The Complete Yes Minister (2 page)

After the result was announced I went to the celebration do at Alderman Spotteswoode’s
¹
and saw Robert McKenzie on the telly say: ‘And so Jim Hacker’s back, with an increased majority in his marginal constituency. After many years as a Shadow Minister he seems almost certain to get a Cabinet post in the new government.’

Robin Day seemed doubtful, though. I do hope Bob McKenzie’s right.

I’m still hoping but I wonder if Robin Day knows something that I don’t.

I’ve been sitting by the telephone ever since breakfast. No potential Cabinet Minister ever moves more than twenty feet from the telephone in the twenty-four hours following the appointment of a new Prime Minister. If you haven’t heard within twenty-four hours, you’re not going to be in the Cabinet.

Annie kept me supplied with constant cups of coffee all morning, and when I returned to the armchair next to the phone after lunch she asked me to help do the Brussels sprouts for dinner if I didn’t have anything else to do. I explained to her that I couldn’t because I was waiting for the call.

‘Who from?’ Sometimes Annie really is a bit dense.

The phone rang. I grabbed it. It was Frank Weisel, my special political adviser, saying that he was on his way over. I told Annie, who wasn’t pleased.

‘Why doesn’t he just move in?’ she asked bitterly.

Sometimes I just don’t understand her. I patiently explained to her that, as my political adviser, I depend on Frank more than anyone. ‘Then why don’t you marry
him
?’ she asked. ‘I now pronounce you man and political adviser. Whom politics has joined let no wife put asunder.’

It is awfully difficult for Annie, I know. Being an MP’s wife is a pretty thankless task. But now that I may be a Minister, she’ll at last reap the rewards!

The phone rang all day. Alderman Spotteswoode, the Gas Board, Frank, all sorts of useless people ringing up to congratulate me. ‘On what?’ I said to Annie: ‘Don’t they realise I’m waiting for the call?’

She said, ‘You sound as if you’re about to enter the ministry.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but which ministry, that’s the whole point.’

Suddenly Annie screamed. I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘It was a
joke
!’ she shouted, and started to pull her hair out. I decided that she must be a bit tense.

‘Are you a bit tense?’ I asked. She screamed again, and threw herself onto the floor. I thought of calling an ambulance, but was worried about the adverse publicity affecting my career at this crucial juncture – NEW MINISTER’S WIFE TAKEN AWAY IN STRAIT-JACKET.

‘Are you a bit tense?’ I asked again. Carefully.

‘No,’ she shouted – ‘No, no, no, I’m not tense. I’m just a politician’s wife. I’m not allowed to have feelings. I’m just a happy carefree politician’s wife.’

So I asked her why she was lying face downwards on the floor. ‘I’m looking for a cigarette. I can’t find any.’

‘Try the cigarette box,’ I advised, trying to keep calm.

‘It’s empty.’

‘Take a Valium.’

‘I can’t find the Valium, that’s why I’m looking for a cigarette. Jim, pop out and get me some.’

I explained to Annie that I simply didn’t dare leave the phone. Annie betrayed her usual total lack of understanding. ‘Look, if the PM wants you to be in the bloody Cabinet, the PM will phone back if you’re out. Or you can phone back.’

Annie will never understand the finer points of politics.

[
Hacker was very insecure about his cabinet prospects because he had previously run Martin Walker’s campaign against the new PM for the leadership of the party. The question was whether the PM would be strong enough to ignore Jim Hacker or whether, in the interests of party unity, the PM would be obliged to give him a good job – Ed
.]

By the end of today I’ve heard on the grapevine that Bill’s got Europe. Poor old Europe. Bill can’t speak French or German. He hardly even speaks English, as a matter of fact. Martin’s got the Foreign Office, as expected, Jack’s got Health and Fred’s got Energy.

I told Annie of these appointments, and she asked me if anyone had got Brains. I suppose she means Education.

At last I’m a Cabinet Minister.

And today I had my first encounter with the Civil Service, and I must say I am very impressed.

I got the call from Number Ten at about 9 a.m., after a sleepless night, and immediately Frank Weisel and I caught the London train. I got a taxi to Number Ten, where I was asked by the PM to take over the Department of Administrative Affairs.

This is an important post. In the Cabinet ranking, about eighth or ninth I should think. On the other hand, Martin reminded me (when he phoned to congratulate me) that the DAA is a political graveyard, a bit like the Home Office, and the PM may have over-promoted me – a vengeful move. I am determined to get a grip on the DAA and prove to the PM that I’m not so easily taken care of.

I was expecting to be Minister of Agriculture, as I’ve shadowed Agriculture for seven years, and have many good ideas about it, but for some inexplicable reason the PM decided against this.

[
We found a memo from Sir Andrew Donnelly, Permanent Secretary of Agriculture, to Sir Arnold Robinson, Secretary to the Cabinet, imploring Sir Arnold to make sure that Hacker did not get Agriculture as he was too ‘genned up’ on it. Cabinet Papers show that Sir Arnold managed to convey to the PM that it would be better for Hacker not to go to Agriculture because ‘he’s been thinking about it rather too long and is perhaps in a bit of a rut’ – Ed
.]

An official car met me as I came out of Number Ten, and I was driven straight to the DAA. I was met on the front steps by Bernard Woolley, who is to be my Private Secretary, and his assistant. He seems a likeable enough chap.

To my surprise he instantly knew who Frank Weisel was, as we got out of the car, though he pronounced his name ‘Weasel’, which always infuriates Frank.

We walked down miles of corridors. When we got to my office Frank had disappeared with the Assistant Private Secretary. Bernard assured me that Frank was being taken care of. They really are awfully nice and helpful.

My office is large, with a big desk, a conference table with lots of chairs around it, and a few armchairs arranged around a coffee table to form a conversation area. Otherwise, rather characterless. Bernard immediately went to the drinks cupboard.

‘A drink, Minister?’

I nodded. ‘Jim,’ I said, as I want us to be on first-name terms.

‘Gin?’ he said, mishearing me.

‘No,’ I said, ‘Jim. Call me Jim.’

Bernard said: ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather call you Minister, Minister.’

‘Minister, Minister?’ It reminded me of Major Major in
Catch-22
. Then I realised what he meant. I asked him, ‘Does that mean I have to call you Private Secretary, Private Secretary?’

Bernard said I was to call him Bernard. I’m sure that in the course of time I’ll persuade him to call me Jim.

A moment later Sir Humphrey Appleby arrived. He is the Permanent Secretary of the DAA, the Civil Service Head of the Department. He is in his early fifties I should think, but – somehow – ageless. He is charming and intelligent, a typical mandarin. He welcomed me to the Department.

‘I believe you’ve met before,’ Bernard remarked. I was struck for the second time how well-informed this young man is.

Sir Humphrey said, ‘Yes, we did cross swords when the Minister gave me a grilling over the Estimates in the Public Accounts Committee last year. He asked me all the questions I hoped nobody would ask.’

This is splendid. Sir Humphrey clearly admires me. I tried to brush it off. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Opposition’s about asking awkward questions.’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘and government is about not answering them.’

I was surprised. ‘But you answered all my questions, didn’t you,’ I commented.

‘I’m glad you thought so, Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey. I didn’t quite know what he meant by that. I decided to ask him who else was in the Department.

‘Briefly, sir, I am the Permanent Under-Secretary of State, known as the Permanent Secretary. Woolley here is your Principal Private Secretary. I, too, have a Principal Private Secretary, and he is the Principal Private Secretary to the Permanent Secretary. Directly responsible to me are ten Deputy Secretaries, eighty-seven Under-Secretaries and two hundred and nineteen Assistant Secretaries. Directly responsible to the Principal Private Secretaries are plain Private Secretaries. The Prime Minister will be appointing two Parliamentary Under-Secretaries and you will be appointing your own Parliamentary Private Secretary.’

‘Can they all type?’ I joked.

‘None of us can type, Minister,’ replied Sir Humphrey smoothly. ‘Mrs McKay types – she is your secretary.’

I couldn’t tell whether or not he was joking. ‘What a pity,’ I said. ‘We could have opened an agency.’

Sir Humphrey and Bernard laughed. ‘Very droll, sir,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘Most amusing, sir,’ said Bernard. Were they genuinely amused at my wit, or just being rather patronising? ‘I suppose they all say that, do they?’ I ventured.

Sir Humphrey reassured me on that. ‘Certainly not, Minister,’ he replied. ‘Not quite all.’

I decided to take charge at once. I sat behind my desk and to my dismay I found it had a swivel chair. I don’t like swivel chairs. But Bernard immediately assured me that everything in the office can be changed at my command – furniture, decor, paintings, office routine. I am unquestionably the boss!

Bernard then told me that they have two types of chair in stock, to go with two kinds of Minister – ‘One sort folds up instantly and the other sort goes round and round in circles.’ On second thoughts, perhaps that was another of Bernard’s little jokes.

I decided that the time had come to be blunt and to tell them what’s what. ‘Frankly,’ I said, ‘this Department has got to cut a great swathe through the whole of the stuffy Whitehall bureaucracy. We need a new broom. We are going to throw open the windows and let in a bit of fresh air. We are going to cut through the red tape and streamline this creaking old bureaucratic machine. We are going to have a clean sweep. There are far too many useless people just sitting behind desks.’

I became aware that
I
was actually sitting behind a desk, but I’m sure that they realised that I was not referring to myself.

I explained that we had to start by getting rid of people who just make work for each other. Sir Humphrey was very helpful, and suggested that I mean redeploy them – which, I suppose, is what I
do
mean. I certainly want to reduce overmanning, but I don’t actually want to be responsible for putting people out of work.

But, by the clean sweep and the new broom, I mean that we must have more Open Government. We made election pledges about this, and I intend to keep them. We must take the nation into our confidence. I said all this to Humphrey and Bernard who, to my surprise, were wholeheartedly in favour of these ideas.

Humphrey referred to my speeches on this subject in the House last year. And he referred to my
Observer
article,
Daily Mail
interview, and the manifesto.

I am most impressed that he knows so much about me.

Humphrey then produced draft proposals, to implement my policy in a White Paper. I was flabbergasted. The efficiency of the Civil Service is quite astounding. They even plan, Sir Humphrey tells me, to call the White Paper ‘Open Government’.

All of these draft proposals are available to me within thirty-six hours of the new government being elected and within minutes of my arrival at my office. And on a weekend! Remarkable chaps. I asked Humphrey who had done all this.

‘The creaking old bureaucratic machine,’ he replied with a smile. ‘No seriously, Minister, we are fully seized of the need for reform and we have taken it on board.’

I told him I was slightly surprised.

‘I thought I’d have to fight you all the way,’ I said.

Sir Humphrey remarked that people have funny ideas about the Civil Service.

‘We are just here to help you formulate and implement your policies,’ he explained.

He seems most sincere.

The draft proposals, which I have brought home tonight to my London flat in a red box, include ‘Proposals for Shortening Approval Procedures in Planning Appeals’. Excellent. Sir Humphrey was able to quote from Hansard the rather amusing question which I’d asked earlier this year in the House:

[
Actually they cried ‘Bollocks’ – Ed
.]

As it’s Saturday, we have arranged to start things properly on Monday morning. But they’ve given me six red boxes for the weekend, four to be completed by tonight and two more tomorrow. Bernard tells me that the previous Minister got a bit slack about the paperwork, especially during the election campaign.