Four decades after the creation of "Yes Minister," it’s astonishing to realize that the realm of politics continues to be largely defined by the allure of power itself. When Tony Jay and I received accolades for the foresight demonstrated in our series, we accepted those praises with humility. The truth, however, is that the reason our show feels as relevant today as it did forty years ago is simple: fundamental patterns in politics rarely change.
During the writing of its sequel, "Yes, Prime Minister," back in 1986, I found myself at the Daily Telegraph's offices in Fleet Street, sifting through articles from 1956. I was intrigued to see just how much had really transformed over the decades. To my surprise, not much had changed at all.
The headlines back then were dominated by conflicts in the Middle East, notably the Suez Crisis, where the government had misrepresented its military involvement, which turned out to be a dismal failure. Despite efforts to contain the truth, it began to emerge. Simultaneously, Soviet troops had invaded Hungary, leading to significant refugee issues across Europe. Additionally, the UK’s so-called "special relationship" with the US was under scrutiny due to Washington's disapproval of British and French defense strategies. Concerns about the impartiality and independence of the BBC were also prominent, alongside fears regarding inflation and plans aimed at addressing regional economic inequalities. This pattern of political discourse is all too familiar.
Recently, a story surfaced involving education secretary Bridget Phillipson, who proposed new legislation aimed at safeguarding freedom of speech and protecting academics from their students. Yet, 370 university educators, including three Nobel laureates, accused her of burying the initiative. For those familiar with "Yes Minister," it’s clear that a minister's desire for action does not guarantee results. It seems likely that some officials within her department were not particularly upset by the idea of professors facing backlash, potentially hindering the proposal.
Prior to our show’s debut, many people held a rather simplistic view of civil servants as bumbling individuals in bowler hats, idly sipping tea. Comedy often depicted them this way. However, we exposed the reality that Whitehall housed around 3,000 sharp, highly educated individuals who quietly managed the affairs of the nation, a revelation that resonated with politicians who found themselves reassured by the series. It provided them an excuse for the complexities and frustrations of governance.
Interestingly, we didn't uncover this information ourselves; Richard Crossman did. His "Diaries of a Cabinet Minister" were serialized in the Sunday Times, prompting legal action from the government he served, which sought to prevent publication due to alleged breaches of confidentiality linked to collective cabinet responsibility. Ultimately, this case was a significant victory for press freedom and served as a crucial source of inspiration for "Yes Minister."
In Crossman’s diaries, there are moments where his private secretary says "Yes, minister" when he actually means "No, minister." In one instance, when confronted with a mountain of unread correspondence, he suggests transferring everything to the outbox, claiming that the civil service will handle it—essentially allowing the minister to do nothing. The public, largely unfamiliar with the inner workings of political life, found these revelations eye-opening, confirming for us that a comedic exploration of these themes was indeed warranted.
Many have argued that our series, along with the books and the recent play "I’m Sorry, Prime Minister," centers on politics. However, it’s crucial to clarify that our focus was on the intricacies of government itself—distinct from the broader notion of politics. Ideally, politics serves as a platform for legitimate conflicts over differing interests—the struggle to find the best ways to enhance society for everyone involved. Unfortunately, at its worst, it devolves into a mere contest for dominance—a quest for power over fellow citizens for the sheer enjoyment of wielding it.
Our character, Jim Hacker—who later became prime minister and now holds a position at Oxford—began his journey with noble intentions, eager to improve the world. Yet, he resembles Graham Greene’s whisky priest; as one ascends what Disraeli referred to as "the greasy pole," they often find themselves endorsing policies they initially disagree with, simply to maintain their position. Why does this happen? Because as confusion sets in regarding one’s own beliefs, the desire for power to enact them becomes paramount, coupled with the urgency to secure victory in upcoming elections. The alternative is facing political irrelevance, left stranded on the opposition benches. As Charles M Schulz, the creator of Snoopy, aptly put it: "Winning isn’t everything. But losing isn’t anything."
For those interested in experiencing "I’m Sorry, Prime Minister," it’s currently playing at the Apollo Theatre in London until May 9, after which it will embark on a tour.
