staff, specifically. ‘They’ll be the first to go,’ I said. ‘We’re wasting a fortune on cars and drivers. And they’re all on the fiddle anyway.’

It was at this moment that Watson revealed that he was not Mr Brough’s deputy, but was in fact the General Secretary of the Civil Service Transport and Associated Government Workers. And he had come to my office to check that there was no truth in the rumours about redundancies for his members!

Oh my God!…

December 24th

Yesterday and today there has been an acute shortage of Christmas cheer.

All the Civil Service drivers are on strike. I arrived yesterday morning, having read all about the strike in the press. All the papers quoted Ron Watson quoting me: ‘Of course there’s going to be redundancies. Lots.’

I asked Bernard how he could have let this happen.

‘CBE, Minister,’ he replied, unhappily.

I wasn’t sure what he meant. Could I have been awarded the CBE? — or could he?

He explained. ‘Can’t Be Everywhere’. Another idiotic Civil Service abbreviation. ‘In normal circumstances…’ he petered out. After all, we both knew how this tragedy had occurred.

Bernard reminded me of all my appointments for today. An office Christmas party, some meetings — nothing of any consequence. I spent the day dodging the press. I wanted to discuss the situation with Sir Humphrey, but apparently he was unavailable all day.

Annie and I were invited to the French Embassy’s Christmas party, at 8 p.m. I asked Bernard to get me my car — and then realised, as I spoke, that there were no drivers. I told him to call Annie, to get her to bring our car in to collect me.

Bernard had already thought of that, but apparently our car had been giving trouble all day and Annie wanted to take it to the garage. I got hold of her and told her the garage would wait — the car would get us from Whitehall to Kensington okay.

Annie came for me, we set off in our evening clothes.

Yet again I was wrong and the bloody car broke down in Knightsbridge. In the rush hour. In the pouring rain. I tried to fix it. I was wearing my dinner jacket. I asked Annie for the umbrella, she said I had it. I knew she had it. We shouted at each other, she got out and slammed her door and walked away, and I was left with the car blocking all of Harrods’ Christmas rush hour traffic with horns blaring and drivers yelling abuse at me.

I got to the French Embassy an hour and a half late, soaked to the skin and covered in oil. I had three or four glasses of champagne right away — well, who wouldn’t in the circumstances? I needed them!

When I left, not drunk exactly, but a bit the worse for wear, I must admit, I dropped my keys in the gutter beside the car. Then they fell down a grating, so I had to lie down to try and reach them, and some bastard from the press was there.

This morning I had a frightful hangover. I felt tired and sick. The press had really gone to town over my alleged drunkenness. They really are unbelievably irresponsible nowadays.

Another paper’s headline was HACKER TIRED AND EMOTIONAL AFTER EMBASSY RECEPTION.

Sir Humphrey read it aloud, and remarked that it was slightly better, perhaps, than the first.

‘Better?’ I asked.

‘Well… different, anyway,’ said Sir Humphrey.

I asked if anyone had said anything beyond ‘tired and emotional’. Bernard informed me that William Hickey said I was ‘overwrought’. I didn’t mind that quite so much, until Sir Humphrey added — for clarification — ‘overwrought as a newt, actually’.

By now I felt that it could not get any worse. But I was wrong. Bernard produced today’s lead story from the Daily Telegraph, which, astonishingly and horrifyingly, claimed that I was recruiting extra staff to the DAA.

I demanded an explanation from Sir Humphrey. And he had one ready, of course.

‘Minister, you asked for these extra people. You demanded a complete study, a survey, facts and figures. These measures cannot be taken by non-people. If you create more work, more people have to be employed to do it. It’s common sense.’

While I was taking this on the chin, he came in with another right hook to the head. ‘And if you persist with your Bureaucratic Watchdog Office, there’ll be at least another four hundred new jobs there as well.’

I was shattered. My head was aching, I felt sick, my career seemed to be in ruins, I was being pilloried in the press and the only idea of mine that I’ve managed to push through since I’ve been here had now to be abandoned.

Yet, throughout, from my first day here, all the permanent officials appear to have been doing their best to help me in every possible way. So are they completely inept? Or am I? Are they pretending to help while secretly obstructing my every move? Or are they incapable of understanding a new approach to the Department’s work? Do they try to help me by pushing me towards the Ministry’s policy? Is there a difference between the Minister’s policy and the Ministry’s policy? Why am I asking so many questions to which there is no known answer? How deep is the ocean, how high is the sky? [Irving Berlin — Ed.]

There was silence in the office. I didn’t know what we were going to do about the four hundred new people supervising our economy drive or the four hundred new people for the Bureaucratic Watchdog Office, or anything! I simply sat and waited and hoped that my head would stop thumping and that some idea would be suggested by someone sometime soon.

Sir Humphrey obliged. ‘Minister… if we were to end the economy drive and close the Bureaucratic Watchdog Office we could issue an immediate press announcement that you had axed eight hundred jobs.’ He had obviously thought this out carefully in advance, for at this moment he produced a slim folder from under his arm. ‘If you’d like to approve this draft….’

I couldn’t believe the impertinence of the suggestion. Axed eight hundred jobs? ‘But no one was ever doing these jobs,’ I pointed out incredulously. ‘No one’s been appointed yet.’

‘Even greater economy,’ he replied instantly. ‘We’ve saved eight hundred redundancy payments as well.’

‘But…’ I attempted to explain ‘… that’s just phony. It’s dishonest, it’s juggling with figures, it’s pulling the wool over people’s eyes.’

‘A government press release, in fact,’ said Humphrey. I’ve met some cynical politicians in my time, but this remark from my Permanent Secretary was a real eye-opener.

I nodded weakly. Clearly if I was to avoid the calamity of four hundred new people employed to make economies, I had to give up the four hundred new people in my cherished Watchdog Office. An inevitable quid pro quo. After all, politics is the art of the possible. [A saying generally attributed to R. A. Butler, but actually said by Bismarck (1815–98) in 1867, in conversation with Meyer von Waldeck: ‘Die Politik ist die Lehre von Möglichen’ — Ed.]

However, one vital central question, the question that was at the root of this whole débâcle, remained completely unanswered. ‘But Humphrey,’ I said. ‘How are we actually going to slim down the Civil Service?’

There was a pause. Then he said: ‘Well… I suppose we could lose one or two of the tea ladies.’