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The invisible Loaf

Ian Martin
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Ian Martin’s signature bridge is in suspension

MONDAY I’m designing a massive cruise terminal and already I’ve settled into a routine.

I go very slowly, eating a substantial meal every two hours, followed by a nap. Finally I stop and disgorge my thoughts, allowing them to toddle blankly around my brain for a while, before they remember the 24-hour chocolatery and return. Should have conceptual sketches finished by September next year.

TUESDAY My former friend Loaf, erstwhile mayor of London and national disgrace, has left me twisting in the wind over the beleaguered Thames Forest Bridge. Thanks a bunch, you fat double-crossing sack of suet. You gurning human polyp. You blabbery thatched oxfuck.

There are now no fewer than 17 mischievous ‘independent’ investigations into our so-called ‘misuse’ of public money. Not to mention countless hurtful assessments of my design vision, from the calculated (‘a nugatory project designed by a charlatan for scoundrels’) to the prosaic (‘looks like a bloody great lump of Chislehurst Woods just dumped on a bridge for a laugh’).

No sign of Loaf of course who, having publicly championed this great civic project, has now scuttled off to the south of France for a month, leaving yours truly to defend it. Very well. Allow me to answer these bastards in the traditional way, with retaliatory passive-aggressive questions.

1. How on earth can you ‘misuse’ £85 million of public money by spending it? It’s MONEY. That’s what happens to it, you dimwits.

2. How can you say the favourable audit ‘was not transparent’ when apparently you could ‘see right through it’? Hypocrites. Hypocrites and bastards.

3. If my design is so bad, how come literally hundreds of people on Facebook like it? Exactly. Thought that would shut you up.

Now let me get on with my job please. An elevated river crossing stuffed with greenery won’t think ITSELF through, will it? People. Meanwhile, make no mistake. There is no wrath more bitter than that provoked by treacherous friends. Loaf will pay for this. I swear it.

WEDNESDAY Fingers crossed for Found House, a project I’ve been working on with ecomentalist Amy Blackwater. It has been nominated for a coveted Becycling Award, given annually to the most imaginative conversion of brute rubbish into built beauty.

We’re quietly hopeful that Found House will beat the other contenders at this week’s award ceremony. ‘Chill mate, those other chumps stand no chance, we’ll smash it. And then we’ll smash THE SYSTEM ITSELF!’ asserts Amy through her trademark balaclava. ‘This gig will cement our reputation in the world of transformative bullshit, mark my words. The revolution starts TODAY COMRADE.’ … Feel one of my headaches coming on.

I’m hoping that the actual cement we’ve specified will cement our reputation. A mortar of reconstituted chewing gum and discarded urban porridge. Nobody’s done that before. Proper hardcore. ‘Postcycling’ we’re calling it. Our gum and porridge matrix will hold handmade artisanal bricks of straw bale overmatter and polystyrene swarf. It has ‘winner’ written all over it. No matter how much the critics may huff and puff they will not blow it down.

Rents are putting enormous pressure on creatives, especially those whose work is rubbish

THURSDAY Being an auteur of epic space is really more about problem-solving than anything else. This week I have been asked by a London artist client to design an affordable studio. As we all know, rents are putting enormous pressure on creatives, especially those whose work is rubbish.

FRIDAY Problem solved. A 3m² modular box which can easily be constructed on a rooftop in Gateshead.

SATURDAY Crushed at the Becycling Awards by something called the Round House, designed by a willowy collective of architecture students.

It was deemed ‘clever’ for its use of materials discarded during the brutal conversion of harmless old pubs into boutique apartments. Smoked timber-frame construction, novelty windows of repurposed ‘wineglass’, cross-laminated beermat cladding, etc.

Amy shouts pissed outrage through her dress balaclava, a simple low-cut black number set off with pearls, repeatedly lunging at the winners’ table in her wheelchair and catching one hapless beardo a nasty crack on the shins. We’re asked firmly by the management to leave – the usual conclusion to an evening with Amy. She trundles out, belligerently warning that once Corbyn gets in they’ll all be up against a wall.  

SUNDAY Back to my cruise terminal conceptualisation in the recliner. A stroll around the deck of consciousness, then the ocean-going oblivion of deep thought.

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