The Complete Yes Minister

4 Big Brother

January 4th

Nothing of interest happened over Christmas. I spent the week in the constituency. I went to the usual Christmas parties for the constituency party, the old people’s home, the general hospital, and assorted other gatherings and it all went off quite well — I got my photo in the local rag four or five times, and avoided saying anything that committed me to anything.

I sensed a sort of resentment, though, and have become aware that I’m in a double-bind situation. The local party, the constituency, my family, all of them are proud of me for getting into the Cabinet — yet they are all resentful that I have less time to spend on them and are keen to remind me that I’m nothing special, just their local MP, and that I mustn’t get ‘too big for my boots’. They manage both to grovel and patronise me simultaneously. It’s hard to know how to handle it.

If only I could tell them what life is really like in Whitehall, they would know that there’s absolutely no danger of my getting too big for my boots. Sir Humphrey Appleby will see to that.

Back to London today for a TV interview on Topic, with Robert McKenzie. He asked me lots of awkward questions about the National Data Base.

We met in the Hospitality Room before the programme was recorded, and I tried to find out what angle he was taking. We were a little tense with each other, of course. [McKenzie used to call the Hospitality Room the Hostility Room — Ed.]

‘We are going to talk about cutting government extravagance and that sort of thing, aren’t we?’ I asked, and immediately realised that I had phrased that rather badly.

Bob McKenzie was amused. ‘You want to talk about the government’s extravagance?’ he said with a twinkle in his eye.

‘About the ways in which I’m cutting it down, I mean,’ I said firmly.

‘We’ll get to that if we have time after the National Data Base,’ he said.

I tried to persuade him that people weren’t interested in the Data Base, that it was too trivial. He said he thought people were very interested in it, and were worried about Big Brother. This annoyed me, and I told him he couldn’t trivialise the National Data Base with that sort of sensationalistic approach. Bob replied that as I’d just said it was trivial already, why not?

We left the Hospitality Room. In the studio, waiting for the programme to begin, a girl with a powder-puff kept flitting about and dabbing at my face and preventing me from thinking straight. She said I was getting a bit pink. ‘We can’t have that,’ said Bob jovially, ‘what would the Daily Telegraph say?’

Just before we started recording I remarked that I could well do without all those old chestnut questions like, ‘Are we creating a Police State?’

In retrospect, perhaps this was a mistake.

[We have found, in the BBC Archives, a complete transcript of Robert McKenzie’s interview with James Hacker. It is printed below — Ed.]

I thought I’d waffled a bit, but Bob told me I’d stonewalled beautifully. We went back to Hospitality for another New Year’s drink. I congratulated him on finding that old article of mine — a crafty move. He said that one of his research girls had found it, and asked if I wanted to meet her. I declined — and said I’d just go back to my office and have a look at her dossier!

I watched the programme in the evening. I think it was okay. I hope Sir Humphrey is pleased, anyway.

January 7th

There was divided opinion in the office this afternoon about my TV appearance three days ago. The matter came up at a 4 p.m. meeting with Sir Humphrey, Bernard and Frank Weisel.

Humphrey and Bernard thought I’d been splendid. Dignified and suitable. But Frank’s voice was particularly notable by its silence, during this chorus of praise. When I asked him what he thought, he just snorted like a horse. I asked him to translate.

He didn’t answer me, but turned to Sir Humphrey. ‘I congratulate you,’ he began, his manner even a little less charming than usual. ‘Jim is now perfectly house-trained.’ Humphrey attempted to excuse himself and leave the room.

‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Weasel…’

‘Weisel!’ snapped Frank. He turned on me. ‘Do you realise you just say everything the Civil Service programmes you to say. What are you, a man or a mouth?’

Nobody laughed at his little pun.

‘It may be very hard for a political adviser to understand,’ said Sir Humphrey, in his most patronising manner, ‘but I am merely a civil servant and I just do as I am instructed by my master.’

Frank fumed away, muttering, ‘your master, typical stupid bloody phrase, public school nonsense,’ and so forth. I must say, the phrase interested me too.

‘What happens,’ I asked, ‘if the Minister is a woman? What do you call her?’

Humphrey was immediately in his element. He loves answering questions about good form and protocol. ‘Yes, that’s most interesting. We sought an answer to the point when I was a Principal Private Secretary and Dr Edith Summerskill was appointed Minister in 1947. I didn’t quite like to refer to her as my mistress.’

He paused. For effect, I thought at first, but then he appeared to have more to say on the subject.

‘What was the answer?’ I asked.

‘We’re still waiting for it,’ he explained.

Frank chipped in with a little of his heavy-duty irony. ‘It’s under review is it? Rome wasn’t built in a day, eh Sir Humphrey? These things take time, do they?’

Frank is actually beginning to get on my nerves. The chip on his shoulder about the Civil Service is getting larger every day. I don’t know why, because they have given him an office, he has free access to me, and they tell me that they give him all possible papers that would be of use to him. Now he’s started to take out his aggressions on me. He’s like a bear with a sore head. Perhaps he’s still getting over his New Year’s hangover.

Humphrey wanted to leave, so did I, but Bernard started to give me my diary appointments — and that started another wrangle. Bernard told me I was to meet him at Paddington at 8 a.m. tomorrow, because I was to speak at the Luncheon of the Conference of Municipal Treasurers at the Vehicle Licensing Centre in Swansea. Frank then reminded me that I was due in Newcastle tomorrow night to address the by-election meeting. Bernard pointed out to me that I couldn’t do both and I explained this to Frank. Frank pointed out that the by-election was important to us, whereas the Swansea trip was just a Civil Service junket, and I explained this to Bernard. Bernard then reminded me that the Conference had been in my diary for some time and that they all expected me to go to Swansea, and I explained this to Frank and then Frank reminded me that Central House [the party headquarters — Ed.] expected me to go to Newcastle, but I didn’t explain this to Bernard because by this time I was tired of explaining and I said so. So Frank asked Bernard to explain why I was double booked, Bernard said no one had told him about Newcastle, I asked Frank why he hadn’t told Bernard, Frank asked me why I hadn’t told Bernard, and I pointed out that I couldn’t remember everything.

‘I shall go to Swansea,’ I said.

‘Is that a decision, Minister?’ asked Bernard.

‘That’s final,’ I said.

Frank then played his trump card. ‘The PM expects you to go to Newcastle,’ he said. Why hadn’t he said this till now, stupid man? I asked if he was sure. He nodded.

‘Bernard, I think I’d better go to Newcastle,’ I said.

‘Is that a decision?’ asked Frank.

‘Yes, that’s final,’ I said. ‘And now I’m going home.’

‘Is that a decision?’ asked Sir Humphrey. I wasn’t sure whether or not he was asking for clarification or sending me up. I still find him completely baffling. Anyway, he continued: ‘Minister, I think you’ve made the wrong decision, if I may say so. Your visit to Swansea is in the programme, it’s been announced, you can’t really get out of it.’

This was becoming impossible. They all seem to expect me to be in two places at once. I told them to find some way of getting me from Swansea to Newcastle — train, car, helicopter, I didn’t care how — and I would fulfil both engagements. ‘And now,’ I announced, ‘I’m going home — that’s final!’

‘Finally final?’ asked Bernard.

His intentions are equally obscure.

As I left, Bernard gave Roy, my driver, four red boxes and asked me to be sure to do them tonight because of all the Committee papers for tomorrow and letters that have to go off before the weekend.

‘And if you’re a good boy,’ said Frank in a rather poor imitation of Bernard’s accent, ‘your nanny will give you a sweetie.’

I really don’t have to put up with all this aggravation from Frank. I’m stuck with these damn permanent officials, but Frank is only there at my express invitation. I may have to remind him of this, very soon.

When I got home Annie was packing. ‘Leaving me at last?’ I enquired jovially. She reminded me that it is our anniversary tomorrow and we have arranged to go to Paris.

I was appalled!

I tried to explain to her about the trips to Swansea and Newcastle. She feels that she doesn’t want to spend her anniversary in Swansea and Newcastle, particularly not at a lunch for Municipal Treasurers at the Vehicle Licensing Centre. I can see her point. She told me to cancel my meetings, I said I couldn’t, so she said she’d go to Paris without me.

So I phoned Bernard. I told him it was my wife’s wedding anniversary — Annie said, ‘yours too’ — and mine too. Bernard made some silly joke about a coincidence. I told him I was going to Paris tomorrow, instead, and that it was final and that I knew I’d said it was final before but now this was really final — I told him he’d have to sort everything out. Then he talked for three minutes and when I rang off I was still going to Swansea and Newcastle tomorrow.

Those civil servants can talk you in or out of anything. I just don’t seem to know my own mind any more.

Annie and I fumed in silence for a while, and finally I asked her the really important question of the day: had she seen me on my TV interview — (I’d been in London, she’d been down in the constituency).

‘I saw someone who looked like you.’

I asked her what that was supposed to mean. She didn’t answer.

‘Frank said that I’m just a Civil Service mouthpiece,’ I muttered resentfully.

Annie said, ‘Yes.’

I was shocked. ‘You mean… you agree?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You could have hired an actor to say it all for you. He’d have said it better. And while you’re at it, why not just sign your letters with a rubber stamp or get an Assistant Secretary to sign them — they write them anyway.’

I tried to remain dignified. ‘Assistant Secretaries do not write my letters,’ I said. ‘Under-Secretaries write them.’

‘I rest my case, m’lud,’ she said.

‘You think I’ve become a puppet too?’

‘I do. Maybe they should get Miss Piggy to do your job. At least she’s prettier.’

I must say I was feeling pretty hurt and defeated. I sighed and sat on the bed. I honestly felt near to tears. Is this how a Cabinet Minister usually feels, I wondered, or am I just an abysmal failure? I couldn’t see what was wrong, but something certainly was.

‘I don’t know what to do about it,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m just swamped by the volume of work. I’m so depressed.’

Annie suggested that, as we weren’t going to Paris after all, we might at least go for a quiet little candlelit dinner on the corner. I told her that I couldn’t, because Bernard had told me to work through three red boxes tonight.

Annie said something which changed my whole perception of my situation. She said, ‘What do you mean, “Bernard’s told me!”? When you edited Reform you were quite different — you went in, you told people what to do, demanded what you wanted, and you got it! What’s changed? You’re the same man — you’re just allowing them to walk all over you.’

And, suddenly, I saw that it was true. She’s right. That’s why Frank has been getting at me too. Either I get them by the throat or they’ll get me by the throat! It’s the law of the jungle, just like in the Cabinet.

‘How many articles did you blue-pencil and tear up in those days?’ she asked.

‘Dozens,’ I remembered.

‘And how many official papers have you torn up?’

‘None,’ I told her. ‘I’m not allowed to.’

She smiled reproachfully at me, and I realised that I still hadn’t broken out of this destructive pattern of behaviour.

‘Not allowed to?’ She held my hand. ‘Darling, you’re the Minister. You can do anything you like.’

She’s right. I am. I can. And, somehow, all my officials have house-trained me. I see it now. Honestly, I’m so grateful to Annie, she has such remarkable common sense. Well, they’re going to get quite a surprise. Suddenly, I can’t wait to get to the office. My New Year Resolution is: Take Charge.

January 11th

Today was better.

But only a little better. My attitude was fine, but unfortunately his didn’t seem to change all that much.

I summoned Humphrey to my office. I don’t think he liked being summoned. Then I told him that Frank was absolutely correct, and Bob McKenzie too — the National Data Base has to be organised differently.

To my surprise, he agreed meekly. ‘Yes Minister,’ he murmured.

‘We are going to have all possible built-in safeguards,’ I went on.

‘Yes Minister,’ he murmured again.

‘Right away,’ I added. This took him by surprise.

‘Er… what precisely do you mean, right away?’

‘I mean right away,’ I said.

‘Oh I see, you mean right away, Minister.’

‘Got it in one, Humphrey.’

So far, so good. But, having totally accepted at the start of the conversation that it was all to be different, he now started to chip away at my resolve.

‘The only thing is,’ he began, ‘perhaps I should remind you that we are still in the early months of this government and there’s an awful lot to get on with, Minister…’

I interrupted. ‘Humphrey,’ I reiterated firmly, ‘we are changing the rules of the Data Base. Now!’

‘But you can’t, Minister,’ he said, coming out into the open.

‘I can,’ I said, remembering my stern talk from Annie last night, ‘I’m the Minister.’

He changed tactics again. ‘Indeed you are, Minister,’ he said, rapidly switching from bullying to grovelling, ‘and quite an excellent Minister at that, if I may say so.’

I brushed all the flannel aside. ‘Never mind the soft soap, Humphrey,’ I replied. ‘I want all citizens to have the right to check their own file, and I want legislation to make unauthorised access to personal files illegal.’

‘Very well,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘It shall be done.’

This rather took the wind out of my sails. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Then we go ahead,’ I said, wondering what the catch was.

I was right. There was a catch. Sir Humphrey took this opportunity to explain to me that we can go ahead, if the Cabinet agrees, and take the matter to the Ministerial Committee, and then we can go ahead to the Official Committee. After that, of course, it’s all plain sailing — straight to the Cabinet Committee! And then back to Cabinet itself. I interrupted to point out that we’d started with Cabinet.

‘Only the policy, Minister,’ explained Sir Humphrey. ‘At this juncture Cabinet will have to consider the specific proposals.’

I conceded the point, but remarked that after going back to Cabinet we could then go ahead. Sir Humphrey agreed — but with the proviso that if Cabinet raises any questions, which it almost certainly would, the proposals would then have to go back to the Ministerial Committee, the Official Committee, the Cabinet Committee and the Cabinet again.

‘I know all this,’ I said brusquely. ‘I’m assuming that Cabinet will raise no objections.’ Sir Humphrey raised his eyebrows and visibly refrained from comment.

I didn’t know all this at all, actually — the complex mechanics of passing legislation don’t ever really become clear to you in Opposition or on the back benches.

‘So after Cabinet, we go ahead. Right?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘to the Leader of the House Committee. And then to Parliament — where there’s the Committee stage of course.’

But suddenly the penny dropped. Suddenly I realised he was blurring the whole issue. A blindfold dropped away from my eyes, as if by magic. ‘Humphrey,’ I said, ‘you’re talking about legislation — but I’m talking about administrative and procedural changes.’

Sir Humphrey smiled complacently. ‘If members of the public are to have the right to take legal action, then legislation is necessary and it will be very complicated.’

I had the answer to that. ‘Legislation is not necessary in order for the citizen to be able to see his own file, is it?’

Sir Humphrey thought carefully about this. ‘No-o-o-o,’ he finally said, with great reluctance.

‘Then we’ll go ahead with that.’ Round one to me, I thought.

But Sir Humphrey had not yet conceded even that much. ‘Minister,’ he began, ‘we could manage that slightly quicker, but there are an awful lot of administrative problems as well.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘this must have come up before. This Data Base has been in preparation for years, it hasn’t just materialised overnight — these problems must have been discussed.’

‘Yes indeed,’ he agreed.

‘So what conclusions have been reached?’ I asked.

Sir Humphrey didn’t reply. At first I thought he was thinking. Then I thought he hadn’t heard me, for some curious reason. So I asked him again: ‘What conclusions have been reached?’ a little louder, just in case. Again there was no visible reaction. I thought he’d become ill.

‘Humphrey,’ I asked, becoming a little concerned for his health and sanity, ‘can you hear me?’

‘My lips are sealed,’ he replied, through unsealed lips.

I asked him what exactly he meant.

‘I am not at liberty to discuss the previous government’s plans,’ he said. I was baffled.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘Minister — would you like everything that you have said and done in the privacy of this office to be revealed subsequently to one of your opponents?’

I’d never thought of that. Of course, I’d be absolutely horrified. It would be a constant threat. I would never be able to speak freely in my own office.

Sir Humphrey knew that he’d scored a bull’s-eye. He pressed home his advantage. ‘We cannot give your political opponents ammunition against you — nor vice versa.’

Of course, I can see his point but there is one essential difference in this instance. I pointed out to Sir Humphrey that Tom Sargent was my predecessor, and he wouldn’t mind. He’s a very decent chap. After all, the Data Base is not a party political matter, politicians of all parties are united on this.

But Sir Humphrey wouldn’t budge. ‘It’s the principle, Minister,’ he said, and added that it just wouldn’t be cricket.

This was a powerful argument. Naturally I don’t want to do anything that’s not cricket. So I suppose I’ll never know what went on before I came here. I can’t see a way round that.

So where have we got to? We’ve established that we don’t need legislation to enable the citizen to see his own file, but that there are numerous unspecified admin. problems that have to be solved first.

One other thing occurred today. Bernard said that because of the adverse (Bernard called it ‘not entirely favourable’) press reaction to my appearance on Topic, the other network wants me to appear on their programme World in Focus. Funny how television is never interested when you’ve got an important announcement to make, but the moment some trivial thing goes wrong the phone never stops ringing. At first I told him to decline, but he said that if I don’t appear they’ll do the item anyway, and no one will be there to state my case.

I asked Humphrey what I was to say about safeguards for the Data Base, in view of our very limited progress today. ‘Perhaps you could remind them, Minister, that Rome wasn’t built in a day.’

Big help!

As I review the meeting, writing it all down for this diary, I now feel that I got absolutely nowhere today. But there must be some way to get Sir Humphrey and the DAA to do what I tell them.

[In the light of Hacker’s experience and frustrations, it is as well to remember that if a Whitehall committee is not positively stopped, it will continue. There could be a Crimea committee, for all we know. There is very probably a ration-book committee and an identity-card committee — Ed.]

January 12th

Today, by a lucky chance, I learned a bit more about dealing with Sir Humphrey.

I bumped into Tom Sargent, in the House of Commons smoking room. I asked if I could join him, and he was only too pleased.

‘How are you enjoying being in Opposition?’ I asked him jocularly.

Like the good politician he is, he didn’t exactly answer my question. ‘How are you enjoying being in government?’ he replied.

I could see no reason to beat about the bush, and I told him that, quite honestly, I’m not enjoying it as much as I’d expected to.

‘Humphrey got you under control?’ he smiled.

I dodged that one, but said that it’s so very hard to get anything done. He nodded, so I asked him, ‘Did you get anything done?’

‘Almost nothing,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘But I didn’t cotton on to his technique till I’d been there over a year — and then of course there was the election.’

It emerged from the conversation that the technique in question was Humphrey’s system for stalling.

According to Tom, it’s in five stages. I made a note during our conversation, for future reference.

Stage One: Humphrey will say that the administration is in its early months and there’s an awful lot of other things to get on with. (Tom clearly knows his stuff. That is just what Humphrey said to me the day before yesterday.)

Stage Two: If I persist past Stage One, he’ll say that he quite appreciates the intention, something certainly ought to be done — but is this the right way to achieve it?

Stage Three: If I’m still undeterred he will shift his ground from how I do it to when I do it, i.e. ‘Minister, this is not the time, for all sorts of reasons.’

Stage Four: Lots of Ministers settle for Stage Three according to Tom. But if not, he will then say that the policy has run into difficulties — technical, political and/or legal. (Legal difficulties are best because they can be made totally incomprehensible and can go on for ever.)

Stage Five: Finally, because the first four stages have taken up to three years, the last stage is to say that ‘we’re getting rather near to the run-up to the next general election — so we can’t be sure of getting the policy through’.

The stages can be made to last three years because at each stage Sir Humphrey will do absolutely nothing until the Minister chases him. And he assumes, rightly, that the Minister has too much else to do. [The whole process is called Creative Inertia — Ed.]

Tom asked me what the policy was that I’m trying to push through. When I told him that I’m trying to make the National Integrated Data Base less of a Big Brother, he roared with laughter.

‘I suppose he’s pretending it’s all new?’

I nodded.

‘Clever old sod,’ said Tom, ‘we spent years on that. We almost had a White Paper ready to bring out, but the election was called. I’ve done it all.’

I could hardly believe my ears. I asked about the administrative problems. Tom said there were none — all solved. And Tom guessed that my enquiries about the past were met with silence — ‘clever bugger, he’s wiped the slate clean’.

Anyway, now I know the five stages, I should be able to deal with Humphrey quite differently. Tom advised me not to let on that we’d had this conversation, because it would spoil the fun. He also warned me of the ‘Three Varieties of Civil Service Silence’, which would be Humphrey’s last resort if completely cornered:

The silence when they do not want to tell you the facts: Discreet Silence.

The silence when they do not intend to take any action: Stubborn Silence.

The silence when you catch them out and they haven’t a leg to stand on. They imply that they could vindicate themselves completely if only they were free to tell all, but they are too honourable to do so: Courageous Silence.

Finally Tom told me what Humphrey’s next move would be. He asked how many boxes they’d given me for tonight: ‘Three? Four?’

‘Five,’ I admitted, somewhat shamefaced.

‘Five?’ He couldn’t hide his astonishment at how badly I was doing. ‘Have they told you that you needn’t worry too much about the fifth?’ I nodded. ‘Right. Well, I’ll bet you that at the bottom of the fifth box will be a submission explaining why any new moves on the Data Base must be delayed — and if you never find it or read it they’ll do nothing further, and in six months’ time they’ll say they told you all about it.’

There was one more thing I wanted to ask Tom, who really had been extremely kind and helpful. He’s been in office for years, in various government posts. So I said to him: ‘Look Tom, you know all the Civil Service tricks.’

‘Not all,’ he grinned, ‘just a few hundred.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Now how do you defeat them? How do you make them do something they do not want to do?’

Tom smiled ruefully, and shook his head. ‘My dear fellow,’ he replied, ‘if I knew that I wouldn’t be in Opposition.’

January 13th

I did my boxes so late last night that I’m writing up yesterday’s discoveries a day late.

Tom had been most helpful to me. When I got home I told Annie all about it over dinner. She couldn’t understand why Tom, as a member of the Opposition, would have been so helpful.

I explained to her that the Opposition aren’t really the opposition. They’re just called the Opposition. But, in fact, they are the opposition in exile. The Civil Service are the opposition in residence.

Then after dinner I did the boxes and sure enough, at the bottom of the fifth box, I found a submission on the Data Base. Not merely at the bottom of the fifth box — to be doubly certain the submission had somehow slipped into the middle of an eighty-page report on Welfare Procedures.

By the way, Tom has also lent me all his private papers on the Data Base, which he kept when he left office. Very useful!

The submission contained the expected delaying phrases: ‘Subject still under discussion… programme not finalised… nothing precipitate… failing instructions to the contrary propose await developments.’

Annie suggested I ring Humphrey and tell him that I disagree. I was reluctant — it was 2 a.m., and he’d be fast asleep.

‘Why should he sleep while you’re working?’ Annie asked me. ‘After all, he’s had you on the run for three months. Now it’s your turn.’

‘I couldn’t possibly do that,’ I said.

Annie looked at me. ‘What’s his number?’ I asked, as I reached for our address book.

Annie added reasonably: ‘After all, if it was in the fifth box you couldn’t have found it any earlier, could you?’

Humphrey answered the phone with a curious sort of grunting noise. I had obviously woken him up. ‘Sorry to ring you so late, you weren’t in the middle of dinner, were you?’

‘No,’ he said, sounding somewhat confused, ‘we had dinner some while ago. What’s the time?’

I told him it was 2 a.m.

‘Good God!’ He sounded as though he’d really woken up now. ‘What’s the crisis?’

‘No crisis. I’m still going through my red boxes and I knew you’d still be hard at it.’

‘Oh yes,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘Nose to the grindstone.’

I told him I’d just got to the paper on the Data Base.

‘Oh, you’ve found…’ he corrected himself without pausing, ‘you’ve read it.’

I told him that I thought he needed to know, straight away, that I wasn’t happy with it, that I knew he’d be grateful to have a little extra time to work on something else, and that I hoped he didn’t mind my calling him.

‘Always a pleasure to hear from you, Minister,’ he said, and I think he slammed down the phone.

After I rang off I realised I’d forgotten to tell him to come and talk about it before Cabinet tomorrow. I was about to pick up the phone when Annie said: ‘Don’t ring him now.’

I was surprised by this sudden show of kindness and consideration for Sir Humphrey, but I agreed. ‘No, perhaps it is a bit late.’

She smiled. ‘Yes. Just give him another ten minutes.’

January 14th

This morning I made a little more progress in my battle for control over Humphrey and my Department, though the battle is not yet won.

But I had with me my notes from the meeting with Tom Sargent, and — exactly as Tom had predicted — Sir Humphrey put his stalling technique into bat.

‘Humphrey,’ I began, ‘have you drafted the proposed safeguards for the Data Base?’

‘Minister,’ he replied plausibly, ‘I quite appreciate your intention and I fully agree that there is a need for safeguards but I’m wondering if this is the right way to achieve it.’

‘It’s my way,’ I said decisively, and I ticked off the first objection in my little notebook. ‘And that’s my decision.’

Humphrey was surprised that his objection had been brushed aside so early, without protracted discussion — so surprised that he went straight on to his second stage.

‘Even so Minister,’ he said, ‘this is not really the time, for all sorts of reasons.’

I ticked off number two in my notebook, and replied: ‘It is the perfect time — safeguards have to develop parallel with systems, not after them — that’s common sense.’

Humphrey was forced to move on to his third objection. Tom really has analysed his technique well.

‘Unfortunately, Minister,’ said Humphrey doggedly, ‘we have tried this before, but, well… we have run into all sorts of difficulties.’

I ticked off number three in my little book. Humphrey had noticed this by now, and tried to look over my shoulder to see what was written there. I held the book away from him.

‘What sort of difficulties?’ I enquired.

‘Technical, for example,’ said Humphrey.

Thanks to a careful study of Tom’s private papers, I had the answer ready. ‘No problem at all,’ I said airily. ‘I’ve been doing some research. We can use the same basic file interrogation programme as the US State Department and the Swedish Ministry of the Interior. No technical problems.’

Sir Humphrey was getting visibly rattled, but he persisted. ‘There are also formidable administrative problems. All departments are affected. An interdepartmental committee will have to be set up…’

I interrupted him in mid-sentence. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I think you’ll find, if you look into it, that the existing security procedures are adequate. This can just be an extension. Anything else?’

Humphrey was gazing at me with astonishment. He just couldn’t work out how I was so thoroughly in command of the situation. Was I just making a series of inspired guesses, he wondered. As he didn’t speak for a moment, I decided to help him out.

‘Legal problems?’ I suggested helpfully.

‘Yes Minister,’ he agreed at once, hoping that he had me cornered at last. Legal problems were always his best bet.

‘Good, good,’ I said, and ticked off the last but one stage on my little list. Again he tried to see what I had written down.

‘There is a question,’ he began carefully, ‘of whether we have the legal power…’

‘I’ll answer it,’ I announced grandly. ‘We have.’ He was looking at me in wonderment. ‘All personnel affected are bound by their service agreement anyway.’

He couldn’t argue because, of course, I was right. Grasping at straws he said: ‘But Minister, there will have to be extra staffing — are you sure you will get it through Cabinet and the Parliamentary Party?’

‘Quite sure,’ I said. ‘Anything else?’ I looked at my list. ‘No, nothing else. Right, so we go ahead?’

Humphrey was silent. I wondered whether he was being discreet, stubborn or courageous. Stubborn, I think.

Eventually, I spoke. ‘You’re very silent,’ I remarked. There was more silence. ‘Why are you so silent, by the way?’

He realised that he had to speak, or the jig was up. ‘Minister, you do not seem to realise how much work is involved.’

Casually, I enquired if he’d never investigated safeguards before, under another government perhaps, as I thought I remembered written answers to Parliamentary questions in the past.

His reply went rather as follows: ‘Minister, in the first place, we’ve agreed that the question is not cricket. In the second place, if there had been investigations, which there haven’t or not necessarily, or I am not at liberty to say if there have, there would have been a project team which, had it existed, on which I cannot comment, would now be disbanded if it had existed and the members returned to their original departments, had there indeed been any such members.’ Or words to that effect.

I waited till the torrent of useless language came to a halt, and then I delivered my ultimatum. I told him that I wanted safeguards on the use of the Data Base made available immediately. He told me it isn’t possible. I told him it is. He told me it isn’t. I told him it is. We went on like that (’tis, ’tisn’t, ’tis, ’tisn’t) like a couple of three-year-olds, glowering at each other, till Bernard popped in.

I didn’t want to reveal that Tom had told me of the safeguards that were ready and waiting, because then I’d have no more aces up my sleeve.

While I contemplated this knotty problem, Bernard reminded me of my engagements: Cabinet at 10, a speech to the Anglo-American Society lunch, and the World in Focus interview this evening. I asked him if he could get me out of the lunch. ‘Not really, Minister,’ he answered, ‘it’s been announced. It’s in the programme.’

And suddenly the penny dropped. The most wonderful plan formed in my mind, the idea of the century!

I told Humphrey and Bernard to be sure to watch me on TV tonight.

[The transcript of Hacker’s appearance that night on World in Focus follows. It contains his first truly memorable victory over his officials — Ed.]

SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:[8]

Jim Hacker always gave me the credit for this brilliant ploy, because of the unintentional double meaning of my remark, ‘it’s been announced, it’s in the programme’.

However, I personally believe that Hacker was inspired by Edward Heath’s famous manoeuvre when he was Prime Minister and wanted — in the teeth of Civil Service opposition — to announce a new £1 °Christmas bonus for the Old Age Pensioners. After many weeks of obstruction within Number Ten he simply appeared on Panorama and announced it as a fait accompli. It happened. It happened late, but it happened.

I well remember that Humphrey Appleby’s face was a picture when Jim made his statement — especially at the moment when he said that his Permanent Secretary had staked his reputation on it.

He turned to me and said: ‘It can’t be done.’ I made no reply.

Then he said to me: ‘Well Bernard, what do you make of the Minister’s performance?’

I was obliged to say that, in my opinion, it was checkmate.

January 15th

Today was my happiest day since I became a Minister.

‘Did you see me on the box last night?’ I asked Humphrey cheerfully as he gloomed into the office looking like Mr Sowerberry at a funeral.

‘Of course,’ he replied, tight-lipped.

Actually, it didn’t matter whether he’d seen me or not, because my TV appearance was completely reported in this morning’s press.

‘How was I?’ I asked innocently. ‘Good?’

‘A most remarkable performance, Minister, if I may say so,’ he answered with studied ambiguity.

‘You may, you may,’ I said, affecting not to notice it.

‘Minister, we have been working very hard all night, and I’m happy to be able to inform you that we have come up with some draft proposals that would enable you to achieve your desired objectives by the stated dates.’

In other words, he spent five minutes digging out from the files the proposals agreed last year when Tom was Minister.

‘Well done, Humphrey,’ I said ingenuously. ‘You see, I told the nation how splendid you are and I was right. I had every confidence in you.’

‘Quite so, Minister,’ he said through clenched teeth.

He got out a folder containing his proposals.

‘Are those your proposals?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Here are mine,’ I said, and produced a folder too.

‘You have proposals too?’ He was surprised.

I told Humphrey to read his proposed safeguards. Then I would read mine. And we would see how they compared.

Humphrey started reading. ‘One — Personal Data –1 A. Safeguards must be applied with reference to…’

I could resist it no longer. Reading from my folder, I joined in, and together, in unison, we read: ‘… two criteria — the need to know and the right to know. 1.A(i) the need to know. Only those officials for whom the information was submitted may be deemed, prima facie, to have a need to know.’

We looked at each other.

‘We seem to be of the same mind,’ I remarked.

‘Where did those proposals come from?’ he demanded. I said nothing. After a few moments he repeated, ‘Where did those proposals come from?’

‘Humphrey,’ I replied in a tone of slight reproof, ‘my lips are sealed.’