Speaking Mandarin: The Civil Servant
He calms nerves, takes the blame, and in a room full of notables is always the most interesting person you’ve never heard of. He is also, in this dishonourable age, under pressure. But cometh the hour, cometh the Civil Servant.
The Civil Servant cannot decide which part of his job title — the civil bit or the servant — is more important. In the world today, it is the definition of a thankless task to be a civil servant. In the days of Sir Humphrey and Yes, Minister, the idea was that the civil servant was like a nanny to those with power: they were presented as the smarter, safer hands tending to the public’s wellbeing compared with the politicians who put themselves up for power. In the state today, the Civil Servant has the role closest in nature to the royal family — a never complain, never explain status as far as the press goes, and all criticism, right or wrong, has to be taken on his mandarin chin.
We see this in the United States: the richest man in the world can call civil servants communists and radical, and they have no right of reply. The world has changed. A poll by Ipsos Mori has shown that the west is angry at how democracy is functioning while remaining very pro-democracy, so this feels like the time the civil service should shine.
Step forward, our man. The Civil Servant has a C.B.E. for doing something good, but he doesn’t need to explain it. He has a passion for good, old-fashioned, boring bureaucracy: he lets the political figures take the glory when something goes right and offers himself up for blame when it goes wrong.
This is what service is, a complete abrogation of the self for the sake of the nation. The Civil Servant must hold his nerve in a way that this magazine feels is a noble and gallant thing to endure. The Civil Servant makes sure to look the part. His suit should be from Huntsman, his shirts from Emma Willis or Turnbull & Asser; the umbrella should be from Brigg, and the bowler hat from Lock & Co. He needs to be convivial at all times, and knows that for dinner he can impress by simply pulling out a bottle of Pauillac over a Lynch-Bages, keeping the latter in the cellar in case the King comes over for tea.
He is not someone who underappreciates the benefits of a game of backgammon or time away from his desk to smoke a Quai d’Orsay 54 — he knows that government’s best work is done when the head is cleared by such activity; after all, Churchill used to nap every day after luncheon.
If you want to see him out and about, the most likely place is in one of the least accessible spots: namely, the clubs of Mayfair and St. James’s. Not White’s, of course — our Civil Servant is particularly smart and discerning, so you’ll find him at Pratt’s or Oswald’s, calming nerves, taking handshakes, and being the most interesting person in the room whom you’ve never heard of. He is a man whose dignified modus operandi, whatever the pressure, is civility and service to others, and as such we doff our bowler hat to him.
