Globalisation is the new civilisation, but with much nicer hotels
After all, I'm doing this for the planet, not just Bulgaria. Nature is clearly not capable of protecting her own virgin coastline and endangered species; it's up to us to unspoil it again.
TUESDAY. Meeting of the Olympic Rebadging Task Force. Suzi Towel, 'Minister for 2012' in the chair. We begin with a Mexican wave, followed by apologies for absence.
Azzy Bifter, Secretary of State for Entertainment, can't be with us today as he's taking his Mam to see Grease. My mate Loaf, Mayor of London, has also cried off. Officially he's in France on an urban park fact-finder. But everybody knows he's staying on for a family holiday, and that he's a bit embarrassed about the cancellation of Parliament Square's upgrade to a piazza.
Suzi's furious. She'd planned a Consultants Parade there as part of the opening ceremonies, with representatives from all over the marketing world solemnly shuffling round the square in corporate dress, BlackBerrys held proudly aloft. 'Hmph. Now I suppose we'll have to do it round the Stratford gyratory system, though goodness knows how that will impact traffic-wise…'
The main agenda item is Rebadging the Olympic Village. Recession means we lose the duckpond and thatched pub for a start. Suzi glumly acknowledges the accommodation will be 'less bed-and-breakfasty, with pot-pourri in all the rooms etc., and more sort of Travelodgey'. We decide to start calling it an Athletes' Camp, which has a nice frugal Cold War vibe and chimes perfectly with the workers' camp we're setting up in tents on Wanstead Flats.
Yes, the Olympics will see an influx of people from across the globe. Though admittedly not all of them will be hired as construction workers by a PFI subcontractor and paid minimum wage, less deductions for tent hire.
WEDNESDAY. Money's also suddenly too tight for Tamworth's televised regeneration project. We decide to do it on the radio instead.
THURSDAY. Solve a wind vortex problem by not going to a conference on 'ethical architecture'.
FRIDAY. 'Why are we here?' It's a question I ask Rock Steady Eddie, my Middle East fixer. And not in any clever-dick existentialist way, either.
I mean why have we schlepped all the way to Paris for what must be the most boring trade fair in history. Arabian Nice: Development Opportunities In The New New World. 'It's the economy, stupid,' explains Eddie, who has 'self-styled diamond geezer' on his business card.
'The UK's down the pop shop, mate. It's up the pictures. Round the bleeding proverbial. We need to be in the Middle East now, tickling up the oligarchs…' Oilgarchs? 'Yeah, oilgarchs. Like oligarchs, only not Russian and with enough bleeding oil under their patios to fill the Irish Sea. So stop moaning, think positive thoughts, spout some of your pretentious bollocks, and let's have it!' He is a bit scary. You feel you owe him his 20 per cent even before you land the gig.
Getting in's a faff – no entrance fee, you just have to bribe your way through security. Still, you can smoke once you're through. It's very noisy. Boring and noisy, great combination. My mission today is to mingle with potential clients who are making a fortune in what Eddie calls ‘Do Buy’. Then get them to commission 'us' to masterplan stuff like 'lifestyle cities' and… hey, what about pitching the idea of an Olympic Village for Do Buy instead of London? People would come and live like pampered sporting heroes for a fortnight, though obviously gruelling training sessions would be replaced with underwater dining and shopping for luxury goods…
I try this out on a few potential clients. God, they're all so jaded and indifferent. Then I remember Rock Steady Eddie's advice: dream the impossible dream, double it and add VAT. OK, what about making the VIP Village zero-gravity? With chocolate fountains and unicorns and plastic-surgery clinics and sex dungeons and robots and world-class architecture and Elton John? Sorted. Now it's a bidding war in the Middle East.
SATURDAY. On a roll – I'm designing a Bulgarian-style beach resort for Qatar.
SUNDAY. Lie undisturbed in natural habitat.