The Complete Yes Minister (18 page)

In other words, divide and rule. And the Foreign Office can see no reason to change when it has worked so well until now.

I was aware of all this, naturally, but I regarded it as ancient history. Humphrey thinks that it is, in fact, current policy. It was necessary for us to break up the EEC, he explained, so we had to get inside. We had previously tried to break it up from the outside, but that didn’t work. [
A reference to our futile and short-lived involvement in EFTA, the European Free Trade Association, founded in 1960 and which the UK left in 1972 – Ed
.] Now that we’re in, we are able to make a complete pig’s breakfast out of it. We have now set the Germans against the French, the French against the Italians, the Italians against the Dutch . . . and the Foreign Office is terribly happy. It’s just like old times.

I was staggered by all of this. I thought that all of us who are publicly pro-Europe believed in the European ideal. I said this to Sir Humphrey, and he simply chuckled.

So I asked him: if we don’t believe in the European ideal, why are we pushing to increase the membership?

‘Same reason,’ came the reply. ‘It’s just like the United Nations. The more members it has, the more arguments you can stir up, and the more futile and impotent it becomes.’

This all strikes me as the most appalling cynicism, and I said so.

Sir Humphrey agreed complacently. ‘Yes Minister. We call it diplomacy. It’s what made Britain great, you know.’

Frank, like the terrier that he is, wanted to continue worrying away at the problem of the Europass. ‘How will the other EEC countries feel about having to carry identity papers? Won’t they resist too?’

Sir Humphrey felt not. ‘The Germans will love it, the French will ignore it, and the Italians and Irish will be too chaotic to enforce it. Only the British will resent it.’ He’s right, of course.

I must say that, to me, it’s all beginning to look suspiciously like a plot to get rid of me. Frank doesn’t subscribe to a conspiracy theory on this occasion, on the grounds that I’m to be got rid of
anyway
as my department is to be abolished.

But I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that the PM just wants to make absolutely sure. Frank told me not to be paranoid, but I think
he
’d be paranoid if everyone were plotting against him.

‘We’re on your side, Minister.’ Sir Humphrey was trying to be comforting. Life is full of surprises!

Then I had an idea. I suddenly realised that Martin will be on my side. I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before. He’s Foreign Secretary – and, to my certain knowledge, Martin is genuinely pro-Europe. (Humphrey calls him ‘naïf’). Also I ran his campaign against the PM, and he only stands to lose if I’m squeezed out.

We’ve arranged a meeting with him on Monday, at the House. I can’t think
how
he can help, exactly, but between us we may find some lever.

All is well. The battle is won. My career, Humphrey’s career, and the DAA have all been saved by a brilliant piece of political opportunism, of which I am extremely proud. Plus a little bit of luck, of course. But it’s been a very satisfactory day.

We all gathered conspiratorially at Martin’s office. He was full of his usual second-rate witticisms.

‘You’ve done a Samson act, Jim.’

I, presumably, looked blank.

‘You see, you wanted to reduce the Civil Service, and you’ve done it. You’ve pulled the whole superstructure down – and buried yourself.’

I didn’t know whether I was supposed to smile, or congratulate him on his wit, or what.

Sir Humphrey, of course, couldn’t wait to join the analogy game. ‘A Pyrrhic victory,’ he intoned mournfully, presumably to remind us all that he is a classicist.

‘Any ideas?’ I asked Martin.

He had none. So we all had another of our tremendous gloomy silences.

Frank, fortuitously as it turned out, continued worrying away at the puzzle of why the PM wanted to introduce a Europass. ‘I don’t understand it. It doesn’t make sense. Why can’t the PM see the damage it’s going to do to the government?’

I agreed, and remarked that this Europass thing is the worst disaster to befall the government since I was made a member of the Cabinet. [
We don’t think that Hacker actually meant what he seems to be saying here – Ed
.]

Martin was quite calm about the Europass. ‘Everyone knows it won’t happen,’ he said.

Who does he mean by ‘everyone’? I certainly didn’t know it wouldn’t happen – but then, I didn’t even know it
would
happen till yesterday.

‘The PM,’ continued Martin, ‘has to play along with it till after the Napoleon Prize is awarded.’

Apparently the Napoleon Prize is a NATO award, given once every five years. A gold medal, big ceremony in Brussels, and £100,000. The PM is the front runner. It’s awarded to the statesman who has made the biggest contribution to European unity since Napoleon. [
That’s if you don’t count Hitler – Ed
.]

‘The award committee meets in six weeks,’ said Martin, ‘and so obviously the PM doesn’t want to rock the boat until it’s in the bag.’

I think I caught Bernard mumbling to himself that you don’t put boats in bags, but it was very quiet, I might have misheard, and he refused to repeat what he’d said which makes me think I didn’t mishear at all.

‘And,’ said Martin, reaching the point at last, ‘once the prize is won, the PM will obviously dump the Europass.’

I had this wonderful idea. I couldn’t quite articulate it. It was slowly forming in the back of my mind. But first I needed some answers.

‘Martin,’ I asked. ‘How many people know about the winner of the Napoleon Prize?’

‘It’s top secret,’ he said. Naturally, I was disappointed. Top secret means that everyone knows.

But not this time, apparently. ‘
Top secret
, top secret,’ said Martin.

I was now so excited that I was becoming incoherent. ‘Don’t you see?’ I said. ‘Backbenchers . . . leaks . . .’

A puzzled Humphrey asked me if I were referring to the Welsh Nationalist Party.

And at that moment God was on my side. The door opened, and in stepped Dr Donald Hughes. He apologised, and said he’d return later, but I stopped him. I told him that he was the very man I wanted to see, that I wanted his advice, and invited him to take a pew.

He pretended that he was eager to help me. But he warned that if it were a case of shutting stable doors after horses have bolted, even he would be powerless to help. I said, flatteringly, that I’m sure that he would not be powerless. I put it to him that I was in a serious moral dilemma – which, of course, I invented at that very moment.

My dilemma was this, I said. I told Hughes that I knew that a backbencher was planning to table a question to the PM about whether or not the Europass is to be adopted by Britain.

Hughes was immediately jumpy. ‘Which backbencher? The Europass is top secret.’

‘Like the winner of the Napoleon Prize?’ I asked.

We eyed each other carefully – I wasn’t entirely sure of my next move, but thankfully Bernard stepped in with an inspirational reply. ‘I think the Minister means a hypothetical backbencher,’ he said. Good old Bernard.

Hughes said that it was highly improbable that such a question would be asked.

I ignored that, and explained that if the question were to be asked, there were only two possible replies: if the PM says
yes
it would be damaging to the government in the country – but if the PM says
no
it would be even more damaging to the government in Europe. And to the PM personally – in view of the Napoleon Prize.

Hughes nodded, and waited. So I continued. ‘Suppose a hypothetical Minister got wind of this hypothetical backbencher’s question, in advance, what should he do?’

‘The only responsible course for a loyal minister,’ he said carefully, ‘would be to see that the question was not tabled. That must be obvious.’

‘It’s a serious business trying to suppress an MP’s question,’ I said. Of course, he and I both knew that, as yet, there was no question and no such backbencher – but that there could be, if I chose to set it up.

‘The only way to stop him,’ I offered, ‘might be to let the backbencher table a question asking the PM to squash rumours about the closure of the Department of Administrative Affairs.’

There it was. My offer of a deal. Out in the open. Hughes paused to consider, just for a few moments, in case he could see a way out. But there was none.

And, to his credit, he handled it superbly. At once out came all the appropriate phrases: ‘But I’m sure . . . whatever made you think? . . . no question of anything but the fullest support . . .’ etc.

Then Humphrey, who’d got the idea at last, moved in for the kill. ‘But you said only a few days ago that the plan to abolish the Department had been put up and the PM was smiling on it.’

‘Smiling
at
it,’ said Donald Hughes smoothly. ‘Smiling
at
it, not
on
it. The idea was ridiculous, laughable, out of the question. A joke.’ Beautifully done – I take my hat off to him.

So I asked him for a minute from the PM’s office, to be circulated to all departments within twenty-four hours, scotching the rumour. So that we could all share the joke.

‘Do you really think it’s necessary?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Humphrey, Bernard, Frank, Martin and I. In unison.

Hughes said that in that case, he was sure it could be arranged, that it would be a pleasure, how much he’d enjoyed chatting to us all, excused himself and left. Presumably he hurried straight to Number Ten.

Game, set and match. One of my most brilliant performances. I am exceedingly pleased with myself.

Bernard asked, after Donald Hughes had gone, if Hughes can
really
fix it for us. ‘Don’t Prime Ministers have a mind of their own?’ he asked.

‘Certainly,’ I said to Bernard. ‘But in the words of Chuck Colson, President Nixon’s henchman, when you’ve got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.’

¹
Dr Donald Hughes was the Prime Minister’s Senior Policy Adviser, brought into government from outside. Tough, intelligent, hard-bitten and with no love for senior civil servants.

²
Hacker was clearly right about this. On the same euphemistic principle, the Ministry of War was renamed the Ministry of Defence, and the Department responsible for unemployment was called the Department of Employment.

6

The Right to Know

Today I had an environmental issue to deal with. A deputation of several environmentalists brought me a petition. Six fat exercise books, full of signatures. There must be thousands of signatures, if not hundreds of thousands.

They were protesting about my proposed new legislation to sort out all the existing confusions and anomalies in the present system – not that you can
call
it a system – which is a mess, a hotchpotch. Local authorities, tourist authorities, national parks, the National Trust, the Countryside Commission, the CPRE
¹
are all backbiting and buckpassing and nobody knows where they are and nothing gets done. The sole purpose of the new legislation is to tidy all this up and make all these wretched committees work together.

I explained this to the deputation. ‘You know what committees are?’ I said. ‘Always squabbling and procrastinating and wasting everyone’s time.’

‘
We
are a committee,’ said one of them, an unprepossessing bespectacled female of indeterminate age but clear upper-middle-class Hampstead origins. She seemed rather offended.

I explained that I didn’t mean
her
sort of committee; all that I was trying to do was create a new authority with clear simple procedures. Public money will be saved. It seems to me that it should be welcome to everyone.

However, these representatives of the Hampstead middle class were worried about some place called Hayward’s Spinney. Apparently it is going to lose its protected status under the new scheme – like one or two other places – because it’s simply not economic to administer it properly.

But it seems that Hayward’s Spinney is regarded by some of these cranks as a vital part of Britain’s heritage. ‘The badgers have dwelt in it for generations,’ spluttered an elderly upper-class socialist of the Michael Foot patrician ilk.

‘How do you know?’ I asked, simply out of curiosity.

‘It said so in
The Guardian
,’ said an intense young man in hobnail boots.

Some reason for believing anything! You’ve only got to be in public life for about a week before you start to question if the newspapers are even giving you today’s date with any accuracy! However, the young man thrust a copy of
The Guardian
at me.

I looked at the story he had circled in red. Actually, what
The Guardian
said was: ‘The bodgers have dwelt in it for in it for generators.’

I read it aloud, and laughed, but they appeared to have absolutely no sense of humour. Then the middle-aged lady in a brown tweed skirt that enveloped mighty hips demanded, ‘How would you feel if you were going to have office blocks built all over your garden by a lot of giant badgers?’

Giant badgers? I tried not to laugh at this Monty Pythonesque vision, while another of these freaks continued self-righteously, ‘There’s nothing special about man, Mr Hacker. We’re not above nature. We’re all a part of it. Men are animals too, you know.’

Obviously I knew that already. I’d just come from the House of Commons.

Bernard helped me get rid of them after about ten minutes. I made no promises to them, and gave them the usual bromides about all views being taken into consideration at the appropriate stage. But I am concerned that no one in the Department warned me that unifying the administration of the countryside would mean removing special protected status from these blasted badgers. Not that I give a damn about badgers, but I have been allowed to tell Parliament and the press that no loss of amenity was involved.