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The sky is apparently not the limit for conservationists

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Ian Martin has an interview for a prestigious religious commission

Monday. I’m attempting to get the Tallest Building In The North through planning again. Maybe it’ll be third time lucky.

I’ve had a go with ‘enigmatic punctuating nodules’ and ‘aerodynamic top bit’ and got two refusals. Now I’m relocating away from Liverpool. I suspect the scheme’s been jinxed by local people, who famously resent anyone looking down on them.

Tuesday. Bloody conservationists, is there NO LIMIT to their power? Having blocked just about every possible development site on Earth with their stupid Luddite negativity, they’ve decided to try and bugger up my plans for the Moon.

Back in 1997 I assumed the power to determine all lunar masterplans, legal entitlements, jurisdictions and municipal powers. It was easy, to be honest. Nobody else seemed that interested. And with the sort of entrepreneurial foresight once fashionable in medieval England, I even paid an extra $100 to reserve for myself the post of ‘Mayor of All Lunar Territories, Absolute Power Guaranteed’. Yes, the transaction was conducted via the internet but I got a certificate and everything.

Imagine my outrage, then, on discovering that a group of Californian nutters has unilaterally declared the Apollo 11 Moon landing site ‘a historical resource’. With the sort of weaselly rule-bending we’re all used to Down Here, ‘the designation applies to everything left on the Moon by astronauts, though not the lunar surface’. Disingenuous bastards. As if my Mall of Tranquillity with out-of-crater parking and transport interchange can go ahead NOW.

I’d like to know how something on the Moon can be a ‘World Heritage Site’. Hello? Earth to California? The Moon is not part of our ‘world’ is it? IS IT? I will not be steamrollered by these pillocks. As soon as I find that certificate and guarantee I will be on to my solicitor to have this nonsense quashed.

Wednesday. Put the finishing touches to my zero-carbon school by self-righteously not even starting it.

Thursday. Some better news involving American nutters. I may be in with a chance of a prestigious religious commission. Rock Steady Eddie the fixer has lined me up an interview with the Mormons.

I’m not supposed to say Mormons, actually. They’re using their trading name: the Genealogical Society of Utah. The gig is for the redesign of something called The Vault. This is the vast but undistinguished fortified mountain cave where they collect the names of everyone who’s ever lived. The theory is that when they’ve got the last name on the database, God booms out something cryptic in Hebrew and - bingo. What that bingo involves is a little unclear; I am not a theologian.

The interview is in London, so I assume casual dress will be OK. This turns out to be an error of judgement. The clients are very smartly turned out and the meeting room smells strongly of potpourri. Luckily they seem to buy my story, which is that I’m dressing like a London architect as some sort of obscure religious penance.

They’re politely enthusiastic about my pitch, too. The redesign involves a complete do-over of the exterior, which at the moment is a sort of Cold War chic. I’m proposing the replacement of some rather forbidding 14-tonne doors, built to withstand a nuclear attack, with a ‘smart curtain’ designed to keep out internet viruses, framed by Aaronic columns. Inside, I’ve gone for a more elegant ‘apocalyptical’ style, with fashionable twists on the Hollywood Armageddon look. Everything suffused with dark blue light, lots more connectivity between rooms using ‘power corridors’, Mayan chillout room etc.

The real architectural coup de théâtre, however, is a Rapture-ready megaspace created at the top of the cave. As soon as the last name’s logged, around lunchtime on the Day of Judgement, everyone piles up to the megaspace, a massive retractable roof opens and boom. By boom I’m guessing some sort of multiple heavenly ascension vapour trail or something. As I say, I’m no theologian.

There’s a brief silence, no questions, they’ll let me know.

Friday. My Stonehenge visitor centre has been savaged for being ‘so contemporarylooking as to be futuristic’. I angrily suggested to English Heritage that perhaps we should reconcile my design with the ancient site by sandblasting and polishing the megaliths. Oh, typical. NOW they’re interested.

Saturday. Five-a-zeitgeist theoretical football. First Class Post- Modernism 2, Unreconstructivism 0.

Sunday. Suspend disbelief and self in recliner.


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