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| Derelict Irish Church awaiting Idiot Irish Restorer (photo by Lesley) |
Close Encounters of an Architectural Kind
All those opportunities to interpret a ruse, down the plughole - damn, why didn't I think of it earlier, that is, before the 17th re-run of the collected box sets of Kevin McCloud's Grand Designs.
I've been sitting dumbly bemused through countless scenes of crimes against architecture imagining Sir Kevin condoned these dismaying acts when, had I perceived the obvious, I might have stepped up (in my characteristic modest way) and enlightened my reader as to KMac's true feelings.
He's been designing episodes grandly since post-and-lintel construction burst upon the unsuspecting world of hunter/gather. He has presented indoors and outdoors, in a place near you or a pinprick on a foreign map, from submerging basement bedrooms to blistering terraces, always affable, agreeably argumentative, brimming with saintly tolerance for all but the most gross blunders and their perpetrators and, in an eloquent closing nutshell, impartially appreciative.
How does he do it?
Well, he's faking it.
In direct proportion to the featured-owner-idiocy-index KMac assumes the temperament of the reasonable man. As their naivety / arrogance / imprudence / crassness increases so does KMac's professional balance and just assessment. But look past his mild qualms as expressed to the camera: underneath he's boiling.
You see, if it appears too good to be true, chances are it is too good to be true. The normal mortal can't stand being so nice and fair for so long. KMac really wants to tell them what wastes of space they are, whilst texting for the urgent on-site presence of the nearest demolition contractor.
For instance, take these twits (the bloke really) hell bent on converting an innocent ruined church in the far reaches of Ireland.
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| The Great Architect - in jocular mood (rare, early photo) |
What a super home it will make, he intones, with all the pomposity of the born-again architect - you know the sort, doggedly defiant in the face of his portfolio of past excrescences now regrettably gracing the built environment. Trouble is, he was an architect.
God help the little church.
And so it began, the usual building saga. Sir Kevin was very positive, so positive it just had to mask his growing loathing. I began to feel sorry for the twit's wife, trivialised and marginalised by her Great Inspiration-struck Master.
'It seems too small' she pleaded. 'Nonsense' he condescended, 'look at that height, three storeys of it'. What was she supposed to do? Cook and serve meals vertically?
Cut and diced, the poor structure blossomed into a pastiche of design mediocrity.
I just know Sir Kevin itched to scream:
- this is a nasty warren of rooms for underdeveloped pygmies;
- with bathrooms thoughtfully two floors distant from bedrooms;
- linked by bland slabs of white plaster of silo-like appeal;
- featuring a tower retreat making a subdivided phone box look spacious;
- cleverly permitting a woman to up-skill to gymnast-chef;
- courageously unheedful of imminent hospitalising incidents guaranteed in traversing the precipitous two level sitting room (itself a triumph of miniaturisation);
- embellished with rails and balusters fresh from a failed Woodwork 1 class project;
- the kitchen a forest of timber supports further encouraging the cook-if-you-dare principle;
- and about as airy and welcoming as a morgue.
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| Yes, I PLANNED this. |
He's trapped, poor man.
Mercifully, there are two confidants to whom KM can lay his soul bare - his good wife, who is wisely keeping schtum, and your tireless correspondent, who labours in the service of his reader.
This Christmas I fully expect to receive a complimentary copy of Lord McCloud's 33rd series of Grand Designs.
