A Very Courageous Decision

by Graham McCann

  The fifth episode, as a consequence, provided the series with its synthesis: the start of a tense but tolerable working relationship between Whitehall and Westminster. It was this crucial episode that saw both men realise that, although they would remain rivals for power within the Department that they shared, they also needed each other in order to legitimate the world in which both of them lived.

  Entitled ‘The Writing on the Wall’, the episode began with Hacker once again railing against the resistance he faced from his own group of civil servants, complaining that they always contrive to manipulate whatever policy he attempts to shape no matter how many redrafts he demands (‘It still won’t say what I want it to say. It’ll say what you want it to say! And I want it to say what I want it to say!), and Sir Humphrey once again protesting his innocence (‘We want it to say what you want it to say, Minister’). On this particular occasion, Hacker is convinced that his civil servants are trying to sabotage his attempt to trim the size of the bureaucracy by around two hundred thousand members of staff, while Sir Humphrey insists that he and his underlings are actually doing all that they can to accede to their own reduction. Close to the end of his tether, Hacker pleads with Sir Humphrey for one bright and precious moment of candour:

  HACKER:

  Will you give me a straight answer to a straight question?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  Oh, well, Minister, as long as you’re not asking me to resort to crude generalisations and vulgar oversimplifications, such as a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’, I will do my upmost to oblige.

  HACKER:

  [Puzzled] Is that ‘Yes’?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  [After a long hesitation] … Y-Yes.

  HACKER:

  Well, here’s the straight question––

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  Oh, I thought that was it!

  HACKER:

  [Trying hard to brush aside the sarcasm] When you give your evidence to the think tank, are you going to support my view that the Civil Service is overmanned and feather-bedded, or not?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  I, ah––

  HACKER:

  Yes or no – straight answer!

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  Well, Minister, if you ask me for a straight answer, then I shall say that, as far as we can see, looking at it by and large, taking one time with another, in terms of the average of departments, then, in the final analysis, it is probably true to say that, at the end of the day, in general terms, you would probably find that, not to put too fine a point on it, there probably wasn’t very much in it one way or the other.

  HACKER:

  Er …

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  As far as one can see. At this stage.

  HACKER:

  Is that ‘Yes’? Or ‘No’?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  [Thinking hard] Yes and No.

  HACKER:

  [Exasperated] Suppose you weren’t asked for a straight answer?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  Oh, then I should play for time, Minister.

  Hacker holds the palm of his hand over his furrowed brow, convinced that, yet again, he is going to see his authority undermined in the most subtle but incisive of ways. Sir Humphrey, however, is soon left just as disturbed when he discovers that Hacker is planning to redraft his report one more time and then submit it before it can be amended.

  Just when it seems that civil war is about to break out within the Department of Administrative Affairs, fate intervenes with a rumour that will change the perspective of both parties. The Prime Minister, Sir Humphrey hears on the Whitehall grapevine, has decided that being perceived by the public as the man who triumphed over the mandarins is far too politically profitable to be gifted to one of his colleagues (and potential rivals), so he has decided to assume sole responsibility for the policy himself (while shunting the hapless Hacker upstairs as a sort of ‘Lord Hacker of Kamikaze’), and is now considering the complete abolition of none other than the DAA (‘In one fell swoop: approbation, elevation and castration’) as a suitably bold symbol of his anti-bureaucratic intent.

  Once Sir Humphrey reports back to Hacker, there is, for once, a consensus:

  HACKER:

  I’m appalled.

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  You’re appalled? I’m appalled!

  HACKER:

  I just can’t believe it. I’m appalled! What do you make of it, Bernard?

  WOOLLEY:

  I’m appalled.

  HACKER:

  So am I! Appalled!

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  It’s appalling!

  HACKER:

  Appalling! I-I-I just don’t know how to describe it!

  WOOLLEY:

  Appalling?

  HACKER:

  Appalling! But I mean … is it true? Are you sure they weren’t having you on?

  Once Sir Humphrey has assured his Minister that the plan is deadly serious, the two of them shudder as they contemplate where they might end up once their present abode has been abolished: Hacker, if not sent up to the Lords, then quite possibly shunted sideways to serve as Minister with General Responsibility for Industrial Harmony (‘You know what that means?’ he exclaims. ‘That means strikes! From now on every strike in Great Britain will be my fault!’), while Sir Humphrey is dispatched to Ag & Fish (‘The rest of my career dedicated to arguing about the cod quota’). Woolley’s wry little smile at the thought of all this is soon wiped off his face when Sir Humphrey points out that he will most probably be relegated to shuffling papers in the Vehicle Licensing Centre in Swansea.

  Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Sir Humphrey and Hacker find themselves united against a common foe:

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  Minister, I really do mean that we should work together. I need you!

  HACKER:

  Do you mean that, Humphrey?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  Yes, Minister!

  HACKER:

  Humphrey! How very nice of you!

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  Minister, if the Prime Minister is behind a scheme, Whitehall on its own cannot block it. Now, Cabinet Ministers’ schemes are easily blocked [Checking himself] Er, redrafted. But the Prime Minister is another matter. We need to fight this in Westminster as well as in Whitehall.

  Together, they come up with a way to retaliate. Inspired by the fact that the last piece of legislation due to be supervised by the DAA concerns the introduction of the controversial ‘Euro Pass’ – an EEC-wide compulsory identity card – they set out to hit the PM where it hurts most by undermining his precious amour propre.

  It turns out that the Prime Minister would prefer to keep the contentious Euro Pass plans under wraps until after he has secured a prestigious personal prize – the Napoleon Award, which is bestowed only on those deemed to have made an outstanding contribution to the promotion of European unity. Once that particular bauble is safely in his hands, it is thought, he will be content to let the identity card idea go the way of most other Brussels-originated proposals and end up being shelved after much internecine debate. Hacker, therefore, lets it be whispered around Westminster that he is considering planting a question in the Commons – via a pliable backbencher – that will force the Prime Minister to commit himself prematurely and publicly to the Euro Pass policy and thus spark a Eurosceptic reaction that would be highly embarrassing ‘Napoleon Prize-wise’.

  The suggestion gets the desired reaction within the Prime Minister’s Office: panic. Hacker, knowing that he now has his opponent on the ropes, proposes to avert such a distressing turn of events by persuading the backbencher to table a different question, this time inviting the PM to quash the rumours regarding the imminent closure of the DAA. When Daniel Hughes, the Prime Minister’s senior policy adviser, hears this idea, he tries to mask his sense of relief by pretending that the DAA’s rumoured demise never really had any foundation in fact: ‘The whole idea was ridiculous,’ he splutters. ‘Laughable. Out of the question. Jok
e: ha ha ha!’ Sir Humphrey, relishing the moment, takes over the baton to conclude the deal by pressing Hughes to ensure that a minute from the Prime Minister’s Office confirming this position will be circulated to all Departments within twenty-four hours – ‘So that we can all share it. Joke-wise, I mean’.

  As a queasy-looking Hughes rushes off to brief his leader, Hacker and Sir Humphrey sit back and relax together, glorying in the victory that they share:

  HACKER:

  As President Nixon’s henchman once said: ‘When you’ve got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.’ Am I right, Humphrey?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  Yes, Minister!

  As all great sitcoms are about trapped relationships (Harold Steptoe is stuck with his father Albert, Captain Mainwaring with second-in- command Sergeant Wilson, Basil Fawlty with wife Sybil), so Yes Minister is founded on the fact that, in spite of all their differences, Jim Hacker and Sir Humphrey simply cannot do without each other. As the credits rolled at the end of the final episode of the series, there was no doubt remaining that, regardless of any future political vicissitudes, Hacker and Sir Humphrey were now stuck with each other for good – and bad. There was also little doubt that all of those who had watched and enjoyed each clash between these two characters relished the prospect of them returning as soon as possible to resume their awkward alliance.

  Averaging an audience of approximately two million per episode (with an appreciation rating of just over 74 per cent),22 and, by this stage, warmly praised by the critics, the first series of Yes Minister had proved itself to be a more or less instant success. Apart from being rewarded promptly with a guaranteed second series, it also went on to win the Best Comedy award at that year’s BAFTAs (the first of several of such honours23), and was then given a repeat run, over on BBC1, a few months later, starting in September, when a far more high-profile slot (8.30 p.m. on Thursdays, straight after the hugely popular game show Blankety Blank) brought the show a much bigger and broader following, peaking this time at a very healthy 12.2 million viewers.

  The wait really had been worth it. More by luck than by design, the show had arrived at just the right time, and its excellence had been appreciated. Its future seemed assured.

  Case Study 1

  Mr Wilson Changes on Trains

  One of the aspects of the show that was quick to attract positive comment was its air of authenticity. Some of the sitcom’s earliest and most avid fans turned out to be politicians and bureaucrats, who were drawn to its mirror-like characters and storylines. Indeed, the most common question that could be heard, the morning after each episode, around the water coolers in Westminster and Whitehall was: ‘How on earth did they know that?’

  There had been numerous examples that had raised eyebrows among officials during the first series. In the very first episode, for example, the sight of Jim Hacker sitting fidgeting inside his home, staring at the telephone in the hope of a call from Number Ten, caused a frisson of recognition with countless politicians right across the party political spectrum.

  Then there was the blatantly dismissive treatment by Sir Humphrey of Jim Hacker’s special adviser, Frank Weisel, which once again had a basis in fact. ‘I remember saying to a Permanent Secretary in the Ministry of Defence that I thought that was a bit far-fetched,’ Sir Robin Butler, who would go on to serve as Cabinet Secretary during the late 1980s and 1990s, would recall, ‘but he said that they tried to put one of their special advisers in the Adelphi or somewhere miles from the central building!’24

  Even some of the details that seemed, at the time, too farcical to believe would soon turn out, rather alarmingly, to be all too true. In one episode, for example, Hacker startles the Foreign Secretary with news about a foreign country:

  HACKER:

  There’s been a coup d’état!

  FOREIGN SECRETARY:

  How do you know?

  HACKER:

  Well, it was on the news. Didn’t you see? Don’t you know? You’re Foreign Secretary, for God’s sake!

  FOREIGN SECRETARY:

  Yes, but my TV set is on the blink.

  HACKER:

  Your TV set? Don’t you get Foreign Office telegrams?

  FOREIGN SECRETARY:

  Oh, they always come in later. I get all the foreign news from TV.25

  An actual official in the Foreign Office would later admit, privately and sheepishly, that a fair amount of the Foreign Secretary’s information about matters beyond Britain’s shores was indeed, at least in that pre-Internet era, gleaned initially from studying the news on the TV.26

  ‘We could never have made that up,’ Jonathan Lynn later confirmed. ‘Of course, the Foreign Office cables eventually arrived, a couple of days later, with somewhat fuller information than you got from ITN, but if there was a coup d’état, or a diplomatic kidnapping or hijacking, the Foreign Secretary learned it from the telly just like the rest of us.’27

  Such specific insights ensured that the governing class remained glued, rather nervously, to the screen throughout the series, now convinced that the programme they were watching was not so much a sitcom as ‘a sort of political “whodunit?”’.28 Each Monday night they would try to figure out who, on this occasion, had spilled some more of their own trade secrets.

  ‘While other viewers recognised [Yes Minister] instantly as a brilliant satire,’ Roy Hattersley, the then Shadow Home Secretary and already a prominent fan, would reflect, ‘we saw it as an only slightly distorted representation of our daily lives.’29 Kenneth Clarke, who was a Junior Transport Minister when the first series was broadcast, was quick to concur: ‘I’ve always said that [Yes Minister] is far too close to life to be safely shown to the public.’30

  It was with just this kind of heightened curiosity that such insiders analysed a scene in episode two, ‘The Official Visit’, that featured an incident that struck some of them (especially those of the Labour persuasion) as yet another tale tweaked from the truth. The scene saw Hacker, travelling up by train to Scotland for an important meeting with the new president of a politically volatile African country, ending up being packed like a sardine inside his own first-class sleeping compartment after a succession of aides and associates intrude to discuss an urgent crisis.

  Hacker is in the process of removing his trousers when Bernard Woolley bursts in with an advance copy of the President’s forthcoming speech. ‘I’ve underlined the important bits in red ink,’ Woolley says, before racing off to distribute copies to other members of their entourage. Now sans trousers, Hacker reluctantly starts reading the speech and is soon horrified to find how controversial it really is. Sir Humphrey, in pyjamas and dressing gown, then enters the cramped compartment, closely followed by the Foreign Secretary (also dressed ready for bed), the Press Officer, Bernard Woolley, and, finally, the very large and sweaty Permanent Under-Secretary of the Foreign Office. ‘Welcome to the Standing Committee,’ says Sir Humphrey drolly as they all compete to breathe the same air.

  Whereas most casual viewers might well have assumed that this scene was no more than a bit of comic business, some insiders, searching through their own memories, suspected that the real inspiration had come from a similarly comical incident when Harold Wilson, who was Prime Minister at the time, had suffered much the same undignified fate as Hacker while on his way back to Number Ten from a Labour Party Conference in Blackpool.

  Wilson had always been a famous train enthusiast (as an undergraduate at Oxford, he had written a prize-winning essay on aspects of the Victorian railway system), and travelled regularly by rail down to London from his constituency at Huyton in Liverpool. Often exasperating political colleagues and civil servants alike by being ‘lost’ somewhere or other between stations when they urgently needed to pass him some information, he had even staged a television interview on a train to celebrate winning the 1966 General Election (and, peevishly, he gave it to ITV, rather than the BBC, on the somewhat bizarre grounds that one of the many ways in which the BBC’
s supposed pro-Tory bias had shown itself in recent years was in its frequent shots of him merely ‘leaving a train or getting on a train’31).

  The nature of his means of transportation caused innumerable complications as he prepared for major speeches. On one occasion, for example, prior to the 1975 Labour Party Conference in Blackpool, a near-farcical sequence of activity ensued after his secretary, Marcia Williams – later Baroness Falkender – announced (following one of her periodic tantrums) that she was staying behind in London.

  As she always insisted, no matter what, on seeing and ‘correcting’ the drafts of her leader’s speeches, her young female assistant was dispatched to take her version up on Friday’s overnight train to Blackpool so that her amendments could be incorporated into the finished script. By the time she arrived early on Saturday morning, however, Wilson’s other advisers had made further revisions, thus necessitating that the assistant be put back on the train to take the latest draft down to Williams in London, who, after hurriedly making a new set of changes, sent the assistant straight back up to Blackpool on the overnight sleeper.