The Complete Yes Minister (36 page)

The Master countered by informing me that the Fitzwalter Dinner is paid for by a specific endowment – Fitzwalter was a great sixteenth-century benefactor.

The Bursar added that most nights I’d find them eating Mother’s Pride
⁷
and processed cheese.

I remarked that what they need is a twentieth-century benefactor and this innocent remark produced a long lecture on the different types of University benefactors. Isaac Wolfson, apparently, is only the third man in history to have a college named after him at Oxford and Cambridge. Jesus and St John being the first two.

‘Benefactors achieve some sort of immortality,’ said the Bursar. ‘Their names are kept alive and honoured for centuries. Sir William de Vere, whose name was inscribed on a sconce, directed a Baronial army away from Baillie in the fifteenth century – he had the soldiers quartered at St George’s College instead.’

I didn’t want to appear ignorant, but I ventured a comment that I didn’t actually know there was a St George’s College. ‘There isn’t,’ said the Bursar, ‘not any more.’

We all chuckled.

Then the Bursar told me about Henry Monkton.

‘The MonktonQuad is named after him. He stopped Cromwell from melting down the college silver to pay for the New Model Army.’

Humphrey added:

‘Told them that the silver was much better quality at Trinity, Cambridge.’

More chuckles all round. Then the Master pointedly remarked that it now looked as if there’d be no college left to remember these benefactors. Unless the problem of the overseas students can be solved.

They all looked at me and waited. I’m used to this kind of pressure, but naturally I wanted to help if I could. So I explained that one
always
tries to help and that politicians only go into politics out of a desire to help others. I explained that I’m an idealist. And, in case they were under the impression that all this talk of honouring benefactors might persuade me to help Baillie in some way, I pointed out that any honour is irrelevant to me – after all, there’s not much point in having your name on a silver sconce when you’re six feet under.

Humphrey changed the conversation abruptly at that moment, and started asking when the University awards its honorary doctorates. The Master said that the ceremony isn’t for a few months but the Senate makes its final selection in a matter of weeks.

I don’t think that it was entirely coincidental that Humphrey mentioned this matter at this juncture.

[
The ceremony in question takes place each June. A large luncheon is given in the Codrington Library of All Souls, followed by an afternoon reception. The degrees are given in a Latin ceremony, in the Sheldonian. All the speeches are in Latin. The Chancellor of the University was, at this period, that arch-manipulator of politicians and, with Sir Harold Wilson, Joint Life President of the Society of Electoral Engineers: Mr Harold Macmillan, as he then was (later Earl of Stockton) – Ed
.]

Humphrey, the Master, and the Bursar were – I realised – hinting at an offer. Not an unattractive one. I’ve always secretly regretted not being an Oxbridge man, as I am undoubtedly of sufficient intellectual calibre. And there must be very few LSE men who’ve ever had an honorary degree from Oxford.

The Master dropped another hint. Very decorously. He said that there was still one honorary doctorate of Law to decide, and that he and his colleagues were wondering whether it should go to a judge or to someone in government!

I suggested that someone in government might be more appropriate. Perhaps as a tribute to the Chancellor of the University. I know that I argued it rather brilliantly, because they were so enthusiastic and warm in response to me – but I can’t actually remember precisely how I put it.

Exhausted by the intellectual cut and thrust of the evening, I fell asleep in the car going home.

SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:
⁸

Having seen Hacker’s account of this dinner, and his behaviour at it, I’m afraid to say that it is rather inaccurate and self-serving.

By the time we had reached the port Hacker was, not to put too fine a point on it, embarrassingly drunk.

The Master, Sir Humphrey and several of the dons set about persuading him that he would acquire a certain immortality if he became a college benefactor – in other words, if he made Baillie a special case in the matter of overseas students. A typical Oxford ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ offer.

Hacker’s reference to the conversation about Wolfson and Jesus Colleges is less than complete. When told that Wolfson is the only man, other than Jesus and St John, to have a college named after him at both Oxford and Cambridge, he looked glassy-eyed and blank. ‘Jesus?’ he asked. The Bursar actually felt called upon to clarify it. ‘Jesus
Christ
, that is,’ he explained.

When Hacker remarked that he wanted to help he was pouring himself a glass of port. His actual words, I clearly recall, were ‘Yes, well, one would certainly like to help oneself . . . I mean, help one’s friends, that is, help the college . . . not for the honours of course . . .’. He was completely transparent.

The Master and Bursar chimed in with suitable bromides like ‘Perish the thought,’ ‘Ignoble suggestion,’ and so forth.

Hacker then gave us all that guff about how he was in politics to help others, and how he wasn’t interested in honours – but when the honorary doctorates were mentioned he got so excited he cracked a walnut so hard that pieces of shell were flying across High Table like shrapnel.

Then came his final humiliation.

By the time the matter was raised as to whether the last remaining honorary doctorate (if indeed it were so) should go to a judge or a politician, it was clear that the academics were playing games with Hacker.

He was too drunk to see that they were merely amusing themselves. I well remember the appalling drunken speech he launched into. It is forever etched on my memory.

He began by saying ‘Judge? You don’t want to make a judge a doctor of law. Politicians,’ he said, ‘are the ones who make the laws. And pass the laws,’ he added, apparently unaware of the tautology. ‘If it wasn’t for politicians, judges wouldn’t be able to do any judging, they wouldn’t have any laws to judge, know what I mean? They’d all be out of work. Queues of unemployed judges. In silly wigs.’

I remember that argument well because the idea of unemployed judges in silly wigs richly appealed to me, as it would to anyone who has had contact with the higher and more self-satisfied reaches of the legal profession. In fact, I have always been struck by the absurdity of judges ticking people off in court about their unsuitable appearance – women in trousers, for instance – while the judges themselves are in fancy dress.

Be that as it may, Hacker continued in the cringing self-pitying lachrymose manner that he only exhibited when completely sloshed.

‘Anyway, it’s easy for the judges,’ he whined, ‘they don’t have to suck up to television producers. Don’t have to lie to journalists. Don’t have to pretend to like their Cabinet colleagues. Do you know something?’ he cracked another walnut and a piece of deadly flying shell struck the Bursar just below the left eye. ‘If judges had to put up with some of my Cabinet colleagues we’d have the death penalty back tomorrow. Good job too.’

By this time old Sir Humphrey was trying to stem the flow – but to no avail.

For Hacker pointed accusingly at Sir Humphrey. ‘And I’ll tell you another thing,’ he said, sublimely unaware that nobody at the table wanted to hear another thing, ‘I can’t send you to prison.’

Humphrey was flummoxed by this remark.

Hacker looked around the table. ‘I can’t send him to prison,’ he said, as if he had revealed a new extraordinary anomaly in the law. ‘But if I were a judge, I could whiz old Humphrey off to the Scrubs, no trouble, feet wouldn’t touch the ground, clang bang, see you in three years’ time, one-third remission for good conduct.’

Everyone was now staring at Hacker, open-mouthed, as he paused for breath, slurped at his glass and some Fonseca 1927 dribbled slowly down his chin. Being academics, they had hardly ever seen a politician in action late at night. [
Hacker’s behaviour, of course, would have passed unnoticed at the House of Commons, where it would have been accepted as quite normal – possibly, even better than average – Ed
.]

Hacker was still talking. Now he was unstoppable. ‘But I can’t do that to old Humphrey,’ he raved incoherently. ‘I have to listen to him – Oh God!’ He looked at the ceiling, and seemed to be on the verge of tears. ‘He goes
on
and
on
. Do you know, his sentences are longer than Judge Jeffreys’?’ He guffawed. We stared at him. ‘No, no, to sum up, politicians are much more deserving, you don’t want to give your donorary hoctorates to judges . . . definitely not.’

Finally he ground to a halt. The Master hastily pulled himself together and tried to rearrange his features so that they expressed friendliness rather than disgust. He was only partially successful.

Nevertheless he managed to tell Hacker that he had argued the proposition beautifully, and that he now realised that the honour couldn’t possibly go to a judge.

There were mutters of agreement all round, as the dons continued their embarrassing flattery of Hacker. No one really understands the true nature of fawning servility until he has seen an academic who has glimpsed the prospect of money. Or personal publicity.

They went on to say how wonderful it would be to see Hacker standing there, in the Sheldonian, wearing magnificent crimson robes, receiving the doctorate in front of a packed assembly of eminent scholars such as himself. Hacker belched, alcoholic fumes emanated from his mouth, his eyes went glassy, he clutched his chair so that he wouldn’t fall on to the floor, and he smiled beatifically.

I have always remembered that night. I took one more step towards maturity as I realised that even the most rigorous academics have their price – and it’s not as high as you’d think.

[
Hacker’s diary continues – Ed
.]

Had rather a headache this morning. I don’t know why, it can’t be a hangover as I didn’t drink all that much last night. I couldn’t have done or I wouldn’t have been such a success.

We were due to have yet another meeting to examine the possibility of administrative cuts. But the outcome was sure to be the same as last time.

Humphrey popped into my office five minutes early, for a private word. Very good news. Apparently the Master of Baillie took Humphrey aside last night and asked him to sound me out, to see if I’d be interested in accepting an honorary doctorate of Law from the University.

I feigned surprise. In fact I wasn’t at all surprised, as I knew what an impression I’d made on them last night.

Humphrey was at pains to point out that it was not an actual offer. Apparently, according to Humphrey, the Council of the Senate or somebody or other is now trying to square the honorary doctorate with my well-known hostility to honours.

This was a bit of a blow. I had to squash this nonsense at once. ‘Don’t be silly, Humphrey, that’s quite different,’ I explained.

‘Not entirely, Minister,’ he replied. ‘It is a matter of accepting a doctorate without having done anything to earn it, as you yourself might put it in your refreshingly blunt fashion.’

‘I’m a Cabinet Minister,’ I responded with some indignation.

‘Isn’t that what you’re paid for?’ Smooth treacherous bugger.

‘The point is,’ I told him, ‘one can’t really refuse an honorary doctorate. I should have thought anyone could see that I would be insulting the DAA if I refused – because clearly I’ve been offered it as a sort of vote of confidence in the Department because I am, in fact, the titular head.’

Humphrey fell silent, having indicated again that it was not yet an offer. Clearly he had some sort of deal in mind. I waited. And waited.

Then the penny dropped. ‘By the way, Humphrey,’ I said breezily. ‘Changing the subject
entirely
, I would like to do what I can to help Baillie College over this overseas student problem.’

Now it was Humphrey’s turn to feign surprise. ‘Oh, good,’ he said, and smiled.

I explained quietly, however, that we need a reason. By which I meant a pretext. He was ready with one, as I knew he would be.

‘No problem. I understand that the Palace has been under pressure from a number of Commonwealth leaders. We can’t embarrass the Palace, so we’ll have to redesignate Baillie as a Commonwealth Education Centre.’

Immediately I saw a chance for the deal that
I
wanted to do.

‘But how will I find the money?’ I asked, wide-eyed. ‘You know how set I am on making five per cent cuts across the board. If we could achieve that . . . well, anything’s possible.’

I reckoned that this was an offer he couldn’t refuse. I was right. ‘We
might
be able to achieve these cuts –’ this was a big step forward – ‘and I can only speak for this Department, of course, as long as this absurd idea of linking cuts to honours were to be shelved.’

So there it was. A double
quid pro quo
. Out in the open.

The expenditure Survey Committee gathered around my conference table.

The minutes of the last meeting went through on the nod. Then we came to Matters Arising. The first was
Accommodation
. Sir Humphrey pre-empted the Assistant Secretary who usually spoke on this matter. As the young man opened his mouth to reply, I heard Humphrey’s voice: ‘I’m happy to say that we have found a five per cent cut by selling an old office block in High Wycombe.’

The Assistant Secretary looked mightily surprised. Clearly Humphrey had not forewarned him of the New Deal.

I was delighted. I said so. We moved straight on to number two:
Stationery Acquisition
.