The Complete Yes Minister (7 page)

‘The government hasn’t got an African policy,’ observed Sir Humphrey.

‘It has now,’ I snapped. ‘And if the new President is Marxist-backed, who better to win him over to our side than Her Majesty? Furthermore, the people of Scotland have been promised an important State occasion and we cannot go back on our word.’

‘Not to mention,’ added Sir Humphrey drily, ‘three by-elections in marginal constituencies.’

‘That has nothing to do with it,’ I said, and glowered at him. He said, ‘Of course not, Minister,’ but I’m not quite sure that he believed me.

Then the phone rang. Bernard took the call. It was from Martin at the FCO.

Bernard listened, then told us that the new President of Buranda had announced his intention to visit Britain next week, in line with his predecessor’s arrangements.

I was impressed. The Foreign Office was getting the news at last. I asked Bernard if the cables had come through from Mungoville. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘The Foreign Secretary’s driver heard a news flash on his car radio.’

The upshot is that it would now be up to the PM to cancel the visit on my recommendation or Martin’s. And I have decided it is on. Another policy decision. Quite a lot of them after all. Good.

Today was the first day of the long-awaited official visit. President Mohammed’s arrival was shown on TV. Bernard and I were watching in the office – I must admit I was slightly on tenterhooks in case he did turn out to be a bit uncouth.

A jumbo jet touched down, with BURANDAN AIRWAYS written on the side. I was hugely impressed. British Airways are having to pawn their Concordes, and here is this tiny African state with its own airline, jumbo jets and all.

I asked Bernard how many planes Burandan Airways had. ‘None,’ he said.

I told him not to be silly and use his eyes. ‘No Minister, it belongs to Freddie Laker,’ he said. ‘They chartered it last week and repainted it specially.’ Apparently most of the Have-Nots (I mean, LDCs) do this – at the opening of the UN General Assembly the runways of Kennedy Airport are jam-packed with phoney flag-carriers. ‘In fact,’ added Bernard with a sly grin, ‘there was one 747 that belonged to nine different African airlines in one month. They called it the mumbo-jumbo.’

While we watched nothing much happened on the TV except the mumbo-jumbo taxiing around Prestwick and the Queen looking a bit chilly. Bernard gave me the day’s schedule and explained that I was booked on the night sleeper from King’s Cross to Edinburgh because I had to vote in a three-line whip at the House tonight and would have to miss the last plane. Then the commentator, in that special hushed BBC voice used for any occasion with which Royalty is connected, announced reverentially that we were about to catch our first glimpse of President Selim.

And out of the plane stepped Charlie. My old friend Charlie Umtali. We were at LSE together. Not Selim Mohammed at all, but Charlie.

Bernard asked me if I were sure. Silly question. How could you forget a name like Charlie Umtali?

I sent Bernard for Sir Humphrey, who was delighted to hear that we now know something about our official visitor.

Bernard’s official brief said nothing. Amazing! Amazing how little the FCO has been able to find out. Perhaps they were hoping it would all be on the car radio. All the brief says is that Colonel Selim Mohammed was converted to Islam some years ago, they didn’t know his original name, and therefore knew little of his background.

I was able to tell Humphrey and Bernard
all
about his background. Charlie was a red-hot political economist, I informed them. Got the top first. Wiped the floor with everyone.

Bernard seemed relieved. ‘Well that’s all right then.’

‘Why?’ I enquired.

‘I think Bernard means,’ said Sir Humphrey helpfully, ‘that he’ll know how to behave if he was at an English University. Even if it was the LSE.’ I never know whether or not Humphrey is insulting me intentionally.

Humphrey was concerned about Charlie’s political colour. ‘When you said he was red-hot, were you speaking politically?’

In a way I was. ‘The thing about Charlie is that you never quite know where you are with him. He’s the sort of chap who follows you into a revolving door and comes out in front.’

‘No deeply held convictions?’ asked Sir Humphrey.

‘No. The only thing Charlie was deeply committed to was Charlie.’

‘Ah, I see. A politician, Minister.’

This was definitely one of Humphrey’s little jokes. He’d never be so rude otherwise. Though sometimes I suspect that Humphrey says things he really means and excuses himself by saying ‘only joking’. Nonetheless, I was able to put him down by patronising him with his own inimitable phrase. ‘Very droll, Humphrey,’ I said cuttingly. And I pointed out that as Charlie was only here for a couple of days he couldn’t do much harm anyway.

Sir Humphrey still seemed concerned. ‘Just remember, Minister,’ he said, ‘you wanted him here, not me.’

‘If you’ll excuse me, Humphrey, I must get on with my letters,’ I said, trying to hide my irritation.

‘Just before you do,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘I’d be most grateful if you would glance at this brief on African politics.’ He handed me a very bulky file. More paper. I declined to read it.

‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I think I’m all right on all that.’

‘Oh good,’ he said cheerfully, ‘because one wouldn’t want to upset the delicate power balance between FROLINAT and FRETELIN, would one?’

I think he could see that he’d got me there. So he pressed home his advantage. ‘I mean, if the new President is more sympathetic to ZIPRA than ZANLA, not to mention ZAPU and ZANU, then CARECOM and COREPER might want to bring in GRAPO, and of course that would mean going back over all that old business with ECOSOC and UNIDO and then the whole IBRD–OECD row could blow up again . . . and what would HMG do if that happened?’
²

The only initials I understood in that whole thing were HMG [
Her Majesty’s Government – Ed
.]. As he had predicted, I said – as casually as I could – that I might as well glance through it.

‘I’ll see you on the train,’ he said, and departed smoothly. I’m afraid he won a small moral victory there.

Bernard then tried to hurry me along to the House. But the huge pile of correspondence in my in-tray was now multiplying horrifyingly and apparently reproducing itself. ‘What about all this,’ I said helplessly. ‘What can I do?’

‘Well, Minister . . .’ began Bernard, and his eyes flickered almost imperceptibly across to the out-tray a couple of times. I realised that I had very little choice. I picked up the whole pile of letters and moved them solemnly from the in-tray to the out-tray.

It was a funny feeling. I felt both guilty and relieved.

Bernard seemed to think I’d done the right thing. The inevitable thing, perhaps. ‘That’s right, Minister,’ he said in a kindly tone, ‘better out than in.’

Last night was a horrendous experience, one that I do not intend to repeat in a hurry.

And today a massive crisis has yet to be solved. And it’s all my fault. And I don’t know if I can carry it off. Oh God!

I am sitting up in bed in a first-class sleeper, writing this diary, and dreading what the day has in store for me.

To begin at the beginning. Roy drove me from the House to King’s Cross. I was there in plenty of time. I found my sleeper, ordered my morning tea and biscuits, the train was just pulling out of the station and my trousers were half off when there was a panic-stricken knocking on the door.

‘Who is it?’ I called.

‘Bernard,’ said Bernard’s voice. It was Bernard. I let him in. He was breathless and sweating. I’d never seen him in such a state. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen any civil servant in such a state. They all seem so frightfully calm and controlled most of the time, in a funny way it’s rather reassuring to see that they sometimes panic just like the rest of the human race, and that when they do they just run around like headless chickens.

Bernard was clutching a pile of large brown manila envelopes.

‘Come in, Bernard,’ I said soothingly. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

‘Read this, Minister,’ he said dramatically, and thrust one of the brown envelopes at my chest.

I was thoroughly irritated. Bernard is endlessly pushing paper at me. I already had four red boxes on my bunk.

I thrust the envelope back at him. ‘No I won’t,’ I said.

‘You must,’ he said, and back it came as though we were playing pass the parcel. ‘This is top priority.’

‘You always say that about everything,’ I pointed out, and carried on removing my trousers.

Bernard informed me that he was offering me an advance copy of President Selim’s speech for tomorrow (today now – oh my God!) which had been sent around by the Burandan Embassy.

I wasn’t interested. These speeches are always the same: happy to be here, thanks for the gracious welcome, ties between our two countries, bonds of shared experience, happy and fruitful co-operation in the future, and all the usual drivel.

Bernard agreed that all of that rubbish was in the speech, but insisted that I read the important bits at once – bits he’d underlined in red ink. He then said he was distributing copies around the train. Round the train? I thought he’d gone completely crackers – but he explained that Sir Humphrey and the Foreign Secretary and the Perm. Sec. to the Foreign Sec. and our press officer and assorted other dignitaries were on the train. I hadn’t realised.

I opened the envelope and saw the most appalling sight. A speech that we
cannot
allow to be delivered.

Then Sir Humphrey came in, wearing, incidentally, a rather startling gold silk dressing gown with a red Chinese dragon all over it. I would never have thought of Humphrey in such a garment. Perhaps I wasn’t all that impressive, in my shirt-tails and socks.

‘Well Minister,’ Sir Humphrey began, ‘we appear to have been caught with our trousers down.’ He went on to say that he didn’t like to say that he’d told me so, but he’d told me so.

‘We’re going to have egg all over our faces,’ I said.

‘Not egg, Minister,’ he replied suavely, ‘just imperialist yoke.’

I asked him if he was trying to be funny. Because I certainly can’t see anything funny about this situation. I think he said, ‘No, just my little yoke,’ but because of the noise of the train I’m not absolutely sure.

I reiterated that something had to be done. Three Scottish by-elections hang in the balance, not counting the effects on Ulster! ‘This is a catastrophe,’ I whispered.

Sir Humphrey did not exactly seem to be at pains to minimise the situation. ‘It is indeed,’ he agreed solemnly, piling on the agony. ‘A catastrophe. A tragedy. A cataclysmic, apocalyptic, monumental calamity.’ He paused for breath, and then added bluntly: ‘And you did it.’

This was not exactly helping. ‘Humphrey,’ I reproached him. ‘You’re paid to advise me. Advise me!’

‘All in all,’ replied Sir Humphrey, ‘this is not unlike trying to advise the Captain of the
Titanic
after he has struck the iceberg.’

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘there must be
something
we can do.’

‘We could sing
Abide with Me
.’

There was more knocking on the door and Bernard popped in. ‘Minister, the Foreign Secretary would like a word.’

Martin came in.

‘Ah, Foreign Secretary.’ Sir Humphrey was being obsequious now.

‘Yes,’ said Martin. He knew who he was. ‘You’ve read the speech?’

Before I could reply, Sir Humphrey interrupted: ‘Yes, my Minister is concerned that the government will have egg all over its face. Scotch egg, presumably.’

I’m getting a bit tired of Humphrey’s stupid puns. I asked Martin why Selim Mohammed would want to make such a speech here. Martin reckons it’s for home consumption, to show the other African readers that he is a pukka anti-colonialist.

Bernard popped his head round the door, and suggested that we draft a statement in response to the speech. I thought that was a good idea. Whereupon he announced that he had brought along Bill Pritchard from the press office.

We had me and Humphrey and Martin and Bernard already in my sleeper. Bill Pritchard turned out to have the build of a rugger front-row forward. ‘Room for a little ’un?’ he enquired jovially, and knocked Humphrey forward onto the bunk, face first.

I asked Humphrey if a statement was a good idea.

‘Well Minister,’ he replied carefully as he stood up, still the mandarin in spite of his silly Chinese dressing gown. ‘In practical terms we have, in fact, the usual six options. One, do nothing. Two, issue a statement deploring the speech. Three, lodge an official protest. Four, cut off aid. Five, break off diplomatic relations. Six, declare war.’

This sounded like rather a lot of options. I was pleased. I asked him which we should do.