The Complete Yes Minister by Paul Hawthorne Nigel Eddington Read Free Book Online Page A

was forced to advise me to go to the House of Commons and listen to the debate there. I’ve never heard such a ridiculous suggestion.
    Late this afternoon I was in the office, going over the plans for the Burandan visit, and I switched on the TV news. To my horror they reported a
coup d’état
in Buranda. Marxist, they think. They reported widespread international interest and concern because of Buranda’s oil reserves. It seems that the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, who rejoices in the name of Colonel Selim Mohammed, has been declared President. Or has declared himself President, more likely. And no one knows what has happened to the former President.
    I was appalled. Bernard was with me, and I told him to get me the Foreign Secretary at once.
    ‘Shall we scramble?’ he said.
    ‘Where to?’ I said, then felt rather foolish as I realised what he was talking about. Then I realised it was another of Bernard’s daft suggestions: what’s the point of scrambling a phone conversation about something that’s just been on the television news?
    I got through to Martin at the Foreign Office.
    Incredibly, he knew nothing about the coup in Buranda.
    ‘How do you know?’ he asked when I told him.
    ‘It’s on TV. Didn’t you know? You’re the Foreign Secretary, for God’s sake.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Martin, ‘but my TV set’s broken.’
    I could hardly believe my ears. ‘Your TV set? Don’t you get the Foreign Office telegrams?’
    Martin said: ‘Yes, but they don’t come in till much later. A couple of days, maybe. I always get the Foreign News from the telly.’
    I thought he was joking. It seems he was not. I said that we must make sure that the official visit was still on, come what may. There are three by-elections hanging on it. He agreed.
    I rang off, but not before telling Martin to let me know if he heard any more details.
    ‘No, you let
me
know,’ Martin said. ‘You’re the one with the TV set.’
    November 19th
    Meeting with Sir Humphrey first thing this morning. He was very jovial, beaming almost from ear to ear.
    ‘You’ve heard the sad news, Minister?’ he began, smiling broadly.
    I nodded.
    ‘It’s just a slight inconvenience,’ he went on, and made a rotary gesture with both hands. ‘The wheels are in motion, it’s really quite simple to cancel the arrangements for the visit.’
    ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ I told him.
    ‘But Minister, we have no choice.’
    ‘We have,’ I countered. ‘I’ve spoken to the Foreign Secretary already.’ His face seemed to twitch a bit. ‘We are reissuing the invitation to the new President.’
    ‘New President?’ Humphrey was aghast. ‘But we haven’t even recognised his government.’
    I made the same rotary gesture with my hands. ‘The wheels are in motion,’ I smiled. I was enjoying myself at last.
    Humphrey said: ‘We don’t know who he is.’
    ‘Somebody Mohammed,’ I explained.
    ‘But . . . we don’t know anything about him. What’s he like?’
    I pointed out, rather wittily I thought, that we were not considering him for membership of the Athenaeum Club. I said that I didn’t give a stuff what he was like.
    Sir Humphrey tried to get tough. ‘Minister,’ he began, ‘there is total confusion in Buranda. We don’t know who is behind him. We don’t know if he’s Soviet-backed, or just an ordinary Burandan who’s gone berserk. We cannot take diplomatic risks.’
    ‘The government has no choice,’ I said.
    Sir Humphrey tried a new tack. ‘We have not done the paperwork.’ I ignored this rubbish. Paperwork is the religion of the Civil Service. I can just imagine Sir Humphrey Appleby on his deathbed, surrounded by wills and insurance claim forms, looking up and saying, ‘I cannot go yet, God, I haven’t done the paperwork.’
    Sir Humphrey pressed on. ‘The Palace insists that Her Majesty be properly briefed. This is not possible without the paperwork.’
    I stood up. ‘Her Majesty will cope. She always