Just Awful

I knew something was wrong when I made my way back from the Trench having lost vast sums on the Grand National. First there was one, then another, then a whole cue of them at the cash point. This turns out to be the 'Bexhill Tweed Run' people, currently camping out with their vintage bicycles on the green infront of my window playing Vera Lynn at considerable volume. What the fuck is wrong with these people is very hard to fathom. Julie, on encountering this bunch of twits, nearly wet herself, since of course, I wear tweed, and she still can't stop laughing. Me, I'm horrified. They wear little bows at the top of their plum coloured plus fours and probably work in 'New Media' and probably think spending the afternoon on my green is 'jolly nice'.

But I am sitting in a nice new chair, actually not exactly new, 1960's Dutch, Jonathan assured me. Every time I go to the White Horse and Lily's dancing things go a little strange, in this case me making off with valuable items of designer furniture from Jonathan's gallery after she had engaged me in a conversation of sorts about phallocentricity in Freud. No matter the limits of this conversation given the fact that she periodically danced naked infront of me, it was at least better than my morning at the RCA, where the work was dreadful, and the students clearly offended by my coments, and the food, even in their poncy senior common room, disgusting. Whatever, I ended up laden down with vintage chair and lamp to get over it all, but at least not vintage 1914, like those twats over my balcony.

U2

With the worrisome instinct us critics have, I'm suddenly worried that U2's 'Still Haven't Found...bla bla ad nauseum' is actually a Suzanne Vega derivative with a bit of howling and a bit of effects peddle.

Suzanne

I've just put 'Cracking' on the phono and almost cried. I notice we have two copies of Suzanne Vega's first record in our home, and it's no surprise. And I have a suspicion it might rank as our biggest influence, beyond all the macho lovely stuff I prattle on about (would anybody agree that Bad Company were the biggest ever 'cock rock' band?- sounds stupid doesn't it- so get some sensitivity boys) In the end, in the mid eighties, Suzanne's wonderful 'swings of indecision' were what we all were, all 'actors on a movie screen', preferably noir and absolutely introspective and my god were we sensitive. Nobody captured it better, and nobody 'talked about it later' although that's not true, because that's what we did, we talked about it before we even did it, to the accompaniment of this record. She was a smooth Joni. Freeze tag in the dark. Didn't really do me any good, but I still like it.

Andrea

I only had one tutorial to do today so I soon scampered off, but only as far as Liverpool St because I was thirsty and the sun was out and everything felt good and 'Woodin's Shades' has a good window seat or two, so you can sit there for hours if you like watching the city pass by in between it's machinations drilling up debt we don't understand. I'm just sitting there looking at the city tits and arse of course.

But in such delightful circumstances, thoughts float to the surface over Stella Black (I'm not sure this is a good marketing ploy in the UK, too close to Cilla Black). I smiled at the recollection of a certain Andrea, a woman with tits beyond compare, and a night in an Oxford hotel room where I fell asleep on her lap. It was in the early nineties. Now these things happen all the time no doubt to all of you, but this occasion was a bit special, for Andrea is the only woman who has actually written to me to thank me for my endeavours that night (and I hope I've kept it somewhere) and if that can't bring a smile to the face of the old boy once in a while, nothing can. You could laugh and laugh and laugh, especially when the numpties from Fitness First in uniforms and sunglasses outside the window are setting up their promotional stall on a broken wallpaper table, and furnishing it with promotional mugs and promotional flags and all the rest of the tat, and then taking photos of themselves on their mobile phones as if this was some kind of achievement.

Wherever you are Andrea, my turn for thanks from the heart.

Lee Roth again

OK, so as night follows day, I'm now sitting at my desk (and my desk includes all the audio stuff- it takes up half the space even though I've cleaned up) and GUESS WHAT! Fucking David Lee Roth's 'Just like Paradise' is spinning in front of me at precisely at 33.3rpm- I can actually see it spinning- what a JOY! and it sounds fucking fantastic (not played for a long long time). After all I just spent £650 on some shelves (thanks Scott!) just to get the record collection up off the floor where I assume most record collections end up (that or in the second bedroom if you're lucky enough to have one).

So that, to me, and to those of a certain age, is meaningful design; get those old LP's at EYE LEVEL at whatever cost, and SKYSCRAPE again. You'll never listen to those gems again until you invest correctly. It also helps if you've organizing your home you can cook Keith Richard's shepherds pie and listen to Lee Roth at volume and, just on the side, have Babestation on the TV.

Julie will of course come home and insist on the Bunnymen.

Seventies

Nearly the end of term, time to clear up my desk at home, give it a little dust over, leave the concerns of hamsterdom to one side, hang a B&W 10/8 photo of seventies porn star Fiona Richmond on the wall (she was a vicars daughter, hung out with Malcolm Allison- then flamboyant manager of Crystal Palace- famous for his fur coats) sit and admire it; she's clearly in the sun somewhere wearing nothing but a silver trinket or two, a big cane hat, and the obligatory cigar. It's the sort of 'Topless Grand Prix Cote d'Azure' number of great style picked up for next to nothing on e-bay. Yes and I know the Cote D'Azure is a shithole, but a bit of seventies romance does nobody any harm, and it was probably shot on the Costa Blanca.

Then mix a large one, sit in my arm chair (which by the way, is just like Aalto's) listen to the ticking of the new Finnish clock in the kitchen (actually an attractive piece of old Finnish plank with a bit of battery powered assistance- perfect) reminisce on Finnish experiences like almost dying in snow, and find the Quiller Memorandum showing on the TV, a classic piece of poor Odessa File, and just right for lunchtime viewing. Oh the peace.

So You Think...

So will the future of our education be some kind of 'So You Think You Can Be an Architect?' reality show, with star judges and utterly formularized, with immediate golden tickets? (Errr.... a bit like the Bartlett)

If so, it would be in complete implosion of any kind of 'real' education. I never became an architect registered with the RIBA, but I have never stopped studying architecture. All the people I have learnt from taught me precisely that; that it takes time to develop judgement. Judgement demands values, any kind of 'criticism' demands the critic has values to divest, those values can only be learnt over time with considerably diverse inputs, often long after something like a degree or diploma has been achieved.

The value of architectural education is it asks you to know a little about a lot of things. You don't necessarily know how to build a brick wall, but you must be able to appreciate how it might be done well. In this sense it not specialized in a professional way as demonstrated in such an imaginary but none the less hideous 'So you think you can be an architect?' show. Rather on the contrary, I know 'architects' who've become journalists, editors, film makers, set designers, pornographers, shop fitters, painters, rock musicians, lap dancers, web entrepreneurs etc etc ad nauseum.

I hope students will continue to want to study architecture, even if the powers that be will find less use for architects (just think about it- perhaps because we should and ought to need less buildings) and even if it becomes more expensive. If this scenario played itself out in any rational way, it would not be the schools of architecture that should suffer, but the RIBA itself, simply down to irrelevance.