October 29th
This morning I had a TV appearance. I hadnt looked forward to it very much. As usual they wanted to interview me about bad news, thats all theyre ever interested in. The particular disaster on the agenda today was the ongoing permanent catastrophe of local government, about which I can do practically nothing!
Almost everybody in Whitehall and in Parliament, I said to Bernard, of whatever party, agrees that there are a few councils which are run by a bunch of corrupt morons who are too clever by half.
Bernard didnt disagree. He merely commented that the most that a moron can be is less clever by half. He hates to express an opinion on anything thats remotely controversial. But I demanded that he give me his opinion.
Theyre democratically elected, he remarked cautiously.
That depends on how you define democracy, I pointed out. Only about twenty-five per cent of the electorate vote in local elections. And all they do is treat it as a popularity poll on the political leaders in Westminster.
Nonetheless, they are still representatives. Hes persistent as well as wrong-headed.
But who do they represent? I challenged him. Nobody knows who their councillor is. And the councillors know that nobody knows who they are. Or what they do. So they spend four totally unaccountable years on a publicly subsidised ego trip, handing out ratepayers hard-earned income to subsidise lesbian awareness courses and Borough Pet Watch schemes to combat cat theft! They ruin the schools, they let the inner cities fall to bits, they demoralise the police and undermine law and order, and then they blame us.
They blame you, said Bernard punctiliously.
Thats right! I agreed. Me!
Will you say all that?
I just said it! I snapped. Dont you bloody listen?
Bernard explained that hed meant would I say it all on television. What does he think? Of course I wouldnt! It would make me look intolerant. [It is interesting that Hacker believed that he was not intolerant. Some more ideological politicians might have been proud to be intolerant on this score, and might have felt it would be popular as well. Hacker, however, wanted to be liked, and his greatest problem with these local authorities was that they made him less popular Ed.] People assume that Im responsible because Im Prime Minister. And now the leader of the Houndsworth Council, that bloody Agnes Moorhouse woman, is threatening to withhold funds from the police, and ban them from council property. If she gets away with it, itll mean the Government has virtually handed over control of the country to the local councils.
Bernard had looked up the relevant statute. She cant do that, he said. Section 5 of the Police Act, 1964, says that Councils have to provide an adequate and efficient police force.
Id seen the latest Guardian interview with Ms Moorhouse, and I allowed myself to be the devils advocate for a moment. She says that until the police are fifty per cent black they will not be either adequate or efficient.
She cant prove that, can she? Bernard asked.
Who knows? Her current all-white police force is actually the least efficient and most inadequate in the country. Everyone round here is terrified that if we took her to court shed prove her case.
[Unfortunately the transcript of Hackers radio interview that day has not survived, and for that reason we believe that it was not significant. However, the following morning Hacker called a special meeting with Sir Humphrey Appleby to discuss the London Borough of Houndsworth Ed.]
October 30th
Humphrey, I began, its clear to me that we have to do something about Agnes Moorhouse. Her borough is almost a no-go area.
He nodded sagely. Indeed, Prime Minister.
Well what? I asked.
He gazed hopefully up at the moulded plaster ceiling, and thoughtfully scratched the back of his neck. How about a strongly worded letter?
Not much of a suggestion, in my view. She would simply send us an even more strongly worded letter. Copied to all the newspapers.
Bernard wondered if he might draw her attention to the law, but I dont think that would be much help either. Shes a lawyer, getting round the law is what she gets paid for.
In truth, Humphrey and Bernard were rather at a loss. They simply dont understand people who dont play by the rules. Its more or less incomprehensible to them that a strongly worded letter might fail to do the trick. It certainly would bring them into line.
Humphrey doodled on his notepad, quietly thinking. Finally he suggested, Why not just ignore her?
I stared at him. And have everyone say Ive handed over control of the country to the militant loonies? No, Humphrey, someone must have a word with her. And point out the security implications.
I waited, but the penny didnt drop. One of the law officers? he asked puzzled.
No, I said. It cant be a political confrontation. It must be an official. I waited again. Still nothing. With security responsibilities, I hinted.
It dropped at last. No! No, Prime Minister, no! He was desperate not to do it, and I couldnt really blame him. Surely its up to Scotland Yard? The Home Office. MI5. The Special Branch. Lord Chancellor. Department of the Environment
White Fish Authority?
White Fish Authority! he repeated in deadly earnest, then realised I was being facetious. The point is, not me! Its not fair.
The point is, Humphrey, I explained, you are the man who co-ordinates the security forces.
Yes, but
Or should we give that responsibility to someone else?
My threat was unmistakable. He stopped dead in mid-sentence.
I smiled sympathetically. So thats agreed. A quiet word. Reach a gentlemans agreement.
Humphrey scowled. But shes not a gentleman. Shes not even a lady!
Never mind, I consoled him. I want you to handle her.
His eyebrows shot up into his hairline. Handle her? Clearly he regarded that as a fate worse than death. I couldnt disagree.
[Sir Humphrey refers to his gruelling and thought-provoking meeting with Agnes Moorhouse in his private diary Ed.]
Wednesday 31 October
I met the leader of the Houndsworth Council today, at the Prime Ministers request.
To my intense surprise Agnes Moorhouse was a quiet, pleasant, well-spoken middle-class lady, apparently well educated and properly brought up. This makes her attitude towards us even more puzzling.
She is extremely hostile, though I must say she has excellent manners. She accepted a cup of tea on her arrival, of course, but she was disdainful of my friendly query as to whether she was Miss or Mrs Moorhouse. I had merely been concerned to address her correctly. But in reply she asked me in a surly fashion if her marital status was any concern of mine.
Of course its not. Nor have I the faintest interest in it. Meanwhile, she made a clear choice in favour of Orange Pekoe over Typhoo Tea-bags, which demonstrated that she was not wholly uneducated in, or unappreciative of, the better things in life.
I enquired with caution if she wished to be called Ms Moorhouse (which is pronounced Mis and seemed wholly appropriate for her). She told me I could call her Agnes. Which, by the way, I had no particular wish to do so. She asked me what she should call me, and I indicated that Sir Humphrey would be quite acceptable.
However, as I was feeling far from first name terms in this relationship, and being therefore somewhat unwilling to call her Agnes, I opened the conversation by addressing her as dear lady. This mode of address is habitual, and was not intended to carry any resonances of irony. Nor was it intended to be patronising. However, the lovely Agnes told me to leave it out and that she didnt want any sexist crap.
I was now quite confirmed in my first impression of her, namely that this was not awfully likely to be a meeting of minds. But realising that if any progress were to be made we had to get past this interminable problem of how to address each other, I came swiftly to the point. I said that we needed to understand each other and I expressed the hope that we were basically in agreement in that, although she doubtless had her own views as to how Britain should be run, we both agreed that society needs a fundamental base of order and authority.