A Very Courageous Decision

by Graham McCann

  A year of waiting had passed, but, at long last, all of the hard work was finally nearing completion. Nothing, after this, would ever be the same again.

  PART TWO

  Rational calculation … reduces every worker to a cog in this bureaucratic machine and, seeing himself in this light, he will merely ask how to transform himself into a somewhat bigger cog.

  Max Weber

  There is an enormous difference between an armed and an unarmed man; and it cannot be expected that a man who is armed will obey willingly a man who is unarmed, or that an unarmed man will be safe among armed servants. Since the latter will be contemptuous and the former suspicious and afraid, they will not be able to work well together.

  Niccolò Machiavelli

  5

  Series One

  [A]n observer who looks at the living reality will wonder at the contrast to the paper description. He will see in the life much which is not in the books; and he will not find in the rough practice many refinements of the literary theory.

  It was better late than never. In fact, it was actually better late than on time.

  The first series of Yes Minister finally reached the screen on 25 February 1980 – one year later than planned. Instead of emerging, as intended, into the Britain presided over by James Callaghan’s floundering Labour Government, it arrived in the Britain run by Margaret Thatcher’s fledgling Conservative Government. The delay, however, did nothing to diminish the noteworthiness of its appearance: what it had to say about the system as a whole remained just as relevant regardless of whether the current party in power was red or blue, or left or right.

  The issues on the domestic political agenda were much the same now as they had been the year before: unemployment, inflation and industrial unrest were still lodged firmly at the top of the list. Both Labour and the Conservatives, in the run-up to the election, had pledged to cut all three, but, as Labour remained distracted internally by a spate of ever more fierce and bitter ideological schisms, it had been the Conservatives who had fought the far cannier campaign, embellishing their nosegay of core commitments with such eye-catching and class-coordinated floral additions as the promotion of a ‘property-owning democracy’ (by allowing council house tenants to buy their own homes at a discount) and the provision of incentives designed to reward those most eager to enrich themselves and climb the social ladder. The result was a 5.2 per cent swing to the Tories, ensuring that Margaret Thatcher and her colleagues came to power with an overall majority of forty-three seats.

  If anything, this change in government actually made the conditions more propitious for a show like Yes Minister to strike a chord with the country. Back in the dark days of 1979’s Winter of Discontent, it seems highly unlikely that the British public would have been in a mood remotely conducive to welcoming a new sitcom that required them, among other things, to care about, and to some extent sympathise with, the respective ambitions of a politician and a civil servant. Nothing coming out of Westminster or Whitehall in those days was considered to be a laughing matter.

  With the stench of failure masked only partially by the cologne of contrition, the stock of the country’s political Establishment had rarely sunk so low. Among the routine stories of price hikes and job losses, all through the winter there seemed to have been an unremitting blizzard of bitterly negative reports about the weakness of political leadership, the strength of union leadership, the lack of cohesion within the Cabinet and the opportunism of the Opposition. Matters worsened with James Callaghan’s spectacular ‘Crisis, What Crisis?’ PR implosion in January 1979 when, in the middle of a lorry drivers’ strike (and at the very moment when Yes Minister had originally been due to air), he arrived back in Britain from an economic summit in sunny Guadeloupe only to respond to the usual barrage of pointed press questions about various domestic crises first by babbling away cheerfully about his refreshing swims in the warm Caribbean waters, and then issuing a haughty warning to his inquisitors about not being so parochial in their perspective. As angry opinion pieces proliferated in the papers, and the strikes, squabbles and progressively ominous economic prognoses continued to dominate the daily news, the climate seemed more suited to agitprop drama than elegant comedy.

  A year on, however, and some of the wounds were beginning to heal. While much of the pain and anger still remained, there was at least the recognition that the most culpable political protagonists had either been dumped, demoted or reshuffled, and there was now a readiness – perhaps even a desperation – to look forward rather than back.

  The usual sense of freshness that informs the first few months of a reconstituted House of Commons, rendered even sharper on this occasion by the novel presence of Britain’s first female Prime Minister at the Government Despatch Box, further encouraged the cultivation of a somewhat more benign and open-minded mood around the country. The material signs, in a sober sense, might have seemed, if anything, even bleaker for the country than before, but, after the cathartic experience of completing the electoral cycle, a spirit of stoicism had returned, albeit briefly, to the national mood.

  In addition to all of this, the belated Yes Minister was also gifted a new Government in Westminster that appeared intent on waging a war on Whitehall, pledging to oversee the ‘reduction of waste, bureaucracy and over-government’ and to reassert ‘the supremacy of Parliament’ over the Civil Service.1 The relationship between the two bodies, which had hitherto been kept so discreet, was now being discussed and debated openly, just as a new comedy show was about to unveil its dynamics for the scrutiny of a broader public. It was in this sense that Yes Minister, with its special subject matter, style and scope, could count itself fortunate to have had its debut delayed. Cometh the real-life power struggle, cometh the realistic and pertinent sitcom.

  One thing that had not changed, though, was television’s traditional reluctance to overburden new programmes with too much advance publicity – with the result that most of them slipped onto the screen like something of a secret. As with the vast majority of the great sitcoms that had preceded it, Yes Minister was left to find and develop a following largely via a combination of luck and word of mouth.

  Back in that more basic broadcasting world of just three television channels, there were no preview screenings for the critics, nor any promotional campaigns for the public, such as have since come to be a normal part of the build-up to a brand new series. As the weeks and days were counted down before the show’s arrival, the most helpful hype it received was a short article, focusing far more on the actors than on the themes, tucked away in the middle of the Radio Times – and even that modest piece of puffery managed to obscure what was most distinctive about the project by adopting a banner – ‘The Men from the Ministry’ – that would have prompted memories of the old radio series that centred exclusively on the Civil Service.2

  When the time finally came, on Monday 25 February, for the show to make its debut, it was given a place in the schedules at 9 p.m. on BBC2.3 This was by no means the most appealing of slots to occupy, as tradition showed that comedy programmes in general, and sitcoms in particular, tended to perform better in the second half of the working week (when the weekend loomed and moods improved), and attracted a much larger share of the audience (as well as, admittedly, a much larger share of the pressure to succeed) on BBC1 rather than BBC2. Monday on BBC2 was thus not the natural time for anything that promised to be, or even become, ‘event TV’. This was the place for slow-burning dramas or sober-sounding documentaries. The message that the scheduling seemed to send out, to those who noticed such things, was that this show, with its unusual mix of high and low cultural associations, was set to be something of an experiment, to be highlighted gradually, or quietly dropped, depending on how the first few episodes fared.

  The competition on that particular night, such as it was, had all the hallmarks of that gloomily fatalistic phase of the weekly schedules. BBC1 was offering an edition of the current affairs programme Panorama at 8.10 p.m
. (revolving around a tentative examination of the new Government’s industrial and economic policies), followed by the Nine O’Clock News and then an uninviting old movie (the critically panned 1975 remake of the classic 1946 thriller The Spiral Staircase). ITV seemed only slightly less resigned to the prospect of a grim-faced nation having an early night by serving up an edition of its own current affairs programme World in Action at 8.30 p.m. (about certain aspects of the aftermath of the Vietnam War), followed by an episode of its spy series, The Sandbaggers, that was more praised than watched. Over on BBC2, meanwhile, the opening instalment of Yes Minister itself was handed the challengingly ambiguous brief of holding onto an audience that, beforehand, had sat through the nostalgic light entertainment schmaltz of the hour-long An Evening with Anthony Newley, and was set to follow it with an edition of the science series Horizon that featured a report on the treatment of terminal diseases.

  It was far from ideal, but at least the long wait was finally over. Yes Minister was about to be seen.

  The series began with the original pilot episode, entitled ‘Open Government’, which sought to introduce all of the key characters and most of the key themes while engaging the interest of the mainstream audience. Although filmed back in January 1979, it reached the screen looking tailor-made for the here and now.

  Instead of beginning in the conventional manner by going straight to the title sequence, the show started with a news-style ‘outside broadcast’ from a typical election night scene, with all the candidates and their respective partners standing out on a town hall balcony, huddling nervously around the returning officer as he announces the result: ‘James George Hacker: 21,793’. As cheers are heard from the voters below, the unseen reporter remarks: ‘So Jim Hacker is back with an increased majority, and, after many years as a shadow minister, seems almost certain to get a post in the new Government!’

  After the title sequence, the episode moved fast to reassure an audience that was used to watching suburban-based family sitcoms by starting with a scene of instantly familiar domesticity, with Hacker, dressed casually in cardigan and slacks, sitting by the telephone in the living room while his similarly attired wife, Annie, walks in with a tray of teacups. Even though the actual reason why Hacker is hovering over the phone so anxiously is because he is hoping for the call from Number Ten that will confirm his place in the new Cabinet, it could just as easily have been The Good Life’s Jerry Leadbetter waiting for some beneficial news from his business, or Hi-de-Hi!’s Jeffrey Fairbrother twitching in anticipation of a report about disco night at his holiday camp. The message the scene sent out was that this sitcom was still going to be a sitcom about believable, recognisable people, even though they were mainly going to be shown trying to cope within the unfamiliar world of Whitehall.

  The other element that helped engage a broad audience during those first few minutes was the playfulness and precision of the dialogue. No lines were wasted, all of them made some kind of point (informing us about the individual characters, shedding light on the situation or setting up the plot), and almost all of them elicited a laugh. The exchange between Jim, sitting twitchily sipping his tea, and Annie, fussing tetchily over the furniture, typified the seemingly effortless pertinence of this opening scene:

  JIM:

  I wish people wouldn’t keep ringing me up to congratulate me. Don’t they realise I’m waiting for the call ?

  ANNIE:

  You sound as if you’re about to enter the Ministry.

  JIM:

  Yes, but which Ministry? That’s the whole point!

  ANNIE:

  It was a joke !

  JIM:

  Oh! [He suddenly notices his wife is constantly fidgeting with the furniture] You’re very tense.

  ANNIE:

  [Sarcastically] Oh, no, I’m not tense. I’m just a politician’s wife. I’m not allowed to have feelings! A happy, carefree, politician’s wife !

  The abrupt arrival into their home of Hacker’s boorishly intense special adviser, Frank Weisel, not only pushed up the pace but also amplified the interplay of personal and professional themes, with Annie speaking for the audience as the two party men obsess over political matters:

  WEISEL:

  Did you know Martin’s got the Foreign Office––

  HACKER:

  Has he?

  WEISEL:

  Jack’s got Health, and Fred’s got Energy?

  ANNIE:

  Has anyone got brains?

  HACKER:

  You mean Education?

  ANNIE:

  No, I know what I mean.

  HACKER:

  [Too preoccupied to notice her sarcasm] Well, what’s left? I mean, what have I got?

  ANNIE:

  Rhythm?

  Once Hacker has finally heard the word from the Prime Minister – he is to head the Department for Administrative Affairs – the action moves swiftly away from the traditional sitcom milieu and takes the viewer instead into an environment that, at the time, had only been glimpsed in programmes associated with current affairs. Guided by a formal-sounding voiceover, we follow Hacker’s journey from private man to public servant. We see a black London cab glide up outside the black-bricked exterior of Number Ten Downing Street, where the MP emerges to stride purposefully past the posse of pressmen and the two posted policemen and enter the building, then he reappears outside as a freshly anointed Minister. He then gets back into the cab, where he is greeted by his grinning special adviser and is driven off to the site of his new Ministry in Whitehall.

  It is at this point we watch as, symbolically, Hacker is further absorbed into the Establishment when he is met at the doors of Whitehall by the insiders: Frank Woolley, the Principal Private Secretary, and Lloyd Pritchard, the Assistant Private Secretary. Although Hacker has arrived in the company of his special adviser, it only takes one length of a grey-tiled corridor before the shades of bureaucracy begin to close upon the politician, as Pritchard ushers Frank Weisel away in one direction while Woolley guides Hacker off in another.

  Now separated not only physically but also figuratively from his Westminster colleague (‘The Minister now has a whole Department to advise him,’ his no longer quite so special adviser is told), Hacker finds himself in unnervingly unfamiliar territory right in the heart of Whitehall, where, inside his grand new office, the solitary politician is introduced to a mass of mandarins. First, in the manner of a jaw-jarring, left-handed jab, he is slightly disorientated by his Principal Private Secretary’s ability to appear deferential while dictating the terms of departmental etiquette, dismissing an invitation to call his master ‘Jim’ (‘I’d prefer to call you “Minister”, Minister’) while requesting that he be addressed as ‘Bernard’. Then, as if hit by a full-blooded right hook, Hacker is profoundly perplexed by his first official encounter with his Permanent Secretary, Sir Humphrey Appleby:

  WOOLLEY:

  I believe you know each other?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  Yes, we did cross swords when the Minister gave me a grilling over the estimates in the Public Accounts Committee.

  HACKER:

  [Sounding flattered] Oh, I wouldn’t say that.

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  Well, you came up with all the questions I’d hoped nobody would ask.

  HACKER:

  Well, Opposition is all about asking awkward questions.

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  And Government is about not answering them.

  HACKER:

  Well, you answered all mine, anyway.

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  I’m glad you thought so, Minister. [Raising his glass of sherry] Good luck.

  [Hacker raises his glass in response]

  HACKER:

  Now, who else is in this department?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  Well, 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 h
e is the Principal Private Secretary to the Permanent Secretary. Directly responsible to me are 10 Deputy Secretaries, 87 Under-Secretaries and 219 Assistant Secretaries. Directly responsible to the Principal Private Secretaries are plain Private Secretaries, and the Prime Minister will be appointing two Parliamentary Under-Secretaries and you will be appointing your own Parliamentary Private Secretary.

  HACKER:

  [Laughing nervously] Do they all type?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  None of us can type, Minister. Mrs MacKay types. She’s the secretary.

  It does not take long for the comic dynamic of this relationship between the elected and the unelected to show itself in all its vivid clarity. Hacker, the man with a mandate, is all bustle and bluster (‘You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a bit blunt, but that’s the sort of chap I am’), talking boldly about abstract generalities (‘The Nation’; ‘The Public’; ‘The Truth’) and throwing out clichés like campaign leaflets (‘We want a new broom’; ‘We’re going to throw open the windows, let in a bit of fresh air’; ‘Cut through all the red tape’; ‘Streamline this creaking old bureaucratic machine’; ‘A clean sweep’). Sir Humphrey, on the other hand, is the devil in the details, always ready to startle Hacker, after listening patiently to the Minister’s latest huff and puff of hot air, by demonstrating, decorously but tellingly, how much real power can be had from solid knowledge: