Features

The Wireless Pantomime - a farce, or more real than reality?

It's Boxing Day (that's the day after Christmas for all of the rest of the world) and the British public are indulging in their favourite Boxing Day tradition - going to the Pantomime. It's the chance to see hirsute men dress up as women, lesser known actresses with too much cosmetic surgery donning tights to play the part of leading boys half their age and to savour the heady atmosphere of ice-cream, sweat and bad rhyming.

But lo, it's the twenty first century and today we have a treat in store, for the intrepid playwrights have penned for our delectation their very first wireless pantomime.

The curtain rises to the normal roster of prepubescent "one-two-three-step" from the local ballet school - an annual thrill for the front row of dirty macs as they introduce us to the Casbah and our hero - little Nettie, with his/her small chum from the Chinese laundry - Ah Poo. Ah Poo has a problem, children, despite the fact he's having to do more work every year, answering calls from the customers, sending messages back to them and recently even trying to give them pictures of the washing, he's getting thinner and thinner. Little Nettie's concerned that unless they can find an answer Ah Poo's going to wither away and die.

But who's this striding into the market place? Sure of ego and taller than a 3G mast it's none other than the wicked vizier Q'al Kom. "What's that, young fellow-my-lad? Still pining over your diminishing chum? Let your Uncle Q'al Kom give a helping hand - I know how to make my little Network happy - just come to my secret cave and utter the secret incantation "abrew-ca-dabrew" and you'll have riches beyond your wildest imaginings.

"Don't do it", the audience boo and hiss. "He's evil, he's nasty". And with a parting sneer that's wider than an AMPS cell Q'al Kom petulantly turns his back and strides off the stage, followed by the audience's jeers.

"Can you help me?" pleads Nettie. "He's so scary and I don't trust him. If you see him again can you all shout out and warn me. I need a special word that will strike fear into him. I know, if you see him coming, can you all shout GSM?"

After the mandatory "I can't hear you"s and mincing around, the audience is adequately trained, but Nettie is still concerned.

"Oh Ah Poo, what shall we do?" laments Nettie. It was all right when we could just talk, and you were fine when you first had messaging, but now you're fading away. Thigh slaps didn't work". ("Oh yes they did, chorus the front row", but that's irrelevant). I've given you M&Ms, MMS, GPRS and none of them made you grow any bigger", continues Nettie - "what is to become of you?

"Don't worry Nettie, I be alright. This be time for cheerful. Dry tears away for Ah Poo see conductor waving his little antenna, which mean it time for - "

Yes children it is indeed time for today's highlight. And with a roll of drums and the tinkle of inappropriate ethnic oriental xylophone tunes, on come tumbling Do, Co and Mo, the novelty triplet act straight from Japan. And who's that with them? Why it's their pantomime horse Gee-Gee-Gee, or 3G for short. "That's no horse" cry the audience. "Oh Yes it is", reply the trips. "Oh no it's not - it's a Camel". "That's right - it's a committee horse - that's why it's called 3G". Oh, don't we have fun with the old jokes.

The trips do their act for which they've become famous worldwide. Thousands of other performers have tried to copy it, but such is its nefarious oriental complexity that none have succeeded, although the rumours in the scandalous end of the press are that the triplets are beginning to emulate poor little Ah Poo. As the music dies we hear the heavy tramp of footsteps. It's the evil Count Clutchin and his slimy little boy.

"License fees, license fees, where are you my pretty little license fees? Clutchin needs his lovely lucre, pay my fees or else I'll nuke yer." (The rhymes, as we warned, don't improve). "What was that?" But at the sight of the Clutchins 3G had taken to his heels with Do, Co and Mo clinging to his tail for dear life. "Ah, Nettie, how useful to see you. Keeping well? Bowels regular? Nothing like a bit of regulation to keep a network moving. Now, niceties apart, what do you owe me?"

"Nothing Mr Count Sir", trembles poor Nettie, "we're broke - you've taxed us to the EDGE and beyond. We've no money left you haven't even paid us for the last time we washed your smalls".

"Ah yes, that reminds me. I need you to launder my accounts again. Where's that little assistant of yours - Ah Poo! Where are you - here at once". Frightened and even smaller than the last time we saw him, Ah Poo slinks slowly and cautiously onto stage carrying a large box of washing powder. "What's that!" Clutchin fumes, he inhales and visibly expands, growing puce as the moustache gyrates like a network scanner. "That's Ariel - you need planning permission for that. I've set coverage targets and penalty clauses and then refused mast planning applications to make sure I get my penalties. And now I find young whippersnappers like you subverting the whole crooked process. My god, I'll have you whipped, I'll have you hung, I'll have you torn limb from limb. Son - persecute, I mean prosecute the little toe-rag - " And with that he explodes in a cheap apoplectic, apocalyptic pyrotechnic effect which still allows anyone beyond Row C to see that he's nipped behind the nearest flat leaving the others to cough in the rather over-effulgent outpourings of the smoke machine.

Young Clutchin looks bewildered and Nettie seizes her chance. "Oh Clutchinson, Clutchinson, don't take any more from Ah Poo - he's almost dead as it is. I'll give you anything you want."

"Hah, who needs Ah Poo", retorts Clutchinson, recovering himself and quickly assimilating the slimier parts of his father's questionable lack of charm. "I'll make a deal with you - you get me Gee-Gee-Gee and I'll give up Ah Poo. Those damned triplets have had him a year already and haven't even learnt how to ride him. I'll show them how it's done. Just get me the horse. You've got until midnight. Else Ah Poo's dead."

And off he strides, leaving Nettie and Ah Poo clinging to each other sobbing uncontrollably. "What will we do?" wails Nettie. Who can save us from the might of the Clutchinson? If only Widow Twankey were here."

That's right, who better to save wireless pantoland than the legendary Widow. And here she comes now equipped with Union Jack bloomers, helium assisted bosom and a hairdo that would rival a CDMA mast. Apparelled with more handsets in more pockets than a High Street store she is the living embodiment of all that is crass in and overblown in the industry (sorry - panto.)

"Oh Widow Twankey - evil Clutchinson's going to kill Ah Poo unless we give him 3G and the Japanese triplets will never allow that. Is there no-one in the world that can save us?"

"No-one?" muses Twankey after three unnecessary songs. "Maybe there is one who could help. The only man who's ever refused to pay the Clutchinson and lived to tell the tale, but at such a price - the legendary Kay Pee En."

"Kay Pee En?" they all chorus.

"Yes, better known as the Flying Dutchman. He told Clutchinson where to go and since then has been condemned to spend the rest of eternity roaming the globe until the day he can find a working 2.5G / 3G handover."

"That's terrible" exclaims Nettie "he'll never do it - it means he's condemned to roam!"

" ... For all eternity". And with yet another burst of pyrotechnic overkill we've reached the transformation scene. As flames and smoke envelop the auditorium and the lighting effects highlight the lack of subtlety of the once a year designer, the cheap West End variety stage - indeed the whole theatre transmogrifies into the Royal Opera House. Choc Ices metamorphose into smoked salmon sandwiches, lucozade into champagne and rows of rowdy youngsters into corporate tourists as with a hallo-ho'ing of sexually challenged sailors and the crash of rigging descending from the fly-tower the smoke clears to reveal the rugged features of none other than the mythical Master of the Networks.

"Can you help me save Ah Poo" gasps Nettie, staring up at the terrifying bulk of the Dutchman who defied Clutchinson.

"GSM, GSM, GSM" screams the audience, as out of the smoke once more emerges the evil vizier Q'al Kom. "You think you're so beaten" howls the vizier, but let me tell you that CDMA beats GSM and GPRS". "Oh no it doesn't". "Oh yes it does". "Oh no it doesn't". "Oh yes it does - I've had it checked - on the scrabble board." "But it doesn't get more points than GPRS or FOMA" counter Do, Co and Mo, who have just come tumbling onto the stage. But once more the vile vizier despatches them with his stock in trade laugh and magical lore - "It does if you get triple patent score".

It seems like stalemate - the cast are lined up across the stage eyeballing one another, which can mean only one thing - it's time for the community song.

"Abrew-ca-dabrew" screams Q'al Kom at the cowering conductor, but the Dutchman holds up his hand commanding silence. "If it's to be a duel we fight to save the world I need my true love beside me - where is Senta?"

With a Wagnerian roar a mill's worth of Spinning Wheels roll onto stage with Senta lashed to a towering example downstage. (The front row, now sporting svelte latex tuxedos are close to ecstasy.)

"Spin the Wheel of Fortune and help us find Ah Poo", proclaims the Dutchman in his rich baritone, supported by massed strings from the pit. "And you out there - shout as loudly as you can if you want to save him".

The wheel is set spinning. Senta's hair streams as the poor, living, Catherine-wheel girl succumbs to the centrifugal force of destiny.

"Who's Senta Voice Mail?" soliloquises the Dutchman, basso profundo. The audience roars and Q'al Kom staggers back. Once more the wheel is spun, picking up speed.

"Who's Senta Text Message?" Again a roar and Q'al Kom sinks to his knees.

"Who's Senta Picture Message?" The voice seems to have gained strength from the previous replies, but is something happening. The audience is growing quiet. The roars of approval have dimmed. Instead of an answering roar, at first a lone voice, then more start to cry "Behind you!"

Nettie spins around looking for Ah Poo. But Ah Poo is always behind him, seeming to grow smaller and smaller as Nettie frantically rushes around the stage. "Behind you, behind you" they cry, but now only those with opera glasses can perceive the diminutive form of poor Ah Poo. Undaunted the Dutchman sings on -

"Who's Senta Video Message? But this time response comes there none. The orchestra diminuendos to a mere pianissimo, and from somewhere far in the wings there's a nervous whinny before a shot rings out and a pantomime horse falls to the ground. The triplets cling to each other in fear and of Ah Poo there is no sign. The cast move nervously to the front of the proscenium and stare out at an empty auditorium littered with crumpled programs and a still rocking seat, recently abandoned. They know in their bones that Ah Poo has gone.

As they gaze around their eyes alight on an upturned ice cream cone, it's contents gently melting down the faux velvet upholstery. Do, Co and Mo become frenzied. "What is it? What is it?" the others implore.

"It's alright. There will be a happy ending", the triplets cry. That shape - it's been evading our best RF technologists for years - it's exactly the form we need for a 4G antenna. Rollout in 2005. Rollout in 2005," they sing as they tumble happily back into their novelty routine. And as the orchestra launches into the triumphant finale of "Rollout in 2005" the lights come up to reveal an audience filled with VCs and bankers, throwing their hats in the air with an ear-splitting cheer as the show climaxes with Ah Poo transformed to Sumi size being borne aloft of the shoulders of Clutchinson and Q'al Kom and Kay Pee En. And they all live happily ever after.

Of course, all characters are totally fictional and bear no relationship to anyone or anything living, dead or multi-national. And one day the good fairy will come.