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Wall Street redesigned with a 'Tamla Motown' transparency

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Ian Martin extends fantasy professional advice to Prince Charles, the Olympics and Wall Street

MONDAY. Meeting of the Olympic Task Force. Ms Suzi Towel, minister for narrative backfill, in the chair. We begin with the customary Mexican wave, though the muted cheer seems feebler than usual.

There’s also a bit of tension between Suzi and Loaf. As Mayor of London, he’s keen to be the official Face of the 2012 Games, and must maintain a careful balance of enthusiasm and prudence. Suzi reminds everybody that she was the first one to go ‘yay!’ when the announcement was made, and appears everywhere in her Team GB relay kit. Loaf, however, is playing his trump card. Now Cadbury is sponsoring the Games, he’s agreed to wear a giant Creme Egg outfit whenever he speaks in public. He’s aiming for something he calls ‘ovoid gravitas’.

Under Any Other Business, we agree to spend the rest of the Olympic contingency fund on restoring a little dignity to the Athletes’ Village. Yes, the accommodation will be budget spec. But at least now there’ll be a little cobbled village wi-fi area with chocolate fountains.

And however strapped we are, there will be no repeat of the disgraceful cheating we saw at the Chinese Games, with its faked fireworks and mimed singing and rigged events (downhill swimming, hologrammatic hurdles, etc). Remember the fencing at Beijing’s National Convention Centre? Turns out it was really just a sort of decorative trellis.

TUESDAY. Exciting times. Secret service has told Charles to stop using hand-delivered notes. One of his frockcoated ‘mail monkeys’ has been unmasked as a tabloid journalist. The little shit was gathering raw material for some jeery piece about how HRH is still living in 1958 and relying on The Goons for moral guidance.

So now we’re communicating via coded personal ads in The Times. Today’s reads: ‘Raspberry blown. Ying tong biddly bong’. This means he has won the support of the Privy Council to re-monarchise the RIPBA, which, of course, is blissfully unaware of this or indeed anything else.

Chartered architects should brace themselves. Once Charles has installed himself as the Sovereign of Epic Space, all RIPBA members will be required to swear allegiance to the Crown. There will be a rigorous new professional testing system based on ‘Scout badge principles’ and, at last, a proper uniform with ceremonial swords for the gentlemen and jaunty hats for the ladies.

WEDNESDAY. A mysterious client, ‘Mr Bilderberg’, wants me to knock out a rethink for Wall Street. ‘Not the real one...’ says the emotionless text-to-phone machine voice.

‘...the mythical one. We need to repositionise within the new global financial architecture. I need some inspirational renderings of an imaginary Wall Street, OK? Full of optimism and determination. But kind of modest, like your Prime Minister Mr Gordon Brown. Press 1 now for the terms of your agreement, then the hash key if you accept. This message will self-erase in 15 seconds.’

And then it’s gone, in a tiny puff of vapour.

THURSDAY. Have a go at Mr Bilderberg’s brief. I’m thinking more European-looking and transparent. Safer these days, isn’t it?

Out goes the old Wall Street, that preposterous Neo-Classical version of Tron. And in comes the new – a vast, swirling nebulus of shimmering architectural possibilities. I’ve created a concentric series of glass ‘interaction zones’. Transparent layers of human love and understanding blazoning a future, chastened reality.

Yeah, mark my words. Forget what Koolhaas and the Gang said about the world being like a great big canyon. That theory is now discredited along with shops and banks and the Halifax ads and Guy Ritchie’s stupid films and irony in general. We must rediscover the truth as formally presented by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell 40 years ago: that the world is in fact just a great big onion. Encompassing a concentric series of interaction zones.

FRIDAY. Fascinating seminar on terror management theory. Summary: 1. Architecture exists to assuage what otherwise would be paralysing anxiety about the ego’s inexistence; 2. If there is an afterlife it will almost certainly be as a boutique hotel.

SATURDAY. Sketch out design for a new atheistic Routemaster. Londoners will be free to enjoy the experience without the imposition of a destination, as it will be driverless.

SUNDAY. Terror management in the recliner, with several large assuagements on the rocks.

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