[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: |
|
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]
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:
[He ignores the question and hands Hacker a thick file of papers]
SIR HUMPHREY: |
I’d like you to have a look at these proposals, Minister. They outline the ways in which this policy could be implemented and contain draft proposals for a White Paper for your approval. We thought that the White Paper might be called ‘Open Government’. |
HACKER: |
Y-You mean … it … it’s–– |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
It’s all been taken care of, Minister. |
HACKER: |
Huh? Who … who did all this? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
The creaking old bureaucratic machine! |
Bernard Woolley, as the humble intermediary between these two high-placed officials, soon reveals that he is enough of a mandarin to have ingested most of the prejudices associated with his institution, but also enough of a secretary to sympathise with the needs of his Minister, with the consequence that he usually ends up satisfying neither. When, for example, Hacker declares that he would like a new chair, Woolley is quick to promise that one will be found, but, instinctively rather than vindictively, cannot resist also volunteering an anecdote: ‘It used to be said there were two kinds of chairs to go with two kinds of Minister: one sort folds up instantly, the other sort goes round and round in circles.’ This faux pas – the first of many – manages to rattle both of his bosses: Hacker because it is impudent and Sir Humphrey because it is indiscreet.
It is Woolley’s strange hybridity – part cynic, part idealist – that looks set to condemn him to a career of bouncing back and forth between his two rival bosses. Take, for example, his reaction to the first of Hacker’s ‘Big Ideas’ – Open Government. Whereas Hacker believes in it without understanding it, and Sir Humphrey dismisses it because he understands it only too well, Woolley only starts to establish a coherent position on the subject after both men have bullied him about it. ‘What’s wrong with open government?’ he asks innocently of his Civil Service superiors after Hacker has done his best to convince him of its logic. ‘Why shouldn’t the public know more about what’s going on?’ The answer, when it comes, shakes the fragile foundations of his freshly formed opinion: ‘My dear boy, it’s a contradiction in terms – you can be open or you can have government!’ Woolley tries to stand his ground (‘But surely the citizens of a democracy have a right to know?’), but Sir Humphrey’s intimidating show of certainty (‘No. They have a right to be ignorant. Knowledge only means complicity and guilt. Ignorance has a certain dignity’) soon grinds him down. ‘My dear fellow,’ Sir Humphrey concludes, ‘you will not be serving your Minister by helping him to make a fool of himself. Look at the Ministers we’ve had: every one of them would have been a laughing stock in three months had it not been for the most rigid and impenetrable secrecy about what they were up to!’
It is evident right from the start, however, that Sir Humphrey and Woolley will always be as linked as Hacker will be alone, because, as two of the ‘permanent residents of the house of power’, their very presence, their inviolable devotion to the bureaucratic routine, will always prompt in Hacker, as in Crossman and all of the other recently promoted politicians, the sobering intimations of his own evanescence. No sooner is he behind his desk as the new Head of the Department, the well-meaning words of his civil servants summon up the ghosts of Ministers past and future, and Hacker realises how transient his tenure might be:
HACKER: |
[Closing his file and rising as if to go] Well, I think that’s it then! |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Oh, there are one or two more things, Minister … |
HACKER: |
Eh? What things? |
WOOLLEY: |
Er, yes, if you would just like to check your diary for next week, Minister. |
HACKER: |
My diary? You didn’t know I was coming! You didn’t even know who’d win the election! |
WOOLLEY: |
|
HACKER: |
Don’t start that again! |
WOOLLEY: |
I’m sorry; even though we didn’t know it would be you. |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Yes, you see, Her Majesty does like the business of Government to continue even when there are no politicians around. |
HACKER: |
[Chuckling awkwardly] A bit difficult, surely? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Yes … And no. |
Hacker’s fast-diminishing sense of triumphalism is further depleted when Woolley lists a dauntingly long list of departmental engagements and Sir Humphrey reminds him that, from now on, as a temporary resident of Whitehall, he will not even be able to dodge compromises when it comes to his Westminster commitments:
HACKER: |
What about all the other things I have to do? |
WOOLLEY: |
What other things, Minister? |
HACKER: |
Well, I’m on four policy committees for the Party for a start! |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Well, I’m sure you won’t want to be putting Party before Country, Minister? |
HACKER: |
I … er … N-No, no, of course! |
Having established the characters and their key interrelationships, the rest of the episode concentrated on the first real tussle between Hacker and Sir Humphrey. When Sir Humphrey hears from his senior colleague, the Cabinet Secretary, that the Prime Minister is keen to close a major defence trade agreement with the United States (it therefore being essential that no one endangers the deal by undermining Anglo-American relations), he hatches a plan to give Hacker a sobering scare (‘We’ll have him house-trained in no time’).
Noting that his Minister continues to be urged on to action by his seemingly indefatigable special adviser, Sir Humphrey arranges for the two of them to ‘discover’ a secret invoice for £10 million worth of American computer equipment set to be used by the Civil Service. Outraged that a British manufacturer has not been handed such a lucrative commission, they demand that the ‘scandalous’ contract, if it cannot now be cancelled, should at least be made public as proof that the principle of ‘open government’ is now being put into practice. Sir Humphrey, after putting up a faux show of resistance, suggests that, if the Minister’s mind is set on this course of action, he should reveal all in a speech and then – via Sir Humphrey – release the damning details to the press.
Hacker and Weisel are thrilled to think that they have asserted their authority – ‘There,’ squeals Weisel to Sir Humphrey triumphantly, ‘who’s running the country now, eh?’ – but it does not take long before their victory is revealed to be pyrrhic. Hacker is sitting in his Department browsing through some documents when Woolley arrives brandishing a minute from the Prime Minister’s Office, informing him that ‘the PM is planning a visit to Washington next month, and is anxious that the visit will result in a valuable Anglo-American defence trade agreement. The importance of obtaining this agreement cannot be overestimated’. Hacker, distracted by his documents, mutters ‘Fine,’ but then the significance of the message sinks in: ‘Oh my God – has my speech gone to the press?’ His sense of panic only increases when Sir Humphrey bursts in to report that ‘all hell has just broken loose at Number Ten’ after they have seen a copy of Hacker’s inflammatory speech.
Concealing his obvious delight in his Minister’s distress, Sir Humphrey explains that, when questioned by the PM’s people as to why the speech had not been sent to them in advance for clearance, he told them that ‘We believe in open government’. Affecting mock regret, he adds that this only ‘seemed to make things worse’. Ominously, he then tells Hacker: ‘The PM wants to see you in the House, right away.’
A quivering Hacker, his face now as pale as his own White Paper, asks Sir Humphrey, in the pathetic tone of a small child who has been caught doing something naughty: ‘What’s going to happen?’ Sir Humphrey sighs and replies sadly, ‘The Prime Minister giveth, and the Prime Minister taketh away.’ Hacker, now more anxious than ever, scuttles off to face the music.
In the waiting room outside the Prime Minister’s Office, Hacker fears the worst. When he spots the big, bossy, beetle-browed Chief Whip emerging from the inner sanctum, his desperate attempt at a friendly greeting gets brusquely rebuffed: ‘You really are a pain in the arse, aren’t you!’ Frank Weisel, hovering as usual by Hacker’s side, gets a similarly rude response when he tries to remind the Chief Whip about the party’s commitment to open government: ‘Oh shut up, Weasel – who’s asking you?’
After delivering his parting shot to Hacker – ‘In politics you have to learn to say things with tact and finesse, you berk!’ – the Chief Whip strides off in search of his next victim. Next to emerge is the Cabinet Secretary, who is just as angry as his predecessor, snapping at Sir Humphrey for allowing his Minister to make such a provocative speech and asking if its contents have definitely been sent to the press. ‘Well, the Minister gave express instructions before noon,’ Sir Humphrey explains, relishing Hacker’s discomfort. ‘The Minister and I believe in open government,’ he adds, eagerly exacerbating the offence, ‘we want to throw open the windows and let in a bit of fresh air – isn’t that right, Minister?’ Hacker looks distinctly queasy at the very mention of his own cliché. Sir Humphrey then leans in to his Minister and, lowering his voice, asks him if he would like to give thought to drafting a letter of resignation – ‘Just in case’.
Hacker, fearing for his future, elects to get his hands dirty. ‘Could we hush it up?’ he asks Sir Humphrey. His Permanent Secretary bristles with mock indignation: ‘Hush it up? You mean suppress it?’ Hacker, embarrassed, mumbles his agreement. Sir Humphrey tries to look thoughtful and concerned: ‘I see … You mean that within the framework of the guidelines for open government that you’ve laid down, you are suggesting we adopt a more flexible posture?’ Hacker is so flustered he can barely compose a response: ‘Do I? Er … Y-Yes, yes!’
At this point Woolley rushes in, announcing breathlessly yet loquaciously: ‘There appears to have been a development which could precipitate a reappraisal of our position!’ A bemused Hacker listens carefully. ‘Apparently we failed to rescind the interdepartmental clearance procedure. The supplementary stop order came into effect!’ Hacker is still puzzled but suddenly vaguely hopeful. ‘So it’s all right, Minister, your speech hasn’t gone to the press!’ Hacker gasps with relief as Woolley completes his explanation. ‘It’s only gone to the Prime Minister’s Private Office, and the Duty Officer had no instructions to pass it out without clearance from the PM and the Foreign Office – it’s the American reference, you see!’
Hacker can barely believe his luck: ‘But how come?’ he exclaims. Sir Humphrey, now looking simultaneously smug and contrite, places a hand on his heart and ‘confesses’: ‘The fault is entirely mine, Minister. The procedure for holding up press releases dates back to before the era of “Open Government” and I unaccountably omitted to rescind it. I do hope you’ll forgive this lapse.’ Hacker, with similar insincerity, pretends to be generous with his forgiveness. ‘That’s quite all right, Humphrey, quite all right,’ he says. ‘After all, we all make mistakes!’ Sir Humphrey looks at him with knowing eyes: ‘Yes, Minister.’
This opening episode thus ended with all of its aims fulfilled. It had introduced the situation not only with impressive clarity but also (in the writing if not the direction) an admirable lightness of touch, established all of the characters with colour and care, and had also sown the seeds of most of its recurring themes, such as the unending tension between politicians and bureaucrats, the inevitable disparity between abstract ideals and practical reality, the perennial conflict between personal ambition and political prudence, the increasingly dire dangers of dealing with the media and, last but by no means least, the universally profound problem of ‘dirty hands’. It had all been handled with consummate care: beautifully written, cleverly and delicately acted and presented in such a way as to maintain a fine balance between comedy and truth.
The critical response to the debut generally followed the traditional pattern for the opening episodes of new sitcoms, with some reviewers preferring to wait a while longer before volunteering a judgement, and a few of the others committing their comments to print insulated by so many nervy doubts and reservations as to render their real opinions more or less opaque. Peter Fiddick, for example, wrote in the Guardian that ‘the look of the thing is good’, and said that the show deserved praise for ‘aiming admirably higher than knockabout gags’, but then qualified this positive-sounding welcome by complaining that a fleeting comment that used the wrong citation style for Hansard undermined the sitcom’s verisimilitude – a complaint which, seeing as only the tiniest proportion of the audience would have been in a position to spot such a minor inaccuracy, seemed patently pedantic.4
Probably the most positive evaluation came from David Sinclair in The Times, who hailed the originality of the show and predicted that it was set to mollify all of those viewers who felt that the sitcom genre had recently been stuck in the doldrums:
In this series, the kitchen sink and the bedroom, the office and the factory, the husband/wife/lover/children/aunt/dog/vicar/undertaker permutations, and the other standard scenarios of sitcom have been cast aside. But what on earth is left? you scream, nerves at breaking point. Why the government, of course – and what could be funnier than that? […] Such topics as the EEC, official secrets and quangos may seem unpromising raw material, but just think about them for a moment and you’ll see the rib-tickling potentialities.5
The size of the audience for the first episode had been a somewhat disappointing 1.8 million,6 which was not particularly unusual for that time and slot on BBC2 (it had long been one of the curiosities of British broadcasting that a large part of the viewing public would not watch a programme on BBC2 – perhaps because of some lingering sense of it having started out as the nation’s ‘highbrow’ channel – even though they would happily watch the very same thing if it was repeated on BBC1), but it was still a source of frustration to those involved with the show. Word of mouth helped build the audience a little for the next episode, but it would not be until after the third instalment that the series finally started getting the kind of viewing figures that were commensurate with its quality.
One reason for this upturn in its fortunes was the publication of a substantial review in The Listener magazine. Written by the prominent Labour politician and former Cabinet Minister Roy Hattersley, it represented an insider’s stamp of approval, and, as a consequence, it commanded a considerable amount of attention. Praising Jay and Lynn for wanting ‘to portray more than the small change of political life’, Hattersley went on to link them with the grand tradition of literate political satire: ‘Like Anthony Trollope […], they aspire to write fiction that is about politics, not just politicians. And, like him, they achieve some remarkable successes’. After noting the accuracy and insightfulness of the episodes so far, as well as the sophisticated nature of the humour, he predicted a bright future for the sitcom:
There are funny things to be said and written about the profession of politics and enormous entertainment to be provided by recounting the political ways in which politicians are risible and ridiculous. Mr Jay and Mr Lynn may, on the evidence of the earliest episodes, be able to entertain us by saying them.7
There were also several other positive mentions of the show in the press, which helped to increase the interest. A number of reports, for example, noted how both politicians and civil servants were beginning to speculate as to who might be the models for the characters of Hacker and Sir Humphrey. The Daily Mail, for example, gossiped that ‘order papers are being waved in the direction of Labour’s former Industry Secretary, Eric Varley,’ and even quoted the man himself moaning that ‘if they’d wanted to use me in the programme I would have charged a pretty big fee’. The paper also related a rumour that Sir Humphrey had been inspired by Sir Douglas Wass, the Permanent Secretary to the Treasury since 1974.8
The guesses were, of course, to put it mildly, wide of the mark. Eric Varley, for example, was a serious, complex, disarmingly honest but rather dour figure (a miner’s son who had risen quietly but fairly rapidly up through the party ranks) who, although he had made the odd gaffe in his past (such as the time in 1976 when he decided to shut down the loss- making Chrysler car factory, only for his Cabinet colleagues to force him into an embarrassing U-turn), and was once privately chastised by Harold Wilson for being ‘too much in the hands’ of his officials,9 was nothing like the kind of ditherer that Hacker personified. The smooth-tongued, discreet and quietly crafty Sir Douglas Wass was a much better bet for Sir Humphrey, but then most Permanent Secretaries, by the very fact that they possessed precisely the kind of personality to be made Permanent Secretaries, would have reminded one of Sir Humphrey – his inclusiveness was partly the point.
The wildest piece of speculation at this stage connected Frank Field with Frank Weisel. Field, the London-born MP for Birkenhead, had never been a political adviser, and (rather like a Labour equivalent of the Tory Party’s ‘mad monk’ Sir Keith Joseph) was a quirky and twitchily earnest operator whose pronouncements were often as complex (sometimes bordering on the gnomic) as Weisel’s were risibly simplistic.
It did not matter, however, that the guesses were inaccurate. What mattered was that they were being made at all, and that the show was being talked about. More and more people were starting to be drawn into its cultured, insightful and intriguingly believable netherworld.
The real depth to the series was provided by the power of its ever- present themes, which kept connecting each isolated plot to a richer, regular texture. Whereas most sitcoms flitted skittishly from one self-contained storyline to the next, Yes Minister, while never skimping on local detail, touch or colour, never lost sight of the bigger picture.
There were, for example, some deftly delivered satirical observations about the various tensions between bureaucracy and politics. In episode three, Sir Humphrey explained to Woolley how Whitehall is naturally inclined to evaluate itself:
There has to be some way to measure success in the Civil Service. British Leyland measure their success by the size of their profits. Or, to be more accurate, they measure their failure by the size of their losses. But we don’t have profits and losses. We have to measure our success by the size of our staff and our budget. By definition, Bernard, a big department is more successful than a small one.10
Similarly, in a later episode, Hacker let slip how Westminster approaches the same process:
HACKER: |
You must realise that there is a real desire for radical reform in the air. The All-Party Select Committee on Administrative Affairs, which I founded, is a case in point. It’s a great success. |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Oh, indeed. What has it achieved? |
HACKER: |
Um … nothing, yet, but the Party’s very pleased with it. |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Ah. Why? |
HACKER: |
Ten column inches in last Monday’s Daily Mail for a start! |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Oh, I see, the Government is going to measure its success in column inches, is it? |
HACKER: |
Yes … No … Yes and no!11 |
Later on in the series, Sir Humphrey, with uncharacteristic directness, serves as the mouthpiece for another bitingly sardonic summary of the Civil Service’s take on the relationship between a Permanent Secretary and his Minister:
SIR HUMPHREY: |
You are not here to run this Department. |
HACKER: |
I beg your pardon? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
You are not here to run this Department. |
HACKER: |
I think I am! The people think I am, too! |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
With respect, Minister, you are – they are – wrong. |
HACKER: |
And who does run this Department? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
I do. |
HACKER: |
Oh! I see! And what am I supposed to do? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
We’ve been through all this before: make policy, get legislation enacted and, above all, secure the Department’s budget in Cabinet. |
HACKER: |
I sometimes think that the budget is all you ever really care about. |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Well, it is rather important, Minister. If nobody cared about the budget, we might end up with a department so small that even a Minister could run it.12 |
This relationship is explained in even more brilliantly damning detail in another exchange – this time between Sir Humphrey, Woolley and another Permanent Secretary, the gloriously orgulous Sir Frederick ‘Jumbo’ Stewart:
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Is something the matter, Bernard? |
WOOLLEY: |
Er, well, it’s just that, er, I’ve been increasingly worried about, er, keeping things back from the Minister. |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
What do you mean? |
WOOLLEY: |
Well, er, why shouldn’t he be allowed to know things … if he wants to? |
SIR FREDERICK: |
|
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Bernard, this country is governed by Ministers making decisions from the various alternative proposals that we offer them, is it not? |
WOOLLEY: |
Well, yes, of course. |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Well, don’t you see? If they had all the facts they’d see all sorts of other possibilities. They might even formulate their own plans instead of choosing between the two or three that we put up. |
WOOLLEY: |
Would that matter? |
SIR FREDERICK: |
Would it matter?!? |
WOOLLEY: |
But why? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Well, as long as we can formulate our own proposals, we can guide them to the correct decision. |
WOOLLEY: |
Can we? How? |
SIR FREDERICK: |
It’s like a conjurer. The Three-Card Trick. You know: ‘Take any card …’ Then make sure they pick the one that you intend. Ours is the Four-Word Trick. |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
There are four words you have to work into a proposal if you want a Minister to accept it. |
SIR FREDERICK: |
Quick. Simple. Popular. Cheap. And, equally, there are four words to be included in a proposal if you want it thrown out. |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Complicated. Lengthy. Expensive. Controversial. And if you want to be really sure that the Minister doesn’t accept it you must say the decision is ‘courageous’. |
WOOLLEY: |
And that’s worse than ‘controversial’? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Oh! ‘Controversial’ only means: ‘This will lose you votes’. ‘Courageous’ means: ‘This will lose you the election’! |
SIR FREDERICK: |
You see, if they have all the facts instead of just the options, they might start thinking for themselves. |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Mmmm. |
WOOLLEY: |
And the system works? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Works? It’s made Britain what she is today!13 |
Another impressively effective recurring theme was that concerning the ‘cheat of words’ – the various uses and abuses of rhetoric. Both Sir Humphrey and Hacker, for example, demonstrated in certain circumstances that they were well versed in the dark arts of ‘anti-speak’, whereby civil servants and politicians alike conspire to eviscerate language and then use the limp remains as a sort of protective lagging.
In Sir Humphrey’s case, of course, such questionable skills are in evidence almost every time he opens his mouth (e.g. ‘The traditional allocation of executive responsibilities has always been so determined as to liberate the ministerial incumbent from the administrative minutiae by devolving the managerial functions to those whose experience and qualifications have better formed them for the performance of such humble offices, thereby releasing their political overlords for the more onerous duties and profound deliberations which are the inevitable concomitant of their exalted position’14). Even Hacker, however, when he finds himself squirming in such an uncomfortable situation as, say, a probing television interview, shows that he, too, can waffle with the worst of them (‘D’you know? I’m glad you asked me that question! Because … it’s a question a lot of people are asking. And why? Because a lot of people want to know the answer to it. And let’s be quite clear about this without beating about the bush: the plain fact of the matter is … is that it’s a very important question indeed! And people have a right to know!’15).
In a more specific analysis of the pros and cons of trying to communicate, and manipulate, through the means of the modern media, the series captured on numerous occasions how dangerous it can be when a politician, rashly unsheathing the simple sword of truth, sets out to carve his or her name with pride in the press. One such instance occurred in an episode in which Hacker’s cynical bid to gain favourable personal coverage – by launching an ill-conceived but headline-hunting economy drive (‘HACKER SETS AN EXAMPLE!’ ‘SAVE IT, SAYS JIM!’) – sees him resort to such clumsy publicity stunts as eschewing the use of his drinks cabinet, cutting down on staff in his private office and shunning his chauffeur-driven ministerial car, only to end up being photographed looking somewhat tired and emotional one wet and miserable evening as he sinks to his knees in the gutter and struggles to retrieve his car keys from a drain.
The same episode shows how these media misfortunes are often explained away through the devious powers of spin. Sir Humphrey, noting that Hacker’s ham-fisted attempt at cutting bureaucracy will only lead to the creation of more bureaucracy (with at least four hundred new jobs in the offing if his new administrative ‘watchdog’ is established), proposes abandoning the policy, scrapping all the yet-to-be-filled vacancies and then issuing an immediate press announcement to the effect that the Minister has done precisely what he promised. ‘That’s phoney,’ Hacker complains as he contemplates how much the truth is being twisted. ‘It-it’s cheating, it’s dishonest, it’s just … cheating with figures, pulling the wool over people’s eyes!’ Sir Humphrey responds with a knowing grin: ‘A Government press release, in fact.’16
Another issue within the media theme was addressed later on in the series when the hazards of a politician having a free-willed family was brought briefly into focus, with Hacker’s left-leaning student daughter threatening to ruin one of his policies by making the political personal, and vice versa. The Minister, having been persuaded by Sir Humphrey to support proposed legislation that will see certain areas of the countryside lose their protected status (‘It’s only the urban middle class who worry about the preservation of the countryside – because they don’t have to live in it’), is then horrified to discover that his own faux-radical daughter is one of those planning to stage a front-page-friendly nude protest at an endangered badger colony. ‘What about the police?’ asks Hacker, desperately. ‘“MINISTER SETS POLICE ON NUDE DAUGHTER” – I’m not sure that completely kills the story, Minister,’ replies Sir Humphrey drily. Once again, it is the Permanent Secretary’s penchant for spin that saves the public face of the politician, first assuring the daughter that the only extant local animals are rats, and then assuring the Minister that there is no need for him to have such ‘facts’ confirmed.
It is the ancient problem of ‘dirty hands’, however, that runs throughout the series like a thread. Although Hacker, decent but driven, arrives in the Department determined always to do the right thing, it does not take long before he finds himself pressured into sometimes doing some of the wrong things in order to achieve it. After considering ‘hushing’ something up in the opening episode, Hacker, his moral compass now sent spinning by the sheer complexity of practical politics, soon shows himself open to a bit of bribery to seal a deal with a shady foreign leader (‘Everyone has his price’17), as well as, on occasion, misleading his fellow MPs (‘I don’t want the truth – I want something I can tell Parliament!’18).
By the final episode of the series, Hacker is clearly a much more morally compromised creature from the one who arrived in Whitehall preaching the pure ideals of openness, honesty and unquestionable integrity, and now – although remaining essentially well intentioned – he appears to be very much at home in a world in which practically everyone is open to at least some degree of corruption. Working in tandem with Sir Humphrey, he saves an important Government-sponsored building project by using his powers of patronage to buy the compliance of a banker, tame a trade unionist and even shut up and shut out his own noisily principled political adviser. Time and again he brushes his own objections aside as he pursues his ultimate objectives.
Although he refrains from saying so himself, he would, one suspects, applaud the ingenuity, rather than condemn the insincerity, of Sir Humphrey’s sly redefinition of a cover-up as ‘responsible discretion exercised in the national interest to prevent unnecessary disclosure of eminently justifiable procedures in which untimely revelation could severely impair public confidence’.19 The Minister, at this stage, has hands that are as dirty as any others inside his Department.
As if the sustained and intelligent treatment of this and the other recurring themes was not impressive enough for the short and populist form of the sitcom, the series also managed to find sufficient room and wit to touch on a number of more specific topical issues, ranging from current ecological concerns to the burgeoning use of quangos. Probably the most evocative and provocative of such issues, and the one that was treated with the most clinical satirical swipe, was that pertaining to the chronically vexed question of Britain’s role in Europe:
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Britain has had the same foreign policy objective for at least the last five hundred years: to create a disunited Europe. In that cause, we have fought with the Dutch against the Spanish, with the Germans against the French, with the French and Italians against the Germans and with the French against the Germans and the Italians. Divide and rule, you see? Why should we change now, when it’s worked so well? |
HACKER: |
That’s all ancient history, surely? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Yes. And current policy. We had to break the whole thing up so we had to get inside. We tried to break it up from the outside but that wouldn’t work. Now that we’re inside we can make a complete pig’s breakfast of the whole thing! Set the Germans against the French, the French against the Italians, the Italians against the Dutch … The Foreign Office is terribly pleased – it’s just like old times! |
HACKER: |
But surely we’re all committed to the European ideal? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Really, Minister! |
HACKER: |
If not, why are we pressing for an increase in the membership? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Well, for the same reason. It’s just like the United Nations, in fact: the more members it has, the more arguments it can stir up. The more futile and impotent it becomes. |
HACKER: |
What appalling cynicism! |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Yes. We call it diplomacy, Minister.20 |
The one aspect of life that was largely missing from the first series was private life, but that absence, understandably, was a reflection of an absence in real life. This was, after all, the story of how a Minister becomes increasingly immersed in the business of government, and, as a consequence, it also had to be, implicitly, the story of how a Minister becomes progressively alienated from ordinary civilian activities. Like some poor soul who has followed the footsteps leading into Virgil’s dark cave of Polyphemus, there is only one direction that Hacker is heading, and that is deeper and deeper into the abyss. In dramatic terms, therefore, there was probably precious little to show of the typical senior bureaucratic or political official’s life beyond the day-to-day exigencies of government.
True, in theory, and in keeping with a much more conventional sitcom style, we could probably have seen more of Sir Humphrey off duty than one fleeting scene of him sharing a shadowy bed with his wife (totalling a mere fifty-five seconds), and more of Hacker spending some time domestically with his own wife (only six scenes in seven episodes, totalling a modest sixteen minutes), or his daughter (just one scene, totalling just four minutes), but, to be fair, the concision had more to do with fact than fiction. Apart from a few isolated moments when Hacker’s wife acted as his confidante-cum-conscience, such as when she shamed and cajoled him into finally standing up for himself (‘And while you’re at it, why not just sign your letters with a rubber stamp, or get an Assistant Principal to sign them for you? They write them, anyway!’), there was little opportunity for his family to interact with him genuinely without distracting viewers from each complicated plot.
The real message conveyed by the peripheral nature of his personal life was that, whether he likes it or not, the Department of Administrative Affairs is now Jim Hacker’s de facto home, and Sir Humphrey and Woolley are now his surrogate family. He might have started out on that balcony, arm in arm with his wife with his party rosette proudly on display on his overcoat, but gradually, as the red boxes pile up and the problems proliferate, he becomes more and more rooted in his job, and, eventually, this Westminster man becomes wedded to Whitehall.
This gradual process was charted by means of an effective dialectic. In three well-paced stages, the transformation was traced.
The first three episodes provided the thesis: Whitehall rules over Westminster. Sir Humphrey, with his cobra-cool eyes, would listen patiently to his mouse of a Minister, and then, when the moment was right, he would pounce, wrapping his words around his prey until all resistance had been suffocated. Hacker, time and again, would react with the kind of dazed and dazzled awe that had caused Charles Pooter, in The Diary of a Nobody, to remark that the pronouncements of the similarly verbose and ‘very clever’ Hardfur Huttle seemed ‘absolutely powerful’.21
The fourth episode, however, provided the antithesis: Westminster fights back. Jim Hacker, realising that he is being consistently outwitted by his Permanent Secretary, resolves to claw back some authority by acting just as slyly as his tormentor. Spurred on by the combined efforts of his special adviser and his wife, Hacker starts mimicking the master’s own brand of deviousness, unnerving Sir Humphrey by waking him up in the early hours of the morning with a speciously complicated query (‘I didn’t interrupt you in the middle of dinner or anything, did I?’), confounding him with his sudden addiction to secrecy (‘Humphrey, my lips are sealed!’), anticipating and dismissing all of his procrastinating tactics (‘Right: well, we can go ahead, then!’), and then using the media to bypass and bully the bureaucracy (‘… And I’m happy to announce that we’re now ready to put our proposals into publication’), leaving a furious Sir Humphrey facing a fait accompli (‘I think,’ the discreetly impressed Woolley tells him, ‘it’s checkmate’). Even though the sheer amount of effort Hacker expends to win this particular battle seems unlikely to be repeated all that often – one already senses that Hacker, compared to Sir Humphrey, is, essentially, lazier as well as slower-witted – the victory does at least show his Permanent Secretary that, from this point on, the Minister is quite capable, on his day, of putting him back in his place.
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: |
|
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. Joke: 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.