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Croydon gave the world Kate Moss, but can it ever be sexy? An exciting team of young planners are set to revive the south London suburb and blaze a trail for all British towns, writes Rowan Moore

Recently the London Organising Committee for the Olympic Games announced that they had completed their "food vision". I won't dwell on what this was, but it was final proof that the word "vision" has suffered drastic devaluation. Once it applied to the experiences of exalted saints and prophets, which inspired dazzling paintings and books of the Bible. Now it means something slightly stronger than "memo".

The suburban borough of Croydon has also been subject to repeated "visions" over the past two decades, namely Croydon: The Future; Vision 20:20 and Will Alsop's Third City. Famous architects have zipped in and flourished brightly coloured images that turn Croydon's pervasive grey into flashes of neon, and striven to find an inner Manhattan in its array of towers.

There have been TV shows and articles, mostly with same shtick: Croydon is sexy, really. Yet, as Emma Peters, head of planning, regeneration and conservation, pithily remarks: "Every time we have another vision we've declined economically." From 1995 to 2005, when employment in London grew by 18%, in Croydon it grew not at all.

The borough hasn't given up, however, which is why I find myself sitting with a group of planners who are trying to make the place better. Opposite me is Finn Williams, pale and delicate as a consumptive poet, who looks a decade younger than his 27 years. To one side is Vincent Lacovara, 31, and to the other Tom Sweeney, aged 35. They are describing the deals they are making with heavyweight developers, and their efforts to steer many millions of pounds of investment to beneficial effect.

Planners aren't supposed to look like this. Normally you expect them to be worn and middle-aged, and to have turned the colour of manila through blending with their environment, as certain moths come to resemble tree bark. Williams, Lacovara and Sweeney are signs of the borough's intent to do things differently. It is a long-standing ambition, given new impetus by the arrival in 2007 of Jon Rouse as the borough's chief executive. Rouse, a former chief excutive of both the Commission for Architecture and the Built Environment and the Housing Corporation, is one of the country's more effective civil servants.

The selection of this young band of planners could just be another doomed attempt to sex up Croydon, but what is striking is their determination not to do another "vision". "Every plan for Croydon," says Williams, "has always been desperate to undo the mistakes of the previous plan." Lacovara adds: "The first question people ask when we consult them is: 'Is anything going to happen this time?'"

They embody the attitude of many young architects, which is to take things as you find them rather than impose a grand plan, and to find the spirit of the place, even if that place is not particularly charming. In the 18th century, Capability Brown talked of genius loci in the design of landscapes. These contemporary architects apply the same attitude to office blocks, rather than hills and woods. They also think there's something good about suburbs, in contrast with older architects such as Lord Rogers, for whom dense, Barcelona-like cities are everything.

In the case of Croydon the place was once delightful enough for the Archbishop of Canterbury to build his holiday home there, and it keeps fragments of its ancient past. It was then a stolid Victorian town, before the spread of London's semi-detached suburbia absorbed it into the metropolis. In the 1960s, thanks to a quirk of official policy, it boomed. The government wanted to push new office development out of the centre of London, with the result that it migrated to Croydon.

Its distinctive skyline of stubby towers was created, but when policy was reversed, so was the boom. Croydon has struggled ever since, with BT the latest business to move out. It has resumed its status as a place that prompts faint sniggers among metropolitan types, despite being the location of the world's first international airport, and the town where Malcolm McLaren pioneered punk. It may have given the world Kate Moss, but she now lives elsewhere. Terry Major-Ball, the gnome-selling brother of John Major, was the Croydon resident who stayed.

Yet it is only 15 minutes by train from central London, and the borough's mixture of suburban semis, detached houses and terraced streets mean that there are homes for every stage of life ("nursery to nursing home" as Lacovara puts it). And given the desperate hunger for homes in southern England, it can't be impossible to make it into a place where people want to live. Much of it already is, but the centre remains problematic.

Williams and co don't want to make it into something it is not, but a better version of what it is now. Their proposals are mostly quite obvious, like building a bridge across dividing railway tracks, planting trees, removing the most destructive 1960s road systems, and making it possible to access public places now cut off by roads. But they also get developers to think about what's good and/ or distinctive about Croydon, such as its tendency to place little and large buildings, and ancient and modern ones, side by side.

Above all, although they stress that previous visions left behind ideas of value, like opening up the buried river Wandle, they want something to happen this time. In this they are not just a bunch of young turks, but part of a collective effort that includes more experienced officers such as Emma Peters. This effort includes the creation of delivery vehicles and joint ventures and other devices too technical to be digested over Sunday breakfast, but none the less important. If they succeed, they could finally make Croydon an example that other towns will follow.

Why the new-look US embassy is a lump

There are some things to like about the designs for the new US embassy, unveiled last week. That it is moving from posh Mayfair to tattier Battersea is good for both places, as the residents of one hated the effects of security barriers, while the other could do with the investment.

It claims to be exceptionally green, and its architects KieranTimberlake have a record that makes this believable. The design deals with the immense security measures by trying to disguise them as landscaping, which is at least tactful, while the intricate surfaces shown in the images give an air of quality.

Yet it is a lump. A green, well-dressed, diplomatic lump, but still an ungainly, dominating object that makes minimal attempt to relate to its surroundings. There is no sense that it will join with its existing and future neighbours in creating a cohesive piece of city. It will be a singular object that will loom awkwardly over what is already a disjointed area of London.

For this blame does not only attach to the state department or the architects, but also to the inability of London's planners, from the mayor down, to plan in three dimensions. Battersea was identified as a place of opportunity under Ken Livingstone, meaning that it would be a place where office towers could flourish, yet there has been minimal investment in designing what kind of places this new development might create.

What will make this area succeed or fail is not the artistry of individual facades, but the kind of places that will be made by several buildings working together. And, yes, as many have pointed out, the embassy does look like a Norman keep, complete with moat. We all know it has to be exceptionally bomb-proof, but was it really necessary to rub this point in?

Legendary film critic Roger Ebert reminisces about the eccentric hotel on Jermyn Street that for 25 years was his sanctuary – but now faces demolition

Oh, no. No. No. This ­cannot be. They're ­tearing down 22 Jermyn Street in London. Much of the block is going. Bates hat shop, Trumper the barber, Sergios cafe, all vanishing. Jermyn Street was my street in ­London. My neighbourhood.

There, on a corner near the Lower Regent Street end, I found a time capsule within which the ­eccentricity and charm of an earlier time was still preserved. It was called the ­Eyrie ­Mansion. When I stayed there, I ­considered myself to be living there. I always wanted to live in London, and this was the closest I ever got.

Many years ago I was in London and unhappily staying in a hotel room so small, they had to store my empty ­luggage elsewhere on the premises. I could sit on the bed and rest my ­forehead against the wall opposite. Fed up, I walked out one fine Sunday ­morning to find a better hotel, but not an expensive one. I recalled that ­Suzanne Craig, a Chicago friend of mine, had once informed me: "If you like London so much, you should stay at the Eyrie Mansion in Jermyn Street."

"A haunted house?"

"No, stupid. Spelled like an eagle's nest. And Jermyn isn't spelled like the country, either."

I took the tube from Russell Square to Piccadilly, and surfaced to find backpackers sprawled on the steps of Eros, still asleep after their Saturday night revels. One block down Regent and right on Jermyn and I found a small sign over the sidewalk above a ­doorway. It opened upon a marble corridor pointing me to a man who regarded me from eyes in a scarred face. The gatekeeper of the Eyrie. He disappeared and, when I drew abreast, he was behind a wooden counter protecting an old-fashioned switchboard, a thick registration ledger and a wall of pigeonholes.

"How may I help you, sir?"

"Is this . . . a hotel?"

"Since 1685, I believe. You ­require a room?" He had a ­Spanish accent.

"I'd . . . how much are your rates?"

He consulted a card tacked to the wall.

"For you, sir, £35. That includes full English breakfast, parlour and ­bedroom, own gas fire and maid. Bath en suite."

The rate was a third of what I was paying. I asked to be shown these quarters. He locked the street door. Then we ascended in an open ironwork elevator to an upper floor and I was let into 3A. A living room had tall old ­windows overlooking Jermyn Street. Dark antique furniture: a sideboard, a desk, a chest of drawers, a sofa facing the fireplace, two low easy chairs, tall mirrors above the fire and the sideboard. He used a wooden match to light the gas under artificial logs.

A hall led to a bedroom in which space had been found for two single beds, a bedside table between them, an armoire, a chest, a small vanity table and another gas fireplace. In the bathroom was enthroned the largest bathtub I had ever seen, even in the movies. The fixtures were not modern; the toilet had an overhead tank with a pull-chain.

"This is larger than I expected," I said. "How many rooms do you have in all?"

"Sixteen."

Of course I took it. When I'd moved my luggage in, it was still only 10 o'clock and I rang down for the full English breakfast. The Spaniard said he would prepare it himself as soon as possible, "because Bob is indisposed". He appeared with two fried eggs, a rasher of bacon, orange juice, four slices of toast in an upright warmer, butter, strawberry jam and a pot of tea. I sat at my table, regarded my fire, poured my tea, turned on Radio 3 and read my Sunday Telegraph.

For 25 years I was to come to Jermyn Street time and again. Now I can never ­return. Some obscene ­architectural extrusion will rise upon the sacred land, some eyesore of retail and condos and trendy dining. Piece by piece, this is how a city dies. How many cities can spare a hotel built in 1685, the year James II took the crown? I will barely be able to bring myself to return to ­Jermyn Street, which is, shop for shop, the finest street in London.

That first morning I walked down Regent Street to St James's Park, strolled around the ponds, came up by Prince Charles's residence, climbed St James's Street and returned the full length of Jermyn. I ordered tea. It consisted of tomato, cucumber and butter sandwiches, which the English are unreasonably fond of; ham and butter sandwiches, which I am unreasonably fond of with Colman's English mustard; and cookies – or, excuse me, biscuits.

I had just settled in my easy chair when a key turned in the lock and a nattily dressed man in his 60s let himself in. He held a bottle of Teacher's scotch under his arm. He walked to the sideboard, took a glass, poured a shot, and while filling it with soda from the siphon, asked me, "Fancy a spot?"

"I'm afraid I don't drink," I said.

"Oh, my."

This man sat on my sofa, lit a ­cigarette, and said: "I'm Henry."

"Am I . . . in your room?"

"Oh, no, no, old boy! I'm only the owner. I dropped in to say hello."

This was Henry Togna Sr. He ­appears in a Dickens novel I haven't yet read. I'm sure of it. He appeared in my room almost every afternoon when I stayed at the Eyrie Mansion. It was not difficult to learn his story.

Henry and his wife Doddy lived in the top-floor flat. He may have been the only man to live all of his life within a block of Piccadilly Circus. The Mansion was originally purchased in 1915 by his parents, who came from Italy, and Doddy's parents, who were English. The two children grew up ­together, married, and fathered Henry Jr, "who keeps his irons in a lot of fires". He asked me how I learned of the Eyrie Mansion. "Oh, yes! Suzanne. A lovely girl."

I was usually in London three times a year: in midwinter, in May after Cannes, and in summer. Henry was naturally confiding, and cheerfully indiscreet. That first day he lamented that his assistant, Bob, had gone ­missing when I wanted my breakfast. "Bob is a great trouble to me," he said. "He gets drunk every eighth day. I have implored him to make out a seven-day schedule and stick to it, but no. He will not be content unless he is throwing us off."

"I was well taken care of by the man who checked me in," I said.

"Poor fellow. He was a famous jockey in Spain. His face was burned in a stable fire while he tried to help his horses. He was one of those handsome Spanish boys. He was in a movie once by Buñuel. A film critic like yourself must have heard of him."

"Oh, I have," I said. "I wonder which film?"

"You'll never get that out of him," Henry said. "Nor will he tell you his real name. He says he's hiding out here, working overnights. He doesn't want anyone in Spain to learn where he's gone."

I thought of Jermyn Street as ­Ampersand Street. On Jermyn Street you will find Turnbull & ­Asser, where Saul Bellow bought his shirts and Gene Siskel bought his boxer shorts. You will find ­Paxton & Whitfield, with its window stacked high with cheeses, and Fortnum & Mason, where you can lunch at the soda fountain or plunge into the food hall. Down the street a bit are Sims, Reed & Fogg, the antiquarian booksellers. And, of course, Hilditch & Key, Harvie & Hudson, Crockett & Jones, New & Lingwood – all shirt-sellers. The street is synonymous with shirts.

Next door to the hotel, there is Bates the hatters, with a big top hat hanging over the sidewalk. This was one place where you knew for sure you could find a bowler, a deerstalker or a ­collapsible opera topper. They have had the same cat for 50 years (although it has been stuffed and with a cigar in its mouth for most of that time). Next to Bates, Trumper the men's ­hairdressers. I make it a practice to get my hair cut in every city where possible. Near the Eyrie I went first to ­Georgio's, a one-chair Greek barber shop in a mews off Duke Street. One day I ­followed the Archbishop of ­Canterbury into his chair. In the basement of Simpsons, I had my hair cut next to the former prime minister Edward Heath. Jermyn is that kind of street. Finally I graduated to Trumper, a magnificent shop of brass and leather, wood and mirrors, and the aroma of hair tonics with exotic spices.

Sometimes in walking about the area, I would happen upon Henry, always dressed to befit Jermyn Street, who knew everyone of any interest, from the maitre d' at Wiltons to the man with the Evening Standard stand behind St James's Piccadilly. I never saw Henry in a pub, however, and ­despite the bottle of Teacher's under his arm, I never saw him tipsy.

One day he invited me to lunch. We walked over to a cozy, chic French restaurant in a byway near Leicester Square. Customers waiting in line were ignored as we were seated immediately. We were shown to our banquette by a handsome French woman of a certain age, whose hand, I observed, lingered longer on his shoulder than one might have expected. Henry saw me noticing, and his eyes twinkled.

He was much concerned about the future of the Mansion. "Our landlady is the Queen," he told me. "The Crown Estate agents have always tried to keep the lease terms reasonable, but the price of property is making the most alarming advances. I've raised my prices as much as I dare. Henry Jr wants to take over and make this a ­luxury hotel. Well, it's in the blood. But it frightens me. What kinds of loans will he have to take out? How will he make the payments?"

He brought Henry Jr around to meet me. This was a handsome, pleasant man; friendly, confiding. He said he hoped to keep the charm of the Eyrie Mansion. "But at the prices I'll be forced to charge, the public won't stand for this," he said, regarding the carpets, frayed at the edges, and the furniture somewhat nicked, and staring balefully at the gas fireplace.

As it happened, the gas fire was one of my favorite features. On jet-lagged winter mornings, before dawn, I'd awaken to a flat chilly as I liked it, pull on warm clothes, and venture out into the crisp night to walk up to the newsagent on Piccadilly. I'd buy the Telegraph, Independent, Guardian and Times, and a large cup of hot coffee from an all-night shop around the corner. With these I would return to the Mansion, tune in Radio 3, sit in my low easy chair before the fire, and dream wistfully that such was my life.

Later one winter's day, I set out to walk across Hyde Park from Kensington Gardens to Hyde Park Corner. It was raining, but that was fine with me; I had my Simpsons umbrella. What I didn't know was that the gates to the park were locked at dusk. This I discovered on a notice inside the gate I'd intended to use. I could see the traffic hurrying past up Serpentine Road from the direction of the Royal Albert ­Memorial. There were a lot of taxis.

Unfortunately, an iron fence topped with spikes stood between me and the road. It began raining harder. I scouted and found a low tree branch that might just allow me to stand atop the railing. That meant climbing a hill slippery with wet grass. I failed twice, and became smeared with mud. Digging in the point of my umbrella, I finally made my way up the hill and on to the limb, then balanced on the fence – but it was a good leap down to the ­sidewalk, and I could easily imagine myself with a sprained ankle. Or worse: impaled on the fence.

Pedestrians hurried past, apparently not seeing me. I tried calling for help. I was ignored. Well, if you were hurrying through the park in the rain and saw a fat man with a soaked coat, smeared with mud, balanced on a fence with a filthy umbrella, what would you do?

"Hey, look, it's Roger Ebert!" an American kid said. He was with a group of friends. "No way! Is that really you?"

"Yes, it is," I said. If I had been Prince Charles, I would have answered to "Roger Ebert".

"Far out, dude! What are you doing up there?"

"Trying to get down," I observed.

They helped me down and asked for my autograph, which was gladly ­supplied. I opened my umbrella, hailed a cab, and was at 22 Jermyn Street in 10 minutes. That was one of the occasions when I lit the gas fire and treasured it beyond all reason. After warming up, I filled the big tub for a bath. It was deep, and as long as I was tall. I tinted it a bright green with Wibergs Pine Bath Essence, inhaled warm pine, and reflected that you are never warmer than when you have been cold.

Word came in 1990 that Henry Jr had taken over operations and closed the hotel for ­renovation. In his announcement, he wrote: "I agreed to buy the hotel from my father, famous for his wonderful eccentricity." Of course, Henry Jr discontinued the gas fires.

The Eyrie Mansion was renamed 22 Jermyn Street, and my wife Chaz and I stayed there many times. I liked it, she adored it. When I said I missed the gas fire that you lit with a match, she gave me one of those looks I got when I said I would rather drive a 1957 Studebaker than any newer car. Or eat in a diner than a trendy restaurant. Or wear jeans. You know those looks.

As the luxurious 22 Jermyn Street, the hotel prospered. Croissants and cappuccino were now served as an alternative to full English breakfast. There'd be a flower on the tray. Clients included movie stars and politicians, who valued its privacy and its absence of a lobby. Doddy and Henry Sr would have been proud.

But in autumn 2009 Henry Jr wrote to us: "Sadly the lease has expired and the greater part of the city block in which the hotel is located is to be redeveloped by the Crown Estate as a project named St James's Gateway, over the next two or three years. Like much else in London, it is planned that this very comprehensive and handsome project will be completed in time for the Olympic Games in 2012."

Just what Olympic guests will be looking for in London. One more god-damned comprehensive and handsome project.

© 2010 The Ebert Co. distributed by Universal Uclick.This is an edited extract from Roger Ebert's blog, rogerebert.com

• This article was amended on 26 February 2010. The first paragraph originally read, "the whole block is going", including Getti the Italian restaurant and the Jermyn Street theatre. This has been corrected. Elsewhere in the piece Russell & Bromley was removed from a list of shirtmakers.

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