We always ask very old people what their secret is. “Laughter”, some say. Olive oil, sex, cigarettes – I picture the tight smile on the centenarian’s face as they roll out their little line every birthday – rum, cold swims, early nights – when presumably, the secret is always, “Don’t die.” And now of course, that question has been repackaged and spotlit, with the longevity market, propelled by the tech industry, expected to be worth $44.2bn by 2030.
It’s funny, one day you’re a young nerd writing BOOBS on a calculator, the next you’re a middle-aged billionaire wearing an erection-tracking ring and sucking blood from teenagers in order to live for ever. So goes the modern career of the “tech bro”, the people who made their money designing apps so dull they can’t be described in language, then spend that money on becoming God. It bothers me. It bothers me! Not longevity research itself necessarily, the investment into preventing fatal diseases – no, please, go wild on that – but the grim, empty attempts to extend the lives of people who already have everything.
