The Emptiness Between All Particles
Ian Martin spends a night in the cells
MONDAY Sketch out a protomeme for Expo Nano, the microbuilding and microdesign fair being held at a mirrored site on the Dark Internet.
Nanotypes are hoping the market improves soon. The average price of a bespoke nano-construction has fallen again, this time by 12 per cent in a year. To be honest, interest in the exciting new frontier territory of microscopic construction has pretty much been shoved aside by the whole 3D printing business. Expo Nano’s a desultory affair these days. A lot of exhibitors’ avatars look unshaven and seem to be wearing the same outfits as last year.
Well prepare for a micro-earthquake, Expo Nano. Because my latest protomeme is about to bring sexy back to the under-underworld. By shifting focus AWAY from nerds in high-tech welding helmets fixing one tiny thing on to another tiny thing and waiting for a Nobel Prize, TOWARDS the exciting new world of nanofracking.
That’s right. I’ve brilliantly combined the traditional world of nanotechnology with the exciting new world of detonating the fuck out of shit that’s buried deep in the natural world. In partnership with my old friend Beansy the nanofuturologist, I have been exploring the possibilities inherent not just in ‘stuff’ but in the ‘absence of stuff’.
Look at overcrowded-yet-empty-at-the-same-time-in-the expensive-parts London. Nobody really gives a toss about quality architecture; it’s raw space that’s at a premium. Well here’s a fun fact: matter is not just particles, it’s also the emptiness between. Simply by nanofracking all the spare space from the molecules in a Hammersmith bedsit, the canny nanodeveloper can create (theoretically) enough room to fill the O2. Watch this expanded space.
TUESDAY Seminar on The Contemporary Lexicon Of Epic Space. Lots of thirtysomethings here looking suspiciously like skateboarders. One of the speakers is a London architect wearing a sort of rubber tube. He gets an appreciative snigger from the audience when talking about building occupants by using the acronym TMTs for ‘trendy media types’, despite demonstrably being one himself. I resolve to have it out with him at the coffee break but things escalate quickly and I somehow manage to asphyxiate him with his own rubber tube.
Oh bollocks, I CAN’T go back to prison. I’ve only just started an anger management course and they’re aggressively strict about refunds.
WEDNESDAY Overnighter in the cells but my brief, Legal Brian, is upbeat. Apparently everyone hates the metropolitan elite now, including those newspapers responsible for sentencing guidelines.
THURSDAY Marvellous. Case dismissed. Ten minutes in and out. Pop-up magistrates’ court during the day, really nice Lebanese restaurant in the evening. Guilty of manslaughter, but only in the technical sense. Probation, with time off for the deceased’s rubber tube clothing and generally elite demeanour.
Got a wink off the judge, too. Legal Brian was bang on about my wearing a suit and a Ukip rosette in court.
FRIDAY Lie low like a bungalow, yo.
SATURDAY Fantastic vibe at Crouch End’s World Squalidarity Day. The Peter Mandelson Memorial Park looks splendid. Lots of local people have turned out in their most striking shabby chic clothes to articulate the plight of the world’s poor. The children look adorable in ‘cast-off’ Euro 2004 T-shirts and ill-fitting camouflage trousers.
An educational favela has been set up at one end of the park, allowing visitors to explore the gritty urban reality of a Rio de Janeiro or a Tottenham without the guns but very much with the delicious street food. Local actors - one of Crouch End’s largest indigenous groups - are in exquisite favela costumes, interacting with members of the public as ‘misunderstood drug gang members’ and ‘corrupt police’.
There’s a bouncy Greek jail and a collection of Improvised Toilets Of Asia, with local actors guiding visitors along the toilet spectrum through the medium of mime. A Caribbean tin and plywood shanty house is presented as a ‘show home’, with a local actor playing the part of a shanty town estate agent but - very important, this - making the satire unmistakably clear. Throughout the park, casually arranged on the grass, are members of Crouch End’s singer-songwriter community, the area’s second largest social grouping: a fat Woody Guthrie here, a mumsy Pussy Riot there.
The sun sets. Local actors return to houses that have increased in value by two grand during the afternoon, wiser but guiltier.
SUNDAY Abandon recliner. Too much cynical reflux.