A Very Courageous Decision

by Graham McCann

  The same thing then happened again: upon arriving back at the Labour Party’s temporary Blackpool base at the Imperial Hotel early on Sunday morning, she was sent straight back to London with the next amended draft, and was then ordered by Williams to return on yet another overnight sleeper with her latest scribbled corrections. When, shortly after arriving in Blackpool on Monday morning, she learned that Williams wanted her sent back down to London again, the exhausted and visibly distraught assistant said that enough was enough and refused to comply. Wilson, anxious as usual to avoid incurring the wrath of Williams, cruelly sacked the secretary on the spot.32

  There were also countless cases when his advisers, crawling groggily out of their sleeping compartments in the early hours of the morning and then entering a closed car where Wilson was waiting impatiently to resume work on a speech, came close to gagging as the great plumes of smoke from the PM’s pipe first hit the back of their noses and throats. ‘Oh, Harold,’ his long-suffering wife, Mary, would exclaim, ‘do stop kippering us!’33 (‘Legend had it,’ Gerald Kaufman – a regular victim of the fumes produced by that ‘uniquely noxious tobacco’ – would say ruefully, ‘that Harold Wilson only smoked a pipe for public display, in private reverting solely to cigars. If only this had been true.’34)

  It was some of Wilson’s former aides who saw the scene in the Yes Minister episode and concluded that Jay and Lynn must have based it on yet another one of these incidents. They felt sure that the scene referred back to the tense political time in the autumn of 1965 shortly before the moment when Ian Smith, the Prime Minister of what was then Rhodesia, illegally severed his country’s links with the British Crown and issued a Unilateral Declaration of Independence (UDI).

  It seems that, after being briefed by Britain’s High Commissioner for Rhodesia towards the end of their week in Blackpool, Wilson and his entourage hurriedly boarded a train back to London, where Ian Smith was waiting for make-or-break talks about his country’s future behind closed doors at Number Ten. Due to the rapid pace at which various advisers were repeatedly revising his strategy for the meeting, Wilson, in various stages of déshabillé, kept on being invaded by countless officials and aides as he tried in vain to wash, change his clothes and regain some much-needed composure for the diplomatic travails that lay ahead.

  The summit with Smith ultimately failed to solve any problems, and Rhodesia went ahead with UDI, but the memory of that chaotic train ride would remain in the minds of those who had squeezed themselves inside the Prime Minister’s smoke-filled compartment. It was then, fifteen years later, abruptly rekindled as they saw that episode of Yes Minister, arousing the suspicion that the writers had employed yet another crafty copy.

  The irony was that, for once, the link was mainly accidental. The real inspiration for the scene, Jonathan Lynn would later reveal, came from the classic ship’s cabin routine from the Marx Brothers’ movie A Night at the Opera (1935), in which Groucho, Chico and Harpo are joined by four stewards, two chambermaids, one cleaner, one manicurist, one engineer and engineer’s assistant and one stray passenger (‘Say,’ says Groucho, ‘is it my imagination or is it getting crowded in here?’). ‘We didn’t hear about a similar scene occurring in Harold Wilson’s career until after we had written the episode,’ Lynn later explained. ‘I think, but I don’t remember for sure, that it was Marcia Williams who said to us: “This scene actually happened”.’35

  This isolated anomaly, however, only served to underline the impact that the accumulation of accuracies was having on the audience. Yes Minister was so scrupulously well researched, so rooted in real life, that insiders were moved to assume that even the most fanciful scenes must have been drawn straight from the facts.

  6

  Series Two

  We say that someone occupies an official position, whereas it is the official position that occupies him.

  On 26 March 1981, midway through its second series, Yes Minister would receive what was, in a sense, its finest accolade. During a debate in the House of Commons, Barney Hayhoe, the Minister for the Civil Service Department, rose to his feet and declared: ‘There are occasions when civil servants can help to improve the understanding of the way in which government works. Indeed, those who watch Yes Minister may well think that only the Sir Humphreys of this world actually know how it works.’1 The sitcom about the governing class was now being cited by the governing class. If anyone associated with the show still needed proof of how influential it had so rapidly become, this was surely it.

  Indeed, on the eve of the programme’s return, a leading political commentator observed that ‘a fair proportion of the nation’s Right Honourables, KCBs, Ministers of State and humble Assistant Secretaries will risk letting the country run itself for half an hour on Monday evening. They’ll all be watching BBC2 – because Yes Minister is back’.2 It was hardly much of an exaggeration: not only had the show struck a chord with the governed, it had also become an obsession with the governors.

  The Prime Minister herself had requested a complete set of videotapes of the first series, and declared herself a huge fan of the show (calling it a ‘splendid series’, she would tell the BBC’s Director-General that the tapes had given ‘me and my family such a funny and absorbing Christmas’3). Many other politicians, from all the major parties, had been similarly effusive in their praise, and it was rumoured that the sitcom had been discussed during scholarly seminars in Whitehall, and that more than one senior civil servant had, on occasion, been heard to say: ‘Now, what would Sir Humphrey do about that …?’4

  Some of this, of course, was down to vanity. There is no breed of human being that believes more passionately than politicians in Oscar Wilde’s dictum: ‘There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about’,5 and even some civil servants – in spite, or perhaps because of, their traditional culture of secrecy – are not entirely impervious to the siren song of celebrity.

  Some of it was also down to self-protective obtuseness. Like people sporting T-shirts bearing the legend ‘I’m With Stupid’, there was a fair proportion of bureaucrats who regarded the show simply as a satire on politicians, and a similar number of politicians who regarded the show simply as a satire on bureaucrats.

  Yes Minister, in this sense, served as a Rorschach test for the inhabitants of Westminster and Whitehall, whose responses would reveal more about them than they ever would about the show. There was, however, far more than this to the programme’s popularity within the political class.

  While its more self-obsessed and superficial members were plainly pleased to think that their profession was getting some extra attention, there were many others who were not only impressed but also somewhat unsettled by the accuracy of the sitcom’s stories, and, in some cases, a little shaken by its satire. This did indeed feel as though daylight was being let in upon magic, and, to those better-bred politicians and bureaucrats who knew their Bagehot, that did not seem an entirely good thing. The burgeoning Yes Minister phenomenon, to these more discerning souls, was almost as unnerving as it was entertaining.

  To the broader population, though, the show had quickly come to seem like the best politics teacher that they had ever had. In contrast to the frequently smug obscurantism of academia, the partial complicity of the broadsheet commentators and the shameless tub-thumping bias of the tabloid pundits, this sitcom seemed to be speaking directly to the ordinary voter, showing, refreshingly clearly and accessibly, the kinds of things that actually went on inside the corridors, and offices, of power.

  The second series, in this sense, would prove to be even more engagingly revealing than the first, because, thanks to the popularity that the show had already achieved, more and more insiders were now prepared to come forward and, strictly off the record, share their secrets with the writers. Politicians especially started queuing up to volunteer anecdotes of their own, usually at the expense of bureaucrats, but sometimes also acknowledging a few of the mishaps that had beset
themselves and their colleagues in the Commons.

  The enthusiasm that Margaret Thatcher had displayed for the show was particularly helpful in this sense, because up until this point the clandestine input of such Labour Party insiders as Marcia Falkender and Bernard Donoughue (backed up by the recent publication of Barbara Castle’s Crossman-style diaries6), though invaluable, had left the sitcom undernourished in terms of right-of-centre insight. The growing number of Conservative MPs, therefore, who (reasoning that there was less chance than before of incurring retribution from the whips) were now coming forward to offer their own distinctive perspective, was welcomed warmly by the writers. The picture, already realistic, was getting richer and richer.

  There were even some civil servants who, more discreetly, started getting in touch. Although in public many still bristled a little at the mention of the show – the impact of which, through stiff lips, they described as ‘healthy’ (‘Like cod liver oil, presumably,’ Jonathan Lynn observed7) – and the Head of the Home Civil Service, Sir Ian Bancroft, said sniffily that, although he found the show ‘rather funny’, he much preferred to watch Mastermind and Call My Bluff, 8 it was a different matter in private. ‘After the programmes were on air,’ Antony Jay later confirmed, ‘it was much easier and they then wanted to talk to us. We even got summoned to permanent secretaries’ offices, but such high-level interest was rare and only happened when they wished to put forward their side of the case. We eventually established a vaguely cooperative relationship with the Civil Service. For instance, Patrick Nairne, who was Permanent Secretary at the Department of Health, let us wander through the private office and he showed us what was in the minister’s diary to give us factual background, which was very helpful.’9

  ‘Our great strength,’ Jay would say, ‘was that we were not journalists who had to pretend not to be writing fiction. The people we talked to knew we were writing fiction, and they knew that we would not reveal our sources, which is necessary for a good journalist. They also knew that we would change the story so that it was not traceable back to them.’10

  This increasingly well-sourced attention to detail would not just attract plaudits. It would also provoke one or two veiled threats.

  During the run of the first series, for example, Jay and Lynn had received a call, quite out of the blue, from Sir Lawrence Airey, then Chairman of the Inland Revenue and, technically, a man who was ranked as a Permanent Secretary. He told them how much he was enjoying the show and invited them to lunch. Flattered, and feeling appropriately intrigued at the thought of meeting with their first real-life Sir Humphrey, they accepted.

  The two writers arrived at the headquarters of the Inland Revenue, which in those days was at Somerset House beside Waterloo Bridge, and were escorted through a succession of locked iron gates and long, stone-floored corridors until, once they had climbed up some stairs, they found themselves in the boardroom, where they were greeted by all eleven directors. Clearly this was not going to be the relaxed and convivial little lunch they had been expecting.

  Following a thimbleful each of sherry, they all sat down to a stilted, chilly, school dinner-style meal of cold cuts with lettuce, cucumber and Heinz salad dressing. There were a few complimentary remarks as the two writers tried to swallow the rubbery ham and the stringy leaves, but, as the lunch went on, more and more of the questions began to revolve around the matter of where they were getting their information from for the shows. The best part of two hours passed, with the two writers politely dead-batting the queries and declining to reveal their sources, and then, to their great relief, it was deemed time for everyone to go.

  Sir Lawrence shook their hands as they headed off to the door, muttering to them, ‘Let me know what you hear. I’d love to help. I can tell you if what you’re hearing is right or wrong.’11 Both Jay and Lynn thanked him and then made their way through the strange labyrinth back to the world outside, deeply puzzled by what they had just endured.

  It did not take long for the mystery to be solved. They had another meeting arranged for that afternoon with their regular political source Marcia Falkender, and, upon hearing where they had just been, she looked at them as if they were mad. ‘Oh, God!’ she exclaimed, her huge eyes even wider than usual. ‘You didn’t fall for that?’ Embarrassed, without quite knowing why, they explained what had happened. She listened attentively, shook her head, sighed a pitying sigh and then told them what had really happened.

  ‘The Revenue,’ she said, ‘is Whitehall’s police force. Didn’t you know? They were trying to find out what you know and where you’re getting your information.’12 Lynn, bemused, countered by pointing out that Sir Lawrence had actually been quite helpful: ‘He offered to check our information out for us.’ She shook her head and sighed again. ‘Of course he did,’ she groaned. ‘Then he’d know where you were getting it.’13

  Antony Jay, who was hardly naive when it came to Whitehall’s ways, tried to defuse the situation, stressing that neither he nor his partner had surrendered any secrets. ‘I’m sure they could see that we’re no threat to national security,’ he exclaimed. ‘They were probably trying to discover if we are just a couple of harmless funny people or seriously subversive.’ At this, Lynn could not resist interjecting: ‘Seriously subversive? That’s ridiculous! We went to Cambridge.’ Falkender narrowed her eyes knowingly and replied: ‘As did Philby, Burgess and Maclean.’14

  Lynn was curious. ‘Why,’ he asked, ‘does the Revenue function as Whitehall’s police force?’ Falkender replied: ‘It’s because they have so much information about everyone. They know everything about you and everyone: how much you earn, how much you spend, what you spend it on, where you go, what you do – they can work most of it out from the receipts. And they have the most comprehensive press-clippings service in the country.’15

  Lynn was still curious, so Falkender acted out how a tax inspector might behave: ‘Mr Lynn, look at this clipping. This is you in this photograph, isn’t it? It shows you outside Tramps, getting into a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce. Look, here’s another picture: there you are, driving a Porsche. And here you are at the Cannes Film Festival, drinking the finest champagne – four bottles of Dom, according to your receipt, which I have here. And look, here’s a photo of you coming out of the Hotel du Cap. Tell me, Mr Lynn, how do you do all this on fifty-one thousand a year?’16

  Both Jay and Lynn left their meeting with Marcia Falkender thinking that she was being, even by the old standards of the Wilson-era Labour Government, far too paranoid. It was only a few weeks later that Lynn had cause to think again. He was audited by the Inland Revenue. The investigation, in fact, would go on for three whole years.

  ‘It would have been disastrous for the credibility of Yes Minister if I had been fiddling my taxes,’ Lynn would remark. ‘Whether it was a fishing expedition, an attempt to intimidate me or just a coincidence, I shall never know. But every December, including the three years I was being audited, I received a card from Sir Lawrence Airey and the Board of the Inland Revenue wishing me a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.’17

  Such incidents reminded everyone involved with Yes Minister that they were making fun of the State, not some humble subsidiary institution, and, no matter how great the acclamation might be as the key figures played to the gallery, there would always be some who resented the precision of the intrusion. Both Jay and Lynn would wear that thought as a badge of honour. It was all the proof they would ever need. They were hitting their target. Their message was getting through.

  The actors were similarly encouraged by the impact the show was having. As they reassembled to rehearse the second series, there was a palpable sense of optimism in the air. Anticipating another set of high-quality, supremely literate scripts, the performers could hardly wait to resume their roles in what already seemed like a very special sitcom.

  It certainly helped that, like the writers (who were now due £1,000 each per script), they all were benefiting from a modest but still very welcome pay rise.
Paul Eddington was now set to receive £1,000 per episode, while Nigel Hawthorne would be getting £800 and Derek Fowlds £400, with smaller increases for the rest of the regular performers.18

  The camaraderie between all the members of the cast was good. ‘Paul, Derek and I got on very well,’ Nigel Hawthorne would say, ‘and I don’t remember a harsh word from start to finish.’19 Paul Eddington’s recollection would be much the same, with his remarking that the only problems they encountered involved sometimes calling each other by their real names when they were in character.20

  There were, however, a few very minor tensions that would always lurk beneath the surface. Most of these stemmed from the fact that Hawthorne and Eddington possessed such different personalities.

  At heart, the former was an introvert, while the latter was an extrovert. Although Hawthorne’s homosexuality had long been common knowledge in theatrical circles, and certainly caused no problems among any of his colleagues, the reluctance to make such a matter public (he would only be ‘outed’, much to his hurt and irritation, by the media in 1995) meant that he tended to be very protective of the life he shared offstage with his partner, the screenwriter Trevor Bentham, and, by his own admission, he was ‘not a social bird’21 (‘I don’t want to be part of the hustle and noise of being in the swim of things’22). Eddington, by contrast, was a far more relaxed and outgoing sort of character, and had a confidence about him that Hawthorne found at once impressive and irksome.

  Hawthorne would describe his co-star as ‘touchingly vain’, observing that ‘he loved being seen in public and was very proud of his membership of the Garrick Club’. Whenever there was a need to promote Yes Minister abroad, Hawthorne added, Eddington was usually the one to put himself forward to do it, and, while he was away on such trips, ‘he’d be treated as if he were the real thing and revelled in it’.23 Hawthorne would describe himself, on the other hand, as a man who preferred to lead ‘a far more mundane life, growing to love the countryside, having a circle of friends who, more often than not, had nothing to do with things theatrical – and certainly not matters political – becoming more and more insular because of my deep involvement with Trevor, preferring above everything to be in his company’.24