The Complete Yes Minister (41 page)

I was almost stumped. ‘He . . . er . . . he writes with charm,’ I explained unconvincingly. ‘Doesn’t he, Bernard?’

‘Yes Minister,’ replied Bernard dutifully.

Sir Humphrey’s face was a picture.

¹
Originally said by Mr Harold Wilson as he then was.

²
Department of Industry.

12

The Devil You Know

The EEC is really intolerably difficult to deal with. For months I have been working with the DAA to get the whole of the Civil Service to place one big central order for word-processing machines. This would replace the present nonsensical practice of every separate department in Whitehall ordering all different sorts of word-processors in dribs and drabs.

If we at the DAA placed one big central order for everyone, the sum of money would be so large it would enable UK manufacturers to make the right sort of investment in systems development.

For days now, we have been on the verge of success. Months of patient negotiations were about to pay off. I was all ready to make a major press announcement: I could see the headlines: HACKER’S MASSIVE INVESTMENT IN MODERN TECHNOLOGY. JIM’S VOTE OF CONFIDENCE IN BRITISH INDUSTRY. BRITAIN CAN MAKE IT, SAYS JIM.

And then, this morning, we got another bloody directive from the bloody EEC in bloody Brussels, saying that all EEC members
must
work to some niggling European word-processing standards. And therefore, we must postpone everything in order to agree plans with a whole mass of European Word Processing Committees at the forthcoming European Word Processing Conference in Brussels.

I called a meeting to discuss all this. I went through the whole story so far, and Sir Humphrey and Bernard just sat there saying, ‘Yes Minister,’ and ‘Quite so Minister,’ at regular intervals. Some help.

Finally, I got tired of the sound of my own voice. [
Was this a first? – Ed
.] I demanded that Humphrey contribute something to the discussion.

He sighed. ‘Well, Minister, I’m afraid that this is the penalty we have to pay for trying to pretend that we are Europeans. Believe me, I fully understand your hostility to Europe.’

As so often happens, Humphrey completely missed the point. I tried to explain again.

‘Humphrey,’ I said slowly and patiently, ‘I’m not like you. I am pro-Europe. I’m just anti-Brussels. You seem to be anti-Europe and pro-Brussels.’

He dodged the issue, and pretended that he had no opinions on the EEC. Duplicitous creep. ‘Minister, I am neither pro nor anti anything. I am merely a Humble Vessel into which Ministers pour the fruits of their deliberations. But it can certainly be argued that, given the absurdity of the whole European idea, Brussels is in fact doing its best to defend the indefensible and make the unworkable work.’

I told Humphrey that he was talking through his hat and that although I didn’t want to sound pompous the European ideal is our best hope of overcoming narrow national self-interest.

He told me that I didn’t sound pompous – merely inaccurate.

So I explained yet again to the Humble Vessel that Europe is a community of nations united by a common goal.

He chuckled, and I asked if Bernard and I might share the joke.

He was laughing at the idea that the community was united. ‘Look at it
objectively
,’ he said. ‘The game is played for national interests, and always was.’

I disagreed. I reminded him that we went into the EEC to strengthen the international brotherhood of free nations.

Humphrey chuckled again. It really was most disconcerting. Then he began to tell me his interpretation – which was even more disconcerting.

‘We went in,’ he said, ‘to screw the French by splitting them off from the Germans. The French went in to protect their inefficient farmers from commercial competition. The Germans went in to cleanse themselves of genocide and apply for readmission to the human race.’

I told Humphrey that I was quite shocked by his appalling cynicism. I couldn’t actually argue with what he said because I feel, somewhat uneasily, that there is a ring of truth about it. I said: ‘At least the little nations are in it for selfless reasons.’

‘Ah yes,’ he replied. ‘Luxembourg is in it for the perks – all that foreign money pouring into the capital of the EEC.’

‘Nonetheless, it’s a very sensible location for the capital,’ I argued.

He smiled. ‘With the administration in Brussels and the Parliament in Strasbourg?’ It’s like having London as the capital with the House of Commons in Swindon and the Civil Service in Kettering.’

‘If this were true,’ I said doggedly, ‘the other countries wouldn’t have been trying to join.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, take the Greeks.’

Sir Humphrey settled back reflectively in his chair. ‘Actually,’ he mused, ‘I find it difficult to take the Greeks. Open-minded as I am about foreigners, as well you know.’ (His total lack of self-awareness took my breath away!) ‘But what will the Greeks want out of it? – an olive mountain and a retsina lake.’ He looked at my face, and added apologetically: ‘Sorry, I suppose some of your best friends are Greek.’

I could stand no more of this cynical rubbish. I tried to broaden the discussion, to look at the real problems of the community.

‘The trouble with Brussels,’ I began, ‘is not internationalism. It’s too much bureaucracy.’

I got no further. Humphrey interrupted me again.

‘But don’t you see,’ he insisted, ‘that the bureaucracy is a consequence of the internationalism? Why else would an English Commissioner have a French Director-General immediately below him, an Italian Chef-du-Division reporting to the Frenchman, and so on down the line?’

I was forced to agree. ‘I agree,’ I said.

‘It’s the Tower of Babel,’ he said.

I was forced to agree again.

‘I agree,’ I said.

‘In fact, it’s even worse than that – it’s like the United Nations,’ he added.

I could not but agree for the third time. ‘I agree,’ I said.

We both stopped talking and gazed at each other. Where had we reached? What had we decided? What next?

Bernard tried to help out. ‘Then, perhaps, if I may interject, perhaps you are in fact in agreement.’

‘No we’re not!’ we said, in unison.

That much was certain!

‘Brussels is a shambles,’ I said, pursuing my theme of how the bureaucracy destroys the bonds between nations. I reminded Humphrey that the typical Common Market official is said to have the organising capacity of the Italians, the flexibility of the Germans and the modesty of the French. He tops all that up with the imagination of the Belgians, the generosity of the Dutch, and the intelligence of the Irish. Finally, for good measure, he has the European spirit of Mr Anthony Wedgwood Benn.
¹

‘And now,’ I concluded, ‘they are all trying to screw up our excellent word-processing plan which is wholly in Britain’s interest and my interest.’

‘Which are, of course,’ added Humphrey, ‘one and the same thing.’

I stared at him, and enquired if he was being sarcastic. He denied it. I accepted his denial (though doubtfully) and continued to explore my theory of what’s wrong with Brussels.

‘The reason that Brussels bureaucrats are so hopeless is not
just
because of the difficulty of running an international organisation – it’s because it’s a gravy train.’

‘A what?’ asked Bernard.

‘A gravy train,’ I repeated, warming to my theme. ‘They all live off claret and caviar. Crates of booze in every office. Air-conditioned Mercedes and private planes. Every one of those bureaucrats has got his snout in the trough and most of them have got their front trotters in as well.’

Humphrey, as always, sprang to the defence of the bureaucrats. ‘I beg to differ, Minister,’ he said reproachfully. ‘Brussels is full of hard-working public servants who have to endure a lot of exhausting travel and tedious entertainment.’

Terribly tedious, I thought to myself, working through all that smoked salmon and forcing down all that champagne.

‘And in any case, Minister,’ continued Humphrey, ‘you’re blaming the wrong people.’

What was he talking about? I’d lost track.

‘I understand,’ he went on, ‘that it was one of your Cabinet colleagues who gave Brussels early warning of your plan for the bulk-buying of word-processors, which is why they have brought this directive out so quickly.’

No wonder I’d lost track. He’d gone back to the point of our conversation. He really is a confusing man to talk to.

And that was it, was it? Betrayed again! By a Cabinet colleague!

[
Who else? – Ed
.] No prizes for guessing who it was – Basil Corbett! Bloody Basil Corbett! When I think about Basil Corbett I really warm to Judas Iscariot. [
Basil Corbett was another tall, patrician, lisping politician with staring eyes, usually seen smoking a pipe so that people would feel he was ‘sound’ – Ed
.]

‘Corbett?’ I asked, though I knew.

Humphrey inclined his head slightly, to indicate that it was indeed the Secretary of State for Trade and Industry who had put the boot in.

I couldn’t contain my anger. ‘He’s a treacherous, disloyal, arrogant, opinionated, publicity-seeking creep.’ Humphrey gazed at me and said nothing. I mistook his attitude. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, Humphrey,’ I added.

‘On the contrary, Minister,’ replied Humphrey, ‘compared with what his Permanent Secretary says, that ranks as a generous tribute.’

I wonder why Corbett did this to me – ah well, time will tell, no doubt.

I didn’t have to wait long for the answer. Today’s
Standard
contained significant and potentially worrying news.

Basil Corbett again. Every time that man comes anywhere near me I get a sharp stabbing pain in the back.

And how come I didn’t know about this impending reshuffle? How did they know? I asked Humphrey if it was true.

He was evasive, of course. ‘Minister, I am only a humble civil servant. I do not move in such exalted circles as Cabinet Ministers and journalists.’

I persisted. ‘Is this rumour true?’

‘Yes.’

A straight answer! I was somewhat taken aback. ‘How do you know,’ I asked, ‘if you don’t move in such exalted circles?’

‘I mean,’ he explained, ‘it is true that it is rumoured.’

I was worried and anxious. I still am. A reshuffle. This is full of all sorts of implications. I have hardly started on all the things that I planned to do when I got the DAA.

I started to explain this to Humphrey, who pointed out that I may not be moved in a reshuffle. I think he meant to be reassuring, but perhaps he was trying to tell me that my career is not moving forward – which it ought to be.

I asked him if that’s what he meant. Again he was evasive. ‘At least it wouldn’t be moving backwards,’ he said.

Backwards? I’d never even considered moving
backwards
! Perhaps he wasn’t being evasive after all.

‘Look,’ I ventured cautiously. ‘Tell me. I mean, I’m doing all right, aren’t I?’

‘Yes indeed, Minister,’ he replied smoothly. ‘You’re doing all right.’

I couldn’t quarrel with his words – well, my words, really! – but there seemed to be an air of doubt in his delivery of them.

So I turned to Bernard and said, more positively: ‘We’re doing all right, aren’t we Bernard?’

‘Yes Minister.’

That was all. No other words of encouragement seemed to be forthcoming.

I felt I had to justify myself. God knows why! ‘Yes’ I said. ‘Yes. I mean, perhaps I’m not the
outstanding
success of the government, but I’m not a failure, am I?’

‘No Minister,’ said Bernard, a shade dutifully, I thought. I waited. I was damned if I was going to ask for any compliments. Eventually Bernard said, ‘Um – you’re doing . . . all right.’

But did he mean it?

And if so,
what
did he mean?

I seemed to be in the throes of an attack of verbal diarrhoea. ‘After all,’ I said, ‘in some ways I’ve been rather successful. And if Martin goes to the Treasury there’s an outside chance I might get the Foreign Office.’

I paused. Nobody spoke. After an eternity Humphrey said, with unmistakable doubt this time, ‘Perhaps you might.’

‘You don’t sound very certain,’ I accused him.

To his credit he stuck up for himself. ‘I’m not certain, Minister,’ he replied, looking me straight in the eye.

I panicked. ‘Why not? What have you heard?’

He remained as unperturbed as ever. ‘Nothing, Minister, I assure you. That’s why I’m not certain.’

I picked up the offending newspaper, stared at it again, and cast it down to the floor.

‘Well,’ I asked bitterly, ‘how does Bob Carver in the
Standard
know all about this reshuffle, if we don’t?’