Directors cast grey shadow from afar

In the not too distant future, 485km south of Auckland, on a wet and windy day in the nation's capital, in a meeting room buried deep underneath a building shaped like something bees might live in, seven little grey men sit around a table, awaiting the arrival of their Leader.

These are the most powerful men in Auckland; yet none of them have ever been there.

They are the directors of Auckland Super City's Council Controlled Organisations, commonly known as the CCOs. The door swings open and six of the seven little grey men stand as their Leader, an even smaller man with no hair, sweeps into the room. The seventh little grey man remains slumped in his chair, un-moving.

The Leader appears not to care. The Leader is all about the business, as he plonks himself into his throne-like chair. "I want updates," barks the Leader. "I want to hear stories of the city that mocked me and scorned me, being brought to its knees! You, Transport. Are they begging for mercy on the streets?"

"Sire," replies the greyest of the little grey men, "The subjugated have gone beyond begging to a place where there is no hope, no light, no discernable movement in the gridlock of their tragic lives. Even the incidence of road rage has declined to nothing as all the will to fight drains from them. The construction of the motorway system that leads only to other motorway systems continues apace. The Tunnels of False Hope are vastly over budget and massively behind schedule and the tunnelling crew itself is lost somewhere under Glenfield. Meanwhile, the Albanian company we contracted to take over the public transport system has exceeded expectations by not only locking the drivers out but by misplacing the keys to their offices, so they have locked themselves out as well."

"Good, good," smirks the Leader. "But what if the dratted Aucklanders take to the streets; to walk to their places of work, smugly, with their lattes in their hands?"

"We are entering Phase Two of the footpath reconstruction scheme, wherein we tear up all the good new footpaths on the grounds that they are not good enough for Auckland. We will then enter into a very long, very protracted tender process to rebuild the footpaths that should see them remain in ruins well into the next millennium."

The Leader likes it when these meetings get off to such a good start. He nods to the next grey man, the Watercare Services director. "Our plan proceeds well, my Leader," says the grey little man.

"Our strategy of ensuring the water is never where it is needed is creating shortages across the bastard city. The secret underground re-integration of water supply, storm water, waste water and sewage systems has not only seen water quality plummet but the creation of roadworks that are now visible from space. And, of course, our tiered pricing system, that not even a Nobel physicist can figure out, has generated more than enough revenue to fund this project forever."

"Since the introduction of the CCO system," says the next little grey man, who happens to be the director of Economic Development, Tourism and Events, "the average visitor stay in Auckland has declined from 1.9 nights to 27 minutes, though we believe this figure is artificially inflated due to the length of time it takes tourists to get to the airport. By the time we have implemented the next part of the plan - to allow only jazz concerts at live music venues - we feel the suffering should be at a level acceptable to your desires, glorious Leader."

The Leader looks to the next little grey director, the one in charge of Council Investments, but he seems to be unconscious. It is his partner in crime, the director of Property Holdings, who speaks up on both their behalves, even though he, too, is staggeringly drunk.

"Sorry, Your Excellence, bit of a long lunch - four days, new personal best. Sorting out the deal placing all the city assets in the hands of some Nigerian blokes we found on the internet. Had to go with a new mob because the first lot actually turned out to be legit - bugger me days, eh? What are the chances?" And as the remaining grey men speak of plans to build a giant fence around the waterfront to keep the people out; of constructing another Aotea Centre just to enhance the beauty of the first Aotea Centre; and of diverting all of Auckland Zoo's funding into a new slug enclosure, the little bald Leader is a happy man.

This, he thinks, will teach those vain, arrogant Aucklanders not to laugh at him, his jackets, his little cars and his slick dance moves. And in that basement, beneath the windswept city in the south, the little bald Leader is very happy.