This week: On site at the Trump Pussiegrabbie Golf Hotel; a Circular Economy roundtable event; and LGBTetc architectuality modelling
MONDAY It is with trepidation that I submit my final invoice for the renovation and expansion of the Trump Pussiegrabbie Golf Hotel in South Ayrshire.
My client seems permanently angry, and unpredictable. On the one hand, the scheme must stay ‘under the radar to avoid negative traction ahead of our planning campaign’. On the other hand, the word ‘Trump’ must appear as a prefix wherever possible.
However, when I met him in person last week – he was over for a quick site visit – I was surprised to discover that he’s even more of an arsehole than you’d think. Beetling around the place like the mayor of Munchkinland in a golf cart, his fat, sadistic, tortoise face scowling under a ‘Trump Scotland’ baseball cap. Amending things to make himself feel important: ‘I want a wall there! And I want non-residents to pay for it!’ The worst taste, too. All bulk-bought marble and gilt, dark wood and satin.
Poor blameless old Pussiegrabbie Golf Club, once a modest collection of Victorian coastal buildings, has now been groped and slobbered into some horrible fantasy from his poisonous ‘mind’. To my shame I incorporated historic Pussiegrabbie Lighthouse into the hotel’s purview, converting it into the £3,500-per-night two-bedroom Trump Presidential Suite, complete with padded leather walls and hidden cameras because ‘the guy’s spending big, maybe the guy wants a memento’ except of course the stupid orange Mussolini thinks the word is ‘momento’. He’s mad AND dim. Domented.
The Trump Bar’s done out like a 1980s brothel. The Trump Restaurant is closely modelled on the one where Michael Corleone carried out his first hit in The Godfather, but slathered in gold. The Trump Bedrooms have all been given, as instructed, ‘a classy atmosphere, like a headmaster’s study in a spanking video’.
Still, in anticipation of the client’s standard negotiating tactic – refuse to pay up until he gets a 20 per cent discount – I have artificially inflated my fee by 30 per cent. If that’s not moral redemption, I don’t know what is.
TUESDAY In the morning, design a Science Island for Lithuania. Afternoon: a Humanities Isthmus for Sweden, a Coding Forest for Germany and a Plateau of Arts for Catalonia. Evening: massive underground Hard Brexit Cakehole for England.
WEDNESDAY To a conference, ‘Can A Circular Economy Turn Things Around’?
Quite a full day, according to the itinerary:
What IS the Circular Economy? How might we make the Circular Economy ‘real’? Are we reclaiming and re-using everything AGAIN? Is the Circular Economy just sustainability with a new haircut? If property is theft, should we be leasing space to avoid criminal charges? How can we make the Circular Economy ‘go faster’? Should we metacycle, going beyond recycling to DECYCLING? Are we ready for a long life, loose fit, low energy POPULATION? How can we make the Circular Economy ‘sing and dance’? If we measure the circumference of the Circular Economy, does that get us anywhere? How might we intersectionalise the Circular Economy with the Northern, District and Central Economies? What is this, a fucking SHED? Will the end of all our exploring be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time?
All that’s before there’s even a break for the toilet. I have a coffee as delegates circulate in the reuseable pop-up registration space, then slip away, as economically as possible.
THURSDAY Experience the Circular Economy for myself at the Gherkin and Firkin by ‘buying a round’.
FRIDAY As a leading opinion former in the world of epic space, I am delighted to support recent calls for more sexual and gender minority role models.
In my utopian renderings these days I scrupulously depict the full human sexual rainbow: gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender and ‘etc’. My models are out and proud, whether in the form of little balsa wood figures or photographic overlay.
If you were, through some process of osmotic surrealism, to enter these fictional worlds, I have no doubt that under gentle interrogation my models would tell you how open and tolerant I am. Of course, some would value their privacy and might resent being quizzed about their sexuality, so I’d advise discretion. I am, after all, their minder, not their author.
SATURDAY To Architectural Pride, where I dutifully question my architectuality.
SUNDAY Remain architecturally non-curious and inert, in the recliner.