The director general of RTÉ spoke into his intercom. "Two teas in here, please, Mguba. And milk and sugar also, if you please." He hung the empty bean-can intercom on its hook, double-checking that the thread connecting it with Mguba's empty bean can outside was not snagging on anything.
He stood, and gazed out from his penthouse office, the tallest caravan at the halting site near Dunsink. Mguba's desk was the caravan step. "As you can see, we've made considerable economies, cutting our cost base dramatically. We see ourselves as the cutting edge of the newer, leaner Ireland."
Mguba entered with a tea-bag, two cups of water, a lump of sugar on a string, and some powdered milk. "One lump or two?" the DG asked pleasantly.
"Two," said his guest. "Milk first, if you don't mind, Mguba," instructed the DG. His secretary sprinkled the powder into the two cups, dipped the tea-bag into each for a moment or two, and then lowered the lump of sugar into the DG's cup, just once, and his guest's twice.
"Just the one sugar for me. Got to mind the weight," explained the DG, patting his tummy. He turned to Mguba. "Any chance of a biccy?"
"A Winalot, perhaps?" suggested Mguba. "That's all we've got."
"No, thank you," declared their guest hurriedly.
"You're sure? They're rather good, once they been steeped for a couple of hours. Ah well, to business then. Let me show me you this pie-chart."
As Mguba exited, the DG opened up a large piece of paper on the tea-chest doubling as a desk. His guest stared silently for a while, and then rubbed her eyes, before staring again. "There are no slices in this pie-chart.
It's intact. Whole. An entire pie."
The DG was triumphant. "Exactly! Our entire resources have gone into making this ground-breaking programme which will transform our resources. We're calling it, Cabin Beaver. We're terribly excited about it." He stepped back happily and sighed.
His guest, a purchasing editor from Channel 4, examined the pie-chart closely. "One second," she said. "It says here, completion date 2000.
That's three years ago."
The DG plucked a few hairs from his head and laughed gaily. "Does it? Ha, ha, ha. We slipped a wee bit behind schedule. But that doesn't invalidate the concept, ha, ha, ha, now does it?"
"Three years. That's a long time in television. Longer than Fawlty Towers took."
"Exactly! And look how well that's held up. Same for Cabin Beaver. Timeless, quite timeless. Mguba, come in here please," he said into the bean-can. "And bring the video machine. Now for some cutting-edge reality TV," he said, smiling broadly at the Channel 4 editor.
Mguba came struggling in with an exercise bicycle, a torch and a roll of old-fashioned film, which she assembled in the corner. "Ready, mbwana," she said, and exited courteously. "Electricity cut off last week, I'm afraid," explained the DG. "You'll find this just as exciting." He gestured towards the linoleum floor. "Take a seat please."
The DG mounted the bike and began to cycle furiously; soon a flickering, muddy image appeared on the caravan wall. "There it is!" he shrieked excitedly. "Episode one! The boat's all girl-crew assembles! Listen! We even have sound! Talkies!"
There was a sharp bang, the bicycle chain snapped in two, and the image on the tea-stained wall faded. "No matter," said the DG happily. "That's about all there was of it. The rest you have to imagine."
The Channel 4 editor was silent for a while. "Fill in the gaps for me," she murmured.
"The gaps? Certainly. We got great footage of the boat leaving, great footage, well, would have done if the cameras had worked. But absolutely no-one to blame for the batteries running down. That was programme one.
"Programme two. At sea. Boat runs onto the rocks. Sinks. All rescued by lifeboat. Wonderful footage, wonderful! Well, would have been. Videotape went down with the boat. Programme three. Sexeee! Two of the girls get it off together - the whole point of Cabin Beaver!"
"But?"
"Camera crew were Knights of Columbanus. Turned off the camera and scuttled the ship. Coitus inundatus. Programme four. Set out to sea. Well, not quite the sea. The pond in St Stephen's Green, actually. In a punt. All that was left. Were attacked by ducks and sunk," the DG whispered. "Programme five. Cabin Beaver goes to the Red Cow Roundabout. Camera crew eaten by famished motorists. Programme six..."
"Enough! I've heard enough!"
"I haven't finished! Programme six, Cabin Beaver, desperate for money, becomes a lap-dancing club, is raided by gardaí, is closed down and the video confiscated. Programme seven, Cabin Beaver is made the new national football stadium. Programme eight, Cabin Beaver loses the stadium contract and doubles as operating theatre, canteen and morgue for the Mater Hospital.
"Programme nine, Cabin Beaver gets the contract to build Luas. Completion date, 2025, sort of. Programme 10, tribunal of enquiry into Cabin Beaver - lasts a decade and costs €800 trillion. Programme 11, highlights of the series to date!"
The DG smirked at his guest, stirring his tea expectantly. "Well? Does this new, dynamic, cutting-edge Ireland get the gig, or what?"