Chris Barton: Local loop minister's nightmare

COMMENT


Paul Swain's nightmare always begins the same way.

A headless chicken, feathers flecked with blood, runs in circles outside a nondescript building - yellow brick walls, slits of floor-to-ceiling windows and a flat steel roof - strangely like the Warkworth telephone exchange.

Next scene: inside among corridors of beige steel cupboards and racks filled with humming telecommunications electronics, the Minister of Communications is looking for a way out.

The tall figure of Rosemary Howard, wearing a black "Call for change" T-shirt emblazoned with a crossed out $84, starts towards him.

"Er ... hello Rosemary," says a nervous Paul, noticing the pearl necklace, the high heels and how small he feels.

"Paul, you really must do it," the TelstraClear queen scolds with a hint of Australian twang.

"Unbundle at once," she adds, towering over the diminutive Swain.

Paul whimpers as Annette Presley, also in a black T-shirt, brashly thrusts forward.

"Not good enough," snaps the Slingshot chief executive.

"We're sick and tired of you letting Telecom walk all over us," she brays, advancing into Paul's personal space.

"Annette, g-g-good to s-see you," stammers Paul, rapidly backing away.

He turns and runs, losing his pursuers by ducking into a side corridor.

Suddenly there's a terrible booming noise. Theresa Gattung - lipstick all askew like warpaint - enters and strides towards Paul.

"No, no, no," she thunders as she walks over the hapless Swain.

"Telecom says no!"

Bewildered, Paul picks himself up as Roderick Deane glides - his feet never touch the floor - into view.

He smiles and leans in, enveloping Paul in a cloud of expensive aftershave and whispering: "Telecom says no."

Deane exits towing a small dog on a leash.

"Come on Roger," says Roderick.

"Property rights, property rights," yaps Roger obediently trotting behind.

An ill wind blows in three ghouls.

"We are the ghosts of a wireless future," they announce, swirling around Paul's head.

"Oh my god," says Paul, recognising Rod Inglis of Woosh Wireless, Geoff Lawson of BCL and Neil Simmonds of Counties Power.

"Whoooo ... , don't do it Paul," says the Rod apparition swooping past Swain's left ear.

"You'll put our investment at risk."

"No interference in the air," crackles the ghost of Geoff as he passes through Swain's torso.

"You'll stuff it up," taunts the Neil spectre, diving up Paul's nostrils and emerging from his gobsmacked mouth.

"Let the market decide."

Paul flees to another room - empty except for remnants of mechanical telephone switching gear.

Briefly the people of that bygone era - toll operators sitting at their manual switchboards, supervisors and Post Office technicians - materialise with the sounds and bustle of a working day.

"The Government once owned all this," remembers Paul, wiping away a tear.

The vision fades to a portly Ernie Newman riding a bicycle.

"Do the right thing Paul, unbundle," says the chief executive of the Telecommunications Users Association, wobbling in circles around Swain.

"You'll make this country a laughing stock if you don't."

Ernie wheels off.

Swain notices a set of teeth - gleaming white - in the shadows.

Moving closer, he sees Telecommunications Commissioner Douglas Webb grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Douglas oh Douglas, what have you done?" cries Paul.

"You were supposed to sort this mess out and keep these wretched telco people off my back.

"Now it's all back in my lap."

Douglas, still smiling, doesn't seem to hear: "Watch this."

Webb then executes, with an agility that belies his years, an unbelievably graceful back flip.

"Stop it Douglas, you'll give yourself a hernia," says Swain.

Webb carries on doing flip flops.

Swain finds himself in the midst of the main distribution frame - racks and racks of wires everywhere, at once ordered in the confines of blocks and tangled in seeming chaos as they spill out the other side.

"So many wires belonging to so many people - how do they know which is which?" Swain wonders.

But then there's movement.

Alive, growing and indeed spilling from their frames, the wires begin to entwine and tangle around Swain's arms, legs and body. He panics and struggles, but the wires pull tighter and encircle his throat.

"Help," he gasps.

"This is worse than the foreshore debate."

The writhing mass squeals: "Beware the wires and wherefores of the local loop held by monopoly. They can never be free."

"Nooooo," cries Paul.

He breaks free and races outside into the sunshine, where the headless chicken is still circling.

Paul wakes up clutching his neck.

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