Strategic Exits: Sir Humphrey’s Fictional Endgame vs. the Real‑World Resignations in Starmer’s Government

Political dramas often exaggerate reality, but Yes, Prime Minister remains uncannily accurate in its portrayal of Whitehall’s internal logic. Sir Humphrey Appleby’s “ending” in the series—cornered, out‑manoeuvred, yet still scheming—captures a timeless truth: senior civil servants survive by anticipating political shifts before they happen.

Recent resignations within Keir Starmer’s government, however, reveal a very different strategic posture. Instead of the subtle, velvet‑gloved manoeuvring of Sir Humphrey, today’s senior officials are choosing to walk away early, publicly, and decisively. The contrast is striking, and it raises a deeper question: who is actually more strategic?

Sir Humphrey: The Master of Institutional Survival

Sir Humphrey’s entire career is built on one principle: The system must endure, and so must he.

His strategies include:

• Delay disguised as due process

• Ambiguity as a shield

• Information asymmetry as power

• Never resigning—only repositioning

Even when politically cornered, Sir Humphrey never leaves the battlefield. His “ending” is not an exit but a recalibration. He survives by bending, never breaking.

His strategy is long‑term, institutional, and deeply embedded in the machinery of government.

Starmer’s Departing Civil Servants: A New Strategic Logic

The recent wave of resignations in Starmer’s administration reflects a different calculation. These officials are not trying to outlast political pressure—they are stepping aside before the pressure defines them.

Their strategy appears to be:

• Protect personal reputation over institutional continuity

• Avoid being tied to controversial decisions

• Signal disagreement without open confrontation

• Exit early to preserve future career options

This is not the Sir Humphrey model of survival within the system. It is survival outside the system.

Who Is More Strategic?

It depends on the definition of strategy.

If strategy means institutional longevity:

Sir Humphrey wins. He plays the long game, protects his position, and adapts to any political weather.

If strategy means personal risk‑management:

Starmer’s departing officials win. They avoid entanglement, preserve their reputations, and re‑enter public life later on their own terms.

The Real Difference: Fiction vs. Modern Bureaucracy

Sir Humphrey belongs to an era where civil servants were expected to be permanent, immovable, and quietly powerful. Their influence came from staying put.

Today’s civil servants operate in a world of:

• 24‑hour media cycles

• Public scrutiny

• Politicised accountability

• Rapid career mobility

In this environment, leaving early can be more strategic than staying.

A Tale of Two Strategies

Sir Humphrey’s strategy: Endure, adapt, manipulate, survive.

Starmer-era resignations: Withdraw, protect, reposition, re‑emerge.

Both are rational. Both are strategic. But they reflect two very different political ecosystems.

 

Rebuilding the State: Why Britain Needs a Civil Service With Real Skin in the Game

Britain’s chronic state‑capacity problem is no longer a matter of debate. Across infrastructure, healthcare, policing, and basic administrative competence, the pattern is depressingly familiar: ambitious plans announced with fanfare, followed by drift, delay, and a quiet acceptance of mediocrity. The political class takes the blame, but the deeper structural issue lies within the civil service itself.

What Britain lacks is not intelligence, talent, or goodwill. It lacks skin in the game—the principle, championed by Nassim Nicholas Taleb, that decision‑makers must share in the consequences of their decisions. Without this, systems drift toward fragility, complacency, and moral hazard. Britain’s administrative state is a textbook example.

Today, senior officials can design policies, manage vast budgets, and oversee critical national programmes without any meaningful personal exposure to the outcomes. If a project collapses, no one is fired. If a regulatory framework fails, no one is held responsible. The incentives reward caution, process, and internal reputation—not judgement, delivery, or public value.

A reformed civil service must be built on a different foundation: authority matched with responsibility. This does not mean politicising the service or punishing honest mistakes. It means creating a structure where:

• Programme leaders have clear, public performance metrics

• Regulators live under the rules they create

• Senior officials face real consequences for persistent failure

• Innovation and prudent risk‑taking are rewarded, not penalised

Skin in the game is not about fear—it is about alignment. When decision‑makers share the risks and rewards of their choices, they behave differently: more grounded, more accountable, and more attuned to real‑world impact.

Britain cannot afford another generation of polite inertia. A state capable of delivering must be a state where responsibility is not abstract but personal. Only then will reform move from reports and reviews to results.

From Imperial Charity to Modern Mismanagement: A Stark Contrast in Refugee Aid

 

From Imperial Charity to Modern Mismanagement: A Stark Contrast in Refugee Aid

The historical wisdom of the Qing dynasty in managing large-scale famine relief, particularly through its humble porridge charities, stands in stark contrast to the modern-day British approach to accommodating asylum seekers. While separated by centuries and vastly different contexts, the principles of pragmatic resource allocation and the challenges of genuine need versus perceived entitlement reveal a surprising wisdom in the "backward" Qing methods compared to the apparent inefficiencies and disarray in contemporary Britain.

In times of devastating famine, the Qing dynasty's "porridge factories" were strategically located outside city walls. The gruel provided was intentionally of low quality – thin, watery, and sometimes even containing sand or impurities. This seemingly harsh approach wasn't born of cruelty, but a calculated necessity. As we discussed, this "poor quality" served as a crucial self-selection mechanism. Only those truly on the brink of starvation, for whom the meagre sustenance was a matter of life or death, would come and endure such conditions. This prevented the squandering of precious, limited resources on those who might have other means of support, ensuring that the most vulnerable – the old, the weak, and children – were prioritized. It was a brutal but effective way to ensure aid reached its intended recipients and to maintain social order amidst chaos.

Fast forward 200 years, and the British approach to accommodating asylum seekers paints a very different picture. Recent revelations from the UK highlight a system plagued by what appears to be monumental inefficiency, questionable expenditure, and a disconnect from the realities of public resources.

The example of the Huddersfield student accommodation is particularly illustrative. A purpose-built, "high-end" facility, leased by the government for £7 million with the capacity for over 700 asylum seekers, has reportedly remained empty for over a year. This procurement failure mirrors the frustrations seen with other large-scale infrastructure projects, demonstrating a profound lack of foresight and coordination. In a time of desperate need for accommodation, the inability to utilize such a significant investment is astonishing, especially when the government simultaneously resorts to opening hotels to house a surging number of arrivals. This directly contradicts the principle of optimal resource utilization that was implicitly, if brutally, embedded in the Qing's porridge strategy.

Furthermore, the very nature of the "care" provided, and the expectations of some recipients, raise serious questions about the current system's efficacy and fairness. Surveys conducted by health partnerships, asking asylum seekers about their satisfaction with their accommodation and food, have revealed complaints ranging from a lack of cigarettes in rooms to a desire for specific types of food (like rice instead of English beans) and requests to be moved closer to relatives. While acknowledging the importance of basic human dignity, these concerns, when juxtaposed with the plight of homeless British citizens, including ex-servicemen, who are unlikely to receive similar surveys or provisions, underscore a perceived disparity in care.

The Qing dynasty's approach, while undeniably primitive by modern standards, was rooted in a pragmatic understanding of scarcity and human nature. The "bad quality" porridge 粥 was a stark reminder of the dire circumstances, encouraging self-reliance where possible and ensuring that only the truly desperate would partake. It was a system designed to stretch minimal resources to save maximal lives, prioritizing basic survival over comfort or personal preference.

In contrast, the British situation, as described, appears to be a case of overspending on underutilized facilities, coupled with a level of provision that, while perhaps well-intentioned, seems to lack the stringent prioritization and realistic assessment of need that characterized the Qing's crisis management. The "wisdom" of the Qing, born from centuries of battling famine, lay in its brutal efficiency and its unflinching focus on the core objective: keeping the most vulnerable alive with the bare minimum. The modern British system, despite its vastly superior resources, seems to be grappling with a different set of challenges – perhaps a lack of clear strategy, an over-reliance on external providers, and a public debate that often struggles to reconcile humanitarian imperatives with the practicalities of finite resources and the perceived fairness of distribution.

Ultimately, while the contexts are incomparable, the core principles of effective crisis management remain timeless. The Qing's humble porridge, with its sand and its scarcity, perhaps offers a surprising, if uncomfortable, lesson in the stark realities of resource allocation when true desperation calls. The modern British state, despite its technological prowess and wealth, might do well to reflect on the ancient wisdom of making every grain count, and ensuring that aid, however generous, is delivered with both compassion and pragmatic efficacy.