《No, Minister.(存一下英文版)》用其他笔名

8、【Interlude】S01E00.5 Cyril's Diary and Memos (1980.1.19-21)

　　From the Diary of Charles Hyde
　　Monday, 21 January 1980.
　　Home at last. This morning I wanted a strong cup of tea. Now, I want a whisky.
　　Absurdity. That is the conclusion of the day.
　　The ceremonies, the oaths, the royal wax seals… all of it like a play rehearsed to death. The actors change, but not a word of the script.
　　But the true absurdity was yet to come.
　　Victor on the telephone is Cavendish through the door.
　　An absurd tautology, an absurd protocol, an absurd victor.
　　Victor. My 'Observer' friend. The man who, in that tired voice over the line, prophesied I would be immersed in 'the art of discretion'.
　　Is, in fact, Alistair Cavendish. My Permanent Secretary. My Acting Permanent Secretary.
　　Acting. A truly fitting title for this Observer, this master of the performing arts. His acting is simply sublime.
　　I should have known. The precise phrasing, the obsession with procedure, the distance which I now see was entirely deliberate.
　　I was fooled. That is not the worst of it.
　　I was thoroughly and completely fooled by a man I had taken for an intellectual equal, a man with whom I thought I could share a laugh from the spectator's box at this circus. That is the worst of it.
　　I thought I had found a kindred spirit; I find instead he is a foxhound.
　　Cavendish. Lord Alistair Cavendish. A name that sounds as if it has walked straight out of a Victorian novel.
　　The day before yesterday, I was on the telephone like a buffoon, enthusiastically running through my process of elimination for him, from the Treasury down to the melancholic cod. And he, the damnable Victor, simply listened on the other end, enjoying a farce to which he already knew the ending.
　　He knew all along the PM would throw me into this gilded cage, and that he would be the zookeeper charged with shutting the door and taming me.
　　Today, I have gained a profound understanding of the essence of the word 'Tautology'.
　　It is not merely a concept in logic. It is a living, breathing, walking embodiment of the Civil Service Code. Machiavelli in a Savile Row suit.
　　He is not a guardian of bureaucracy; he is bureaucracy incarnate, a self-repairing, precision instrument designed to trip others up on their path.
　　That nonsense about "protocol is the safeguard of red tape, and red tape is the basis of protocol"… it sounds so noble, so exquisitely clever. He beautifies his surveillance and pre-emption of me as an observer's duty, as a service.
　　"Minister command is Civil Service writ?" It sounds like submission, but in truth, it is the drawing of a border.
　　He says the department's mission is 'Subtle Control'. How apt.
　　He is already controlling me. With his precise procedures, his faultless logic, his calm, arrogant face.
　　And then, the whiteboard. My one, small, specific request. A space for me to scribble freely, to think chaotically. And there it was, already on his damnable draft schedule, specified down to 'installation to be completed by 14:00'.
　　Checkmate. Before I had even seen the board, he had not only anticipated my move but had already written the minutes of the meeting where I would make it.
　　Very well, Charlie Foxy. You are now in a gilded cage, and your keeper has even pre-stocked it with your favourite toy and thoughtfully included the instruction manual.
　　Then let's play.
　　A fox… does not sit quietly in its cage.
　　Since you have prepared a focal point and a stage for me, you can hardly blame this fox for a little improvisation in the spotlight.
　　Just you wait, Victor. Or should I say, Alistair Cavendish.
　　The game has only just begun.
　　If this is to be the Titanic, I shall at least decide the angle at which we meet the iceberg.