If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change.
After the third series of Yes Minister, there was a pause for thought. For the first time since the sitcom started, there was a degree of doubt about its future.
The BBC in those days had a wise and relaxed ‘wait and see’ attitude when it came to recommissioning many of its most successful shows. Preferring to let its best sitcoms progress at a pace that suited the programme-makers rather than the channel controllers, the message to the writers was always to wait until they felt that they had something worthwhile to say, and then pick up the telephone and let an executive know. It was only at this point that the wheels would be set in motion for another series to be made.
John Howard Davies had recently been promoted to Head of Light Entertainment, while Gareth Gwenlan, another seasoned supporter of sitcoms, had replaced him as Head of Comedy, so Yes Minister still had the right friends in the right places. There was no real prospect, therefore, of the BBC suddenly losing interest in the show.
There were also still plenty of influential fans who were eager for further instalments. In June 1983, for example, shortly after the General Election, Jonathan Lynn was pleased to find that Margaret Thatcher remained a fervent admirer of the show. He had written to her, somewhat surprisingly considering his left-of-centre reputation, to congratulate her on her ‘magnificent and excellent election victory’,1 which prompted a predictably warm response. She wrote back quickly, by hand, not only to thank him for the sentiment but also to reaffirm her affection for the sitcom:
I love your programmes. Every one a winner. The dialogue and timing are superb. And the insight into the thought processes of politicians and civil servants is supremely perceptive.2
There was just as deep an appreciation for the show over at the Labour Party’s HQ in Walworth Road, where, ironically, its Leader, Neil Kinnock, and his then Press Secretary, Patricia Hewitt, had recently written and performed an unofficial Yes Minister sketch attacking Thatcher’s handling of the Falklands conflict:
INTRO: |
And now a word from one of the more alert, far-seeing of the present Government’s ministers. The Minister for Bureaucratic Indifference, Mr Jim Hacker. |
HACKER: |
Hello everyone. Some of our critics are saying that my colleagues and I are too easily manipulated by our civil servants. But this is just rubbish! As I intend now to demonstrate to you. I’ve just sent for my new Permanent Secretary (the one who replaced Sir Humphrey), Dame Patricia. |
HEWITT: |
You wanted to see me, Minister? |
HACKER: |
Ah yes, Dame Patricia. There’s something about the Government’s loan to Argentina that I just can’t understand. |
HEWITT: |
That doesn’t really surprise me, Minister. |
HACKER: |
What? |
HEWITT: |
Nothing, Minister. |
HACKER: |
Well, the thing is, since they’re still threatening us, why in God’s name are we lending them money? |
HEWITT: |
Well, isn’t it quite obvious, Minister? |
HACKER: |
No. |
HEWITT: |
Well, if we forced them to repay it, it would completely destroy Argentina’s economy. |
HACKER: |
Well, what’s wrong with that? It’s a pity someone didn’t think of that last April, it could have saved us a war! |
HEWITT: |
Ah, but we did think of it last April, Minister. |
HACKER: |
What?! So why didn’t we blow the whistle on the Argies then and stop the killing? |
HEWITT: |
Minister, it’s really all quite simple. The fact is that such a course would have ensured an inauspicious prognosis for the liquidity of our fiscal institutions. |
HACKER: |
What does that mean? |
HEWITT: |
The banks would have lost money. |
HACKER: |
Why? |
HEWITT: |
[Sighs as if with a stupid child] Oh dear, let me put it this way, Minister. If we asked for our money back the Argentines would be declared bankrupt and they wouldn’t have to pay us anything at all. |
HACKER: |
Just let me get this right … are you trying to tell me that we sent thousands of troops pissing all over the South Atlantic rather than write off a few quid on a bad debt? |
HEWITT: |
Oh, not a ‘few’ quid, Minister, several millions actually. |
HACKER: |
But why so much money? |
HEWITT: |
Because, Minister, Argentina is like us, and has to pay for life’s little necessities … like fighter planes, Exocets, artillery, that sort of thing. |
HACKER: |
What – so they can then use them on British soldiers? |
HEWITT: |
Well, technically that is correct, Minister. They may do that from time to time, but you have to remember, Minister, they are our friends. |
HACKER: |
Friends?! |
HEWITT: |
Quite so, Minister, and an essential bulwark against the Communists. |
HACKER: |
Oh, are they? I see! Well, it’s a good thing we aren’t lending money to the Communists. |
HEWITT: |
Well, that’s not strictly true either, Minister. There are one or two outstanding financial arrangements with the Eastern Bloc, especially with Poland. |
HACKER: |
Poland? Dame Patricia, I’ve just had a brilliant idea! |
HEWITT: |
I was afraid of that. [I should have used more long words.] |
HACKER: |
Why don’t we tell General Jaruzelski that unless he ends repression against Solidarity we will bankrupt his country? |
HEWITT: |
Because, Minister, if repression ends, there’ll be more civil unrest, the Polish economy will destabilise, fiscal controls will evaporate and the banks … |
HACKER: |
I see: will lose money. So, let me get this straight, Dame Patricia. It is the policy of this Government to go to war with its friends, to connive at the repressive policies of its enemies … and to lend money to both. |
HEWITT: |
I couldn’t have put it better myself. |
HACKER: |
You know, Dame Patricia, sometimes I think the country is being run by complete idiots. |
HEWITT: |
Yes, Minister.3 |
On this one topic, therefore, even the Government and its Opposition were united. All of the country’s politicians wanted Yes Minister to come back.
Neither Jay nor Lynn, however, was sure about writing any more episodes. For one thing, the research involved for each and every script was extraordinarily time-consuming and also extremely tiring. In those days, without the option of a few easy clicks on a computer, the writers had to travel and consult all of the relevant libraries and archives in person, as well as devote hours and hours to wining and dining their increasingly wide range of political and bureaucratic moles. The consequence was that they had become the willing victims of their own remarkably meticulous attention to detail.
They were also the victims of their own success. The growing popularity of the show had gradually increased the pressure on them to keep topping their own triumphs, and this did not just drain their creative energy but also distracted them from their various solo projects.
Although the general public probably regarded them simply as ‘the Yes Minister writers’, the sitcom remained, in truth, a relatively low-paid, part-time project, as Jay continued to oversee the very busy Video Arts and Lynn carried on with his theatrical and other media interests. It was getting harder and harder for them to find the spare time to collaborate on the show.
Finally, they were caught in two minds as to whether continuing would be wise for the long-term reputation of the sitcom. They loved it, and were very proud of what they, and all of their colleagues, had so far achieved, and thus were loath, at this stage, to risk devaluing its reputation by allowing it to outstay its welcome.
The main creative issue was that Hacker had been in charge of the DAA now for three years, and such longevity was becoming less and less believable. Most Ministers, in real life, stayed for no more than two-thirds of that time in any one Department before being demoted, promoted or shifted sideways. Richard Crossman, for example, had spent a mere twenty-two months as Minister of Housing and Local Government, and then just nineteen months as Secretary of State for Health and Social Services.
Jay and Lynn could, of course, have moved him to another Department via a reshuffle, but the whole point of inventing the all-purpose DAA had been to avoid him being identified with a specific, limited area, and so, dramatically, he seemed destined to be stuck where he was. While the writers were confident about keeping the stories plausible, they were less sure about how to keep their Minister’s career sufficiently convincing. It was thus tempting to call time on his, and the show’s, tenure.
The actors, meanwhile, were too distracted by other projects to reflect for very long on what if anything might happen next with their sitcom. ‘As far as we knew,’ Derek Fowlds would recall, ‘they were thinking of ways to change it while keeping us all together.’4 They trusted the writers to reach a decision that would be in the best interests of the show, but, in the meantime, as the arch pragmatists that their profession tends to nurture, they immersed themselves in other work.
Paul Eddington rarely seemed to have a blank page in his diary. He appeared on television alongside Nanette Newman in another sitcom, Let There Be Love (BBC2, 1983), which he later dismissed as ‘rather depressing’ because the standard of the scripts fell far below those of Yes Minister.5 In the theatre, he moved swiftly from one production to another, starring in the autumn of 1983 in two plays at Bristol Old Vic (Terence Rattigan’s The Browning Version and Peter Shaffer’s Black Comedy) and then in the West End in Charles Dyer’s Lovers Dancing at the Albery, before moving on to Chichester in the summer of 1984 to star in a revival of Alan Bennett’s Forty Years On. He also worked on several radio shows, recorded innumerable voiceovers, appeared in commercials and even managed to squeeze in a few more promotional trips abroad.
Nigel Hawthorne was not quite as active, preferring to keep some time free to relax out of the spotlight with his partner Trevor Bentham, but he still selected a series of interesting stage projects during this period, appearing during the summer of 1983 at The Pit in two prestigious RSC productions: Ibsen’s Peer Gynt and Molière’s Tartuffe, supporting Antony Sher. There were also a few radio and television plays, including a memorable version of André Brink’s A Dry White Season for BBC Radio 4 in February 1983.
Derek Fowlds worked just as steadily. He appeared in February 1983 at the Redgrave Theatre, Farnham in Robin Hawdon’s frenetic new farce The Birthday Suite, and then toured in several other productions. There was also a starring role in the pilot of an unusual ITV sitcom called Affairs of the Heart (focusing on a man recovering from a heart attack, it would eventually reappear as a series a couple of years later).
As the months went by, the BBC was certainly still very interested in seeing the show continue, but it had failed to realise how undervalued the two writers had come to feel. Yes Minister was, after all, their idea, based on their research and built on their beautifully crafted scripts, but, whenever the show had been honoured for its success, the writers had been left neglected.
For example, every time the most prestigious award ceremonies came around, in spite of the fact that Yes Minister had always figured prominently on the list of nominations, Jay and Lynn, the writers, were notably not only overlooked but not even in attendance. ‘Each time Nigel [Hawthorne] and Sydney Lotterby or Peter Whitmore won BAFTA awards for our show,’ Jonathan Lynn would remember, ‘and each time we were not invited. We won the Broadcasting Press Guild Award twice, and we didn’t even know about it until Paul [Eddington], who was always gracious, rang my front-door bell, handed me the certificate and said, “I think this really belongs to you and Tony”’.6
As snubs go, this was probably the worst. There were, however, quite a few others.
Jay and Lynn had a similar experience with the people responsible for the recently established Public Lending Right programme, when they applied for royalties for their Yes Minister tie-in books. The letter they received in response pointed out that, as the author appeared to be ‘the Rt Hon. James Hacker MP’, neither Jay nor Lynn was entitled to any payments unless they could provide proof that they had made a significant contribution to the books.
It was no better closer to home. Jonathan Lynn’s wife used to shop at the same butcher’s, in Muswell Hill, as Paul Eddington’s wife, and on one occasion, when both of them were there, the butcher congratulated Eddington’s wife on her husband’s great success in Yes Minister, and then turned to Lynn’s wife and asked: ‘How’s your old man, Rita? Haven’t seen him on the telly much recently. Does he get any work now?’7
The lack of fame came as something of a relief. Both writers preferred their work, rather than themselves, to be well known. They did hope, nonetheless, that their efforts had at least been fully appreciated by the people behind the scenes at the BBC, and so they decided to see how much they were really esteemed by the powers that be.
Talks about another series were initiated, but the writers were in an uncompromising mood. ‘We asked for a lot more money,’ Lynn would recall, ‘and we didn’t hide our view that writers were disrespected by the BBC hierarchy, who had it in their power to change the perception of the writer’s pre-eminent contribution to television programmes.’ Naming their price, they asked for ten thousand pounds (between them) per script – very little by today’s media standards, and a relatively modest sum even in those days as far as commercial television was concerned, but still much more than the BBC, up to that point, had paid to a couple of sitcom writers. Somewhat surprised and shaken, the executives tried to reassure the pair, but failed to do enough. ‘The BBC wanted us to continue,’ said Lynn, ‘but it was not willing to step up financially.’8
The talks collapsed and the writers declared that they would move on to other projects. Their supporters at the BBC were saddened, but the pair did not seem to have any regrets. ‘As the BBC wouldn’t give us a pay rise of any consequence,’ Jonathan Lynn would say, ‘we were more than happy to move on. We both were busy with other work.’9
It came, in a way, as a relief. There was so much more, so much else, that both men wanted to do.
Antony Jay had plenty of other interests, both in politics and business, to occupy his time and was very much in the mood for pastures new. ‘We really did think that series three was the end,’ he later explained. ‘Anyway, I was pretty busy as chairman and script writer/editor of Video Arts.’10
Jonathan Lynn was excited at the prospect of taking on new challenges, not only back in the theatre but also now in films. He had received an offer from Hollywood.
John Landis, the director of such popular movies as Animal House (1978), The Blues Brothers (1980), An American Werewolf in London (1981) and Trading Places (1983), as well as the groundbreaking promotional video for Michael Jackson’s Thriller (1983), was planning to make his next movie a comedy-mystery inspired by the board game Cluedo, and he wanted Lynn to write the screenplay. Lynn agreed, but, by the time he had completed it, Landis had become distracted by other projects, and so, exploiting the fact that he was a major player, he pulled some strings so that Lynn could direct it instead. Released as Clue (1985), it would mark the start of a second career for Lynn as a Hollywood writer/director.
Back in Britain, he continued to work in the theatre, directing a prestigious revival of Joe Orton’s black comedy Loot at the Ambassadors Theatre in London during the first half of 1984, and then transferring it to the Lyric for the rest of the year. The imaginative production, though extremely well received, was blighted by the tragic death of its star, Leonard Rossiter, who suffered a fatal heart attack in his dressing room on the evening of 5 October.
Lynn also found the time, between the two runs of Loot, to direct another high-profile play – an adaptation for the National Theatre by John Mortimer of the classic Georges Feydeau farce A Little Hotel on the Side – as well as work on another screenplay and, in collaboration with Monty Norman, a musical. As much as he loved Yes Minister, like Antony Jay, he was far too busy to miss it.
The BBC, in their absence, was still trying to find a way to bring the show back. Caught, typically, between a rock and a hard place, it was wary of finding the extra funds for the writers, as the tabloids could be trusted to use such a move as an excuse to condemn the Corporation for its supposed profligacy, and it was even more fearful of losing the sitcom for good, as, in that case, the tabloids would exploit the failure to come up with the extra cash as a reason to judge the Corporation for its excessive frugality. John Howard Davies, however, was determined to find a way to resolve the situation – ‘There was no way on my watch that we were going to let it just fade away’11 – and, as a stopgap measure that would at least keep the show in circulation, he and his colleagues persuaded Jay and Lynn to allow the BBC to reuse some of the existing scripts for radio.
Produced and adapted by Pete Atkin (yet another former member of the Cambridge Footlights and an occasional collaborator with Clive James), the first series was recorded at the Paris Theatre, Lower Regent Street, London in April and May of 1983 and broadcast on BBC Radio 4 during October and November, with a second run being transmitted the following year.12 Featuring most of the original cast (with Eddington and Hawthorne, on modest radio rates, finally achieving parity with £125 each per episode, and Fowlds lower, as usual, on £8013), with the one notable addition of Bill Nighy replacing Neil Fitzwiliam as Frank Weisel (for £65 per episode14), the recording sessions were very happy affairs and the finished programmes were, in their own way, as polished as their television equivalents.15 Attracting more media coverage than was expected for a radio series, let alone for what was basically a set of edited repeats of old television shows, the success of the venture helped John Howard Davies and others in their campaign to persuade their colleagues that the return of the show to the screen would merit the extra expense involved.
Something else happened, however, at the start of the following year, that would suddenly bring Yes Minister right back into the public consciousness. Its most powerful fan demanded that it return.
The cue came at the start of 1984 courtesy of Mary Whitehouse, when her noisy mouthpiece, The National Viewers’ and Listeners’ Association, announced its intention to honour Yes Minister at its annual awards ceremony for exemplifying ‘wholesome television’ (a previous recipient had been Jim’ll Fix It). As if this was not a big enough ‘treat’ in itself, Whitehouse also took it upon herself to invite none other than the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, to present the award to the team. (There is no doubt that Whitehouse, as a staunch Tory, saw the party political capital to be generated from such an event, as her letter assured the Prime Minister that, while she would not be required to make a formal speech, ‘you would, needless to say, be more than welcome to use the occasion as you saw fit’.16)
Inside Number Ten, Thatcher accepted the invitation enthusiastically, and then discussed with her Press Officer, Bernard Ingham, how best to exploit the occasion. It was Ingham who hit upon the idea that she should perform a special Yes Minister sketch alongside Paul Eddington and Nigel Hawthorne (Derek Fowlds was on tour at the time in The Norman Conquests and was thus unavailable).17 Rather than ask Jay and Lynn to write it, Thatcher asked Ingham himself to conjure something up.
‘I wrote the script,’ he later confirmed. ‘Number Ten honed it. We rehearsed it endlessly in Mrs Thatcher’s study. She played herself, of course. Sir Robin Butler [her Principal Private Secretary] played Jim Hacker, not I fear to Mr Eddington’s standards, and myself a pathetic Sir Humphrey. Mrs Thatcher was determined to get every inflection right. It was like writing a speech for her, an endless operation.’18 The aim, he would say, was ‘to demonstrate that perhaps she was not devoid of a sense of humour after all’.19
All of this was going on without the knowledge of either of the real writers, or any of the real actors. The first that Jay and Lynn knew of the award was a few weeks before the event was due to happen. While neither of them was particularly pleased to hear that their show would be receiving the Mary Whitehouse stamp of approval, they thought it would be petty to protest, so they greeted the news as graciously as they could manage.
It was only a little later that they were informed that Margaret Thatcher was going to present the award, and that the ceremony would be broadcast live on BBC Radio 4’s The World at One programme. Then, a mere two days before it was set to take place, the call came from Number Ten revealing that Thatcher would be joining Eddington and Hawthorne to perform a short sketch that, it was said, she had written.
Both writers were shocked. For Antony Jay it came as a pleasant surprise: ‘I was delighted,’ he later admitted. ‘To actually get the accolade of the Prime Minister being keen enough on the programme to show the world that she would like to be in it! As far as I was concerned it kind of put the crown on the programme as far as public political acceptance was concerned.’20 Jonathan Lynn, in contrast, was (in spite of his earlier fan letter to Thatcher) horrified, regarding it as nothing more than a cynical PR stunt by Number Ten’s Press Office (‘My first thought was: “What the hell is she doing writing sketches when she ought to be running the country – somewhat better than she’s running it at the moment!”’21).
The two actors, who were the last of all to know, were even more alarmed and appalled. During the evening before the ceremony, Paul Eddington was resting in his dressing room at the Albery Theatre when he received a call from the BBC bearing the news that Mary Whitehouse would not be presenting the award. Having dreaded being pictured with her in public, he sank back in his chair and breathed a huge sigh of relief. He was then told that Margaret Thatcher would be doing it instead, causing him to leap up and gasp with distress. Then came the additional news that she would also be ‘acting’ alongside him and Nigel Hawthorne.
Now he was apoplectic. This, he shouted, was an outrage. This was going to turn a tribute to Yes Minister into a cheap photo opportunity for Number Ten. Worse still, after all the efforts, over the years, to keep the sitcom clear of associations with any particular political party, here would be the Leader of the Conservative Party practically pinning a big blue rosette on the show.
He immediately picked up the telephone and called his co-star, who was relaxing that evening at his home at Burnt Farm Ride in Enfield, and spluttered his indignation at this cynical imposition, telling Hawthorne that, ‘as a matter of principle’, he must refuse to do it.22 Hawthorne, however, while feeling similarly shocked and queasy about the imminent event (the news of which he had, at first, taken to be a hoax), understandably questioned why Eddington expected him to do the dirty work, and – in a classic bit of theatrical buck-passing – suggested that it was really Eddington’s responsibility to refuse, as it was his name that came first in the credits.
Panicking, each man called Jonathan Lynn, and begged him to help extricate them from this embarrassment. Lynn, however, pointed out that neither he nor Jay had been consulted about any of this, and, as it was the actors who had been invited, it was up to the actors to say ‘yea’ or ‘nay’.
Neither Eddington nor Hawthorne, when push came to shove, felt brave enough to snub the Prime Minister publicly, feeling that it would cause more trouble than it would be worth, and so, with great reluctance, they received their scripts the following morning, gazed aghast at the clumsy, tin-eared dialogue, bit their lips hard and then set off grimly to face their ordeal. ‘A mixture of nervousness and vanity,’ Eddington would say, ‘eventually won the day.’23
It was thus at lunchtime on Friday, 20 January 1984, in the chilly crypt of All Souls Church in Langham Place, beside Broadcasting House, that Yes Minister met the Prime Minister. Jay and Lynn joined Eddington and Hawthorne at the event, and it was immediately obvious, upon their arrival, how expertly Bernard Ingham had choreographed the whole occasion, timing it perfectly not only for live radio coverage but also for inclusion in London’s Evening Standard, the forthcoming television news bulletins and the following morning’s papers.
Inside, as an acutely awkward-looking Eddington and Hawthorne sat clutching their scripts on a couple of fold-up wooden chairs, Margaret Thatcher (who by this time had rehearsed the sketch no fewer than twenty-three times with her staff, and had then gone over it once again in the car on the way to the location) made her rapid, pigeon-toed way over to the assembled wall of lights, microphones and cameras and announced brightly that this was ‘the world premiere of Yes, Prime Minister’.24 Then, taking her place beside the two actors, the sketch commenced:
[Exit Jim Hacker and Sir Humphrey]
More Hi-de-Hayek than Yes Minister, it was comical only in its awkwardness, with Thatcher, far from demonstrating a hitherto well-hidden sense of humour, actually looking and sounding more robotic than ever. So eerily reminiscent of Dame Edith Evans as Lady Bracknell that one half expected her to screech ‘A handbag?’ at Hacker, she slowly over-enunciated her way through her lines while Eddington and Hawthorne, pale-faced and anxious, resembled hostages being forced to record an ‘all’s well’ message to their families.
When it was over, Thatcher acknowledged the forced applause, and then Jonathan Lynn was presented with the award. Sensing that this was the only chance he and the team would have to leave a scratch or two on the Government’s gleaming PR machine, he stepped up to the microphone and said: ‘I’d like to thank Mrs Mary Whitehouse for this award, and I should also like to thank Mrs Thatcher for finally taking her rightful place in the field of situation comedy.’25
There followed, he would say, ‘a brief but audible gasp’ from the assembled reporters, and then ‘a volcanic eruption, one of the biggest laughs I ever got in my career’.26 There was only one person in the room who was not laughing. It was Margaret Thatcher.
The slight failed to spoil the stunt, as the subsequent coverage was more or less what Bernard Ingham had expected: broad, fawning and favourable (it was even shown, in full, on that evening’s TV news). It did, nonetheless, make the Yes Minister team feel a little less aggrieved about having had to endure the whole sorry affair.
Eddington and Hawthorne were then teased remorselessly about their involvement by the otherwise engaged Derek Fowlds. ‘I found it hilarious,’ he later recalled, ‘because they were clearly so uncomfortable. They were both very left wing, so of course I called them up, shouting, “Hypocrites! You two – acting with Maggie Thatcher? How dare you?” I would have loved to have been there. I think Paul and Nigel missed me propping them up!’27
What would come to seem most ironic about the experience was the fact that, as everyone reflected on the encounter during the months that followed, the sense of irritation that it engendered started to reignite the old passion for the show. Paul Eddington summed up the feeling when he said: ‘When we started, we set out to annoy absolutely everybody. Then Mrs Whitehouse gave us an award – presumably for the cleanest show on the air – and Mrs Thatcher insisted on making the presentation. So clearly we had failed’.28
That feeling, that niggling sense of frustration, planted a seed. Fail again, fail better. Maybe they did have unfinished business, after all, with Yes Minister.
It was around this time, serendipitously, that Bill Cotton, the BBC’s newly appointed Director of Television, greatly encouraged by all of the fresh media coverage of the sitcom, decided to make Jay and Lynn a new and improved offer. ‘I loved the show,’ he would say, ‘and as soon as I took over I made bringing it back one of my top priorities.’29
Inviting the two writers to a meeting in his office at Television Centre, they talked through what was desirable and what was practicable, acknowledged not only market forces but also the limited size of the Light Entertainment department’s budget and eventually agreed on a compromise: Cotton would pay them the full sum they had demanded, but, in return, they would have to commit to writing sixteen more episodes, broken up into two series, and also a Christmas special.30
Jay and Lynn had one more condition. They agreed they could and would go back, but only by going forward. Hacker would have to be moved, and Sir Humphrey and Woolley would have to move with him. Cotton agreed, they shook hands and the show was recommissioned.
It would be, Jay and Lynn still felt, quite a big artistic gamble. They could not be sure that it would work, or that the audience would welcome it, and believe in it, so they concentrated on writing the Christmas special. If that elicited the right reaction, and everyone involved was happy, then they could look forward with confidence to creating another couple of series.
The usual in-depth research began, exploring themes and issues and individual cases. Contacts were sounded out, discreet briefings were held and the careful plotting commenced.
When they were finished, at the end of November, they brought the actors back and had them read through the script. The response was uniformly positive. It worked, everyone agreed; it was clever and coherent and funny. There was a logic to the changes, and a renewed sense of life in the characters, as well as a precision and an acidity about the wit. On every level this script represented real progress.
There was only one problem: the actors said that they wanted to make it without the presence of a studio audience. Paul Eddington, in particular, felt that some programmes in the past had been spoiled by the need for him and, especially, Nigel Hawthorne to keep pausing during very complicated exchanges in order to ensure that their lines were not drowned out by the great waves of audience laughter. It had also rattled him that some people seemed to think, completely erroneously, that the laughs were so loud they must be ‘canned’. The time was right, he argued, for the show to rise above the old sitcom traditions and trust the viewers at home to respond appropriately without any audible prompts.
Jay and Lynn were having none of it. If that was what the actors wanted, they declared, then they would not be writing any more shows.
The actors, taken aback by such an uncompromising reaction, listened carefully to the writers’ reasons for resisting such a proposal. They needed a studio audience, Jay and Lynn said, to undermine unfriendly attacks. Without the sound of laughter, they argued, any senior politician or bureaucrat with an axe to grind could claim that the show was just unfunny and biased political troublemaking, and thus pressurise the BBC into dropping it as soon as possible. ‘Three hundred people, randomly selected, watching in the studio and laughing their heads off,’ said Lynn, ‘was our insurance policy.’31
There was also something warm and welcoming about the sound of laughter in the studio. Yes Minister could easily have ended up as a sort of treat for the middle-class elite, and one reason why it had avoided such a fate was the fact that it used the reassuring appeal of the traditional sitcom to attract a much broader audience. It would thus seem perverse, after dodging the line of least resistance for so long, all of a sudden to repackage the show as something self-consciously worthy and lofty. Yes Minister was, and would always be, a satire for the nation, not for the niche.
The actors saw the writers’ point and dropped their demands just as suddenly as they had raised them. The show would go ahead as planned, and be recorded in front of a studio audience.
Produced and directed once again by Peter Whitmore, the one-hour seasonal special, entitled ‘Party Games’, was broadcast on Monday, 17 December 1984 at 8.30 p.m. on BBC2. Set, appropriately enough, during the run-up to Christmas in Whitehall, the story quickly reacquainted viewers with Jim Hacker, who was now not only Minister at the DAA but also his party’s new Chairman.
Seated in his office, Hacker is preoccupied with two pressing matters. One concerns the huge piles of Christmas cards that Woolley has divided up depending on the importance of the recipient and the style of signature required (an onerous annual chore that the then Chancellor, Nigel Lawson, had told the writers about32), and the other concerns the EEC directive to standardise the ‘Euro-sausage’ (re-categorising all home-grown sausages as ‘the emulsified high-fat offal tube’), which he knows is bound to anger and alienate British voters.
Sir Humphrey, meanwhile, has rushed off for an urgent meeting with Sir Arnold Robinson, the Cabinet Secretary. Sir Arnold confides to Sir Humphrey that he has decided to retire early in the New Year, and will soon have to let the Prime Minister know his recommendation for his successor. Sir Humphrey takes his cue and asks Sir Arnold what he plans to do in his retirement (‘It’s just that there might be jobs you could pick up, where you could serve the country, which your successor, whoever he might be, could put your way – er, persuade you to undertake …’). Sir Arnold mentions a few ideas – the chairmanship of the Opera House Trust, the Chancellorship of Oxford, the Deputy Chairmanship of the Bank of England, Head of the Security Commission, the Presidency of the Anglo-Caribbean Association – while Sir Humphrey casually takes a few notes. ‘Well,’ says Sir Humphrey, ‘I’m sure that any successor worth his salt would be able to arrange these, Arnold.’ After being further reassured that such a successor – ‘the right successor’ – would also ensure that the odd past error of judgement was kept under wraps, Sir Arnold assures Sir Humphrey that his name is now heading his one-name list of candidates.
Back in Hacker’s office, Sir Humphrey breaks the news to his Minister:
The relationship, which I might tentatively venture to aver has been not without some degree of reciprocal utility and perhaps even occasional gratification, is approaching a point of irreversible bifurcation, and, to be brief, is in the propinquity of its ultimate regrettable termination.
Hacker, once he thinks he has deciphered this announcement, fears that Sir Humphrey must have some kind of terrible disease, until Sir Humphrey assures him that they will still be seeing each other regularly, ‘once a week at least’. Upon realising that he is now in the presence of the Cabinet Secretary designate, Hacker is both relieved and fearful, noting not only that the Prime Minister will have to suffer what he has been suffering, but also that Sir Humphrey, ominously, will soon be advising the PM on the respective merits of his various Ministers.
The news is made public at the staff Christmas drinks party, where a well-oiled Hacker toasts his old tormentor’s future. Driving home very slowly, he is stopped by the police, who advise him to let his wife take over the wheel. The following day he is chastised by Sir Humphrey, in his new capacity as Cabinet Secretary, for being involved in such an incident. Fortunately for Hacker, however, the Home Secretary has also been caught driving while drunk, which is all the more embarrassing seeing as he is responsible for the latest ‘Don’t Drink and Drive’ campaign, and, unlike Hacker’s error of judgement, the misdemeanour has made the front page of the papers.
Soon after, it is announced that the Prime Minister is going to retire early in the New Year. Hacker, putting two and two together, concludes that the PM has been hanging on until he is sure that the now disgraced Home Secretary, whom he has always disliked, will not have a chance of succeeding him.
When asked by his wife whom he thinks are the main candidates to take over, he replies that they will probably be Eric, the current Chancellor, or Duncan, the Foreign Secretary. Mulling over their respective prospects, he is torn as to which one he should support. ‘If I support Eric and Duncan gets it, well, that’s it. And if I support Duncan and Eric gets it, well, that’s it, too.’ Annie suggests that it might be best if he supports neither of them. ‘Then whichever of them gets it,’ he protests, ‘that’s it!’
When pressed, he makes a typical Hackeresque decision. He will be backing ‘Duncan … Or Eric’.
Both candidates proceed to solicit his support. Eric confides that, if elected, he will make Jim Foreign Secretary. Duncan, on the other hand, hints that, if he is elected, Jim will be made the next Chancellor. He duly pledges his support to each of them.
Sir Humphrey and Sir Arnold, meanwhile, have also been running the rule over Eric and Duncan’s chances, and both candidates have come up wanting. ‘It’s like asking which lunatic should run the asylum,’ mutters Sir Arnold. ‘The trouble is,’ moans Sir Humphrey, ‘they’re both interventionists. They both have foolish notions about running the country themselves if they become Prime Minister.’ Another danger is that each of them represents an internal faction, so the triumph of either will soon divide the Government.
What is needed, the two grandees agree, is a compromise candidate: someone who is ‘malleable … flexible … likeable … no firm opinions … no bright ideas … not intellectually committed … without the strength of purpose to change anything … someone who you know can be manipulated, er, “professionally guided”, leaving the business of government in the hands of the experts …’. Both Sir Humphrey and Sir Arnold, after reflecting separately on such a portfolio of personal qualities, come to the same conclusion, and start sniggering to themselves.
When Woolley arrives and joins them, they cannot resist sounding him out about their new plan:
SIR HUMPHREY: |
What would you say to your present master as the next Prime Minister? |
WOOLLEY: |
[Dumbfounded] The Minister? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Yes. |
WOOLLEY: |
Mr Hacker? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Yes. |
WOOLLEY: |
As Prime Minister? |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
Yes. |
[Woolley pulls back a shirt cuff and checks his watch]
It is agreed that the two main candidates will have to step aside for such a compromise figure to emerge as the new favourite, but Sir Arnold is confident that, once Sir Humphrey has taken a look at their MI5 files, such an occurrence will start to seem surprisingly likely. Sure enough, there is enough dirt in there to cause Sir Humphrey to push ahead with the plan.
Summoning Hacker to the Chief Whip’s office, Sir Humphrey proceeds to manoeuvre him into position:
SIR HUMPHREY: |
There are certain items of confidential information which, whilst in theory might be susceptible to innocent interpretation, do nevertheless contain a sufficient element of, shall we say, ambiguity, so that were they to be presented in a less than generous manner to an uncharitable mind, they might be a source of considerable embarrassment, even conceivably a hazard, were they to impinge on the deliberations of an office of more than usual sensitivity. |
HACKER: |
I’m sorry? |
CHIEF WHIP: |
He is talking about security question marks! |
HACKER: |
Security? What do you mean? |
CHIEF WHIP: |
Secrets. |
HACKER: |
Yes, I know what security means! But what do you mean? |
CHIEF WHIP: |
I’m not allowed to know. |
HACKER: |
Why not?? |
CHIEF WHIP: |
Security. |
SIR HUMPHREY: |
So you see, Minister, since in the PM’s absence you are deputising on Party matters, perhaps I can show you this … |
[He hands Hacker a file]
SIR HUMPHREY: |
It’s the security file on the Chancellor of the Exchequer … |
Hacker, reaching hurriedly for his glasses, tries hard not to seem excited as he scans the lurid contents: ‘The dirty old … You wouldn’t have thought he’d have the time, would you?!’ Sir Humphrey then hands Hacker the security file on the Foreign Secretary. ‘Astounding!’ gasps the Minister. Prodded by the Chief Whip into the realisation that all of these scandals waiting to happen must rule both figures out of the running for the top job in Government, Hacker agrees that there is an urgent need to find another candidate – one who is ‘sound, likeable, flexible, normal, solvent and acceptable to both wings of the Party’. Sir Humphrey cannot resist adding one more thing to this list: ‘And someone who understands how to take advice, Minister’.
Hacker, struggling to conceal his own ambition, is shaken and excited when both the Chief Whip and Sir Humphrey suggest that he puts himself up for the position. Slowly shedding his affectation of modesty like an unusually coy cabaret artiste, he eventually accepts the invitation, and asks for some advice:
He is then told that there are two more things for him to do. First, he needs, as Party Chairman, to advise Eric (‘the pervert’) and Duncan (‘the swindler’) privately to stand down, and then he needs to stage-manage some kind of sudden public success to raise his profile.
The first task is discharged with remarkably little fuss, once Hacker has resolved to get his hands nice and dirty again. Rather than be seen to want to ruin his two colleagues, he convinces them both, discreetly, that he is desperate to save them from scandal. Grateful for his protection, they duly drop out of the race.
Hacker is less confident about completing the other task satisfactorily, as he complains that he is already ‘up to my neck in the Euro-sausage’ and is running out of time. It is at this point that Sir Humphrey, once again, arrives, Jeeves-like, to find a swift solution.
He arranges for Hacker to have a word – or rather to sit quietly while he has a word – with the European Commissioner about ‘our little sausage problem’. It does not take long for Sir Humphrey to convince the Commissioner, in the interests of harmony, to rename the Euro-sausage ‘the British sausage’ – thus handing Hacker his timely public triumph.
All of the remaining pieces of the plot fall neatly into place, and The Rt Hon. James Hacker ends up in Sir Humphrey’s office, waiting anxiously for the news that he has been elected unopposed as the new leader of his party. With Woolley eagerly accepting his invitation to remain his Principal Private Secretary (‘Gosh!’), all that is left is for Hacker to receive confirmation of the internal election result. When the telephone finally rings, a poker-faced Sir Humphrey takes the call and then, as the agitated Hacker points at himself hopefully and asks, ‘Is it …??’ Sir Humphrey replies calmly: ‘Yes … Prime Minister.’
For an instant, Hacker looks astonished, and then, his expression suddenly becalmed, he slowly slides his right hand inside his jacket in the manner of Napoleon. He has won. He has made it to Number Ten.
Jay and Lynn had made it, too. They had gone back and moved on.
‘Party Games’, watched by 8.2 million viewers (BBC2’s biggest audience of the Christmas period),33 was an unqualified triumph. Without losing any of its trademark accuracy, comic elegance or keen intelligence, and while staying true to the characters and the context, the extended special had simultaneously reinvigorated the old show and brought about its reinvention.
Yes Minister had come to a natural conclusion. Yes Prime Minister was now set to take its place.