Futurist Ben Dillon’s Ten Predictions for the Post COVID World (PART DEUX)

At the beginning of March, internationally-recognised futurist, Ben Dillon, published an essay titled ‘Futurist Ben Dillon’s 10 Predictions for the Post COVID World (1–5)’. Many assumed that this would open the door to a sequel. Given the format, some predicted that it would be published almost immediately. Others had the audacity to suggest a title, ‘Futurist Ben Dillon’s 10 Predictions for the Post COVID World (6–10)’. Not to be outdone, future-gazer, Ben Dillon, waited an inordinate amount of time and slightly altered the title format.

He is truly above the law.

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6. Decades of regression for cosmopolitan Ireland.

When I was nine, I went to a week-long GAA camp in Austin Stack’s Park, Kerry’s answer to Camp Nou. It was one of my first real-world excursions and a rare opportunity to interact with foreign kids. And by foreign, I mean those that lived outside a 7km radius. Many kids from that camp went on to play a part in my life, either as background cast or co-leads. Some I’d meet again in secondary school, some in university, some just popped in for brief cameos here and there. Even at such a young age, some made a great impression. Others, not so much.

There was one kid in particular who had at least three diva moments per day. You could time your lunch and afternoon breaks around his temper tantrums. His go-to nuclear button was threatening to take the ball home with him. He was seemingly oblivious to the six dozen or so spare balls lying around that greatly reduced the severity of his threats. By the end of the week, he had been christened with the beautifully to-the-point nickname of ‘Cry-Baby’.

In the following years, I’d occasionally see Cry-Baby. Each time I’d have to restrain myself from using his childish moniker. At time of writing however I haven’t seen him in many years. For all I know he could have travelled the world and become an upstanding member of society. We could bump into each other and he could tell me about how he was now a medical scientist. He could regale me with stories of how he has cured illnesses, saved thousands of people and won a Nobel Prize. All the while I’d half-listen, making a mental note to text my friend afterwards; “You’ll never guess who I bumped into today? I’ll give you a clue…waaah.”

Cry-Baby isn’t alone in this. Shaking off an old image is something we all have to deal with. I have relations who, no doubt, still see me as a seven-year-old boy. There are aunts and uncles whose first inclination upon seeing me is probably to ask about school or if I’m still mad into pogs. The issue is universal and doesn’t matter how much you’ve developed in the interim. I bet Barack Obama has older relations who still ask him if he can burp the alphabet or make those funny fart noises with his arm-pits.

As a race of people, Ireland is forever trying to shake off an old image. It’s that top-of-the-morning, ‘Darby O’ Gill and the Little People’ depiction. Instead of asking about school, our US relations might ask if we still believe in leprechauns, get into drunken fights or write love letters to pints of Guinness.

The misconception still causes angst. You only have to look at the outcry when movies are released with caricatured portrayals of Ireland. Upon their release, the newly gentrified Irish people cry out in unison. “No, that was the old us. We’re different now.” We then point to the fact that we do brunch, practice yoga and go for jogs.

The trouble is that the old pub-obsessed version of ourselves is bubbles just below the surface. I can’t help but think of undercover Roald Dahl witches that try to blend into society but break character when they see little children; Or werewolves that morph from sophisticated to gruesome during a full moon. Instead of full moons however, our trigger is the abnormal closure of pubs.

There is a glimpse of this phenomenon every Good Friday. When pubs close, panic sets in. The entire country stocks up on at least two week’s supply of alcohol. Many buy tins of tuna and dried food on the off-chance that closing pubs causes the apocalypse.

Good Friday is one thing but the pandemic is a whole other level.

My estimate is that the year without pubs will set the new Irish cosmopolitan back several decades. By the end of it we will have reverted to our true, pub-loving form. I, for one, will never again take my local pub for granted. At night, I dream of quiet pints after a mountain walk. When I wake, I Google the words, “Are they open yet?” with one eye open. When I daydream, I think about opening a sharing-packet of Taytos and laying it out on the table like a butterfly unveiling its wings. I often wonder if pubs think about me as much as I think about them.

In Ireland, there is some worry about how we will pay for all this; the grants, relief and unemployment packages. What kind of tax hike will the government enforce to make up for all the debt? One idea I’ve had would be to introduce a ‘Save-the-Pubs’ tax. No matter the severity of it, I don’t think a single person in Ireland would bat an eyelid. Pubs were there for us. We’ll be there for them.

But obviously we couldn’t let other countries get wind of this tax. Begorrah, that would feckin’ ruin us.

7. Real-lifing will be a thing (but of course).

The first lockdown was barely a day old when futurists started to predict the biggest paradigm shift in human history — the downfall of real-life. Being forced to stay at home was just the beginning. 2020, they said, would be the precursor to an online civilisation.

Over the course of the lockdown I’ve had several digital meetups, been to a virtual nightclub, attended online fitness classes, and hosted a number of online quizzes. On more than one occasion I’ve looked up at my laptop camera while performing downward dog. My main findings thus far is that virtual events are ‘kind of’ like the real thing. But in the same way that table-tennis is ‘kind of’ like Wimbledon.

While most technologists predict the rise of virtual living, this futurist believes that it will go the opposite direction. Starved of human connection, people will ditch the online imitation and fall back in love with in-person events. Although, because it’s 2021, it will probably be given a new, modern-sounding verbification like humaning, analoging or real-lifing. Community groups, live gigs and face-to-face meetings will thrive in this new, old world.

In fact, such will be the similarities with the pre-internet days, that if a person was transported from 1998 to the post-COVID world, they’d hardly notice a difference. If they were to report their findings, the changes would be subtle.

“Well, there are some differences. People still love going to GAA matches, gigs and community gatherings. The only difference is that they call it “real-lifing” now. Not sure why. Everyone still has a healthy respect for nurses and doctors, which is great to see. But I believe they’re now called “frontline workers”.

I’ve had several people mention how it’s “nice to no longer wear masks”. This one puzzles me. My guess is that either Halloween really took off; or people have gotten incredibly deep.

I guess it goes without saying that Irish people are still obsessed with pubs. Although, they seem to be a bit more sentimental and weepy about it. Besides the fact that I keep seeing people walking out of shops rubbing their hands together like bluebottle flies, everything is just as before.

Oh, and walking. People seem to love walking.”

8. A new form of ‘Nam Flashback.

After the Vietnam War, PTSD-suffering veterans would get flashbacks of wartime events that were so vivid and so terrifying, that they’d go into a state of shock. In the flashes there were exploding bombs, flying limbs and rat-infested bunkers. The flashbacks were a traumatic event on top of a traumatic event. My fear is that once the pandemic is over, there will be a new-form of ‘Nam Flashback. And it will centre around remote working.

For some, remote working has been the breakout star of the pandemic. The commute and stuffy office talk have been eliminated. The daily grind is viewed as less daunting when fluffy pyjamas is a clothing option. However, it is more utopic for some than others. For one, having kids completely flavours the experience.

While I could wax lyrical about my quaint remote-working life, for others it’s a warzone. Along with their professional title, parents have been handed the roles of child-minder, teacher and children’s entertainer.

Whenever the topic of remote work arises, I’ve learned to first confirm whether or not the person has a dependent. If they don’t, I rave about the change of tempo. I share my hypothesis that lockdown life is simply life slowed down. Every day you have at least two or three hours that weren’t there before. I gush over my new-found reading time and have to stop myself from letting the word “idyllic” slip in.

When talking to parents on the other hand, I use words with wartime connotations.

“It’s a daily battle, a slog. I keep hearing people talk about the slower pace of life. I think it’s gotten worse. It’s a never-ending, all-out war.” I change my posture and hunch over slightly as if I’m literally carrying the Earth’s weight.

For Vietnam veterans, flashbacks were triggered by things like fireworks, loud machinery or hysterical crowds. The new triggers will be more subtle. In the future, COVID parents will break into cold sweats when the words “home” and “schooling” are used too closely together or whenever anyone uses the word “unprecedented”. Other triggers will include the smell of banana bread, the sight of Joe Wicks or anyone telling anyone that they’re on mute.

In five years’ time, a COVID mother is at a job interview. Before finishing, the interviewer starts discussing benefits. The interviewer mentions bonuses, flexible Fridays and other perks. They mention in passing that remote working is not only allowed, but encouraged. With one simple line, the flashbacks ignite. A ticker tape scrolls across a TV screen with the words “schools and creches to close for two weeks”. In another flash, Leo Varadkar walks out to a podium and starts speaking in tongues with only the occasional coherent phrase; “Level 5”, “flatten the curve”, “Zoom classes”.

With the blood draining from her face, the woman grabs desperately at the interviewer’s arm.

“Not that,” she pleads, a look of terror in her eyes. “Anything but that.”

9. We will all have to battle our inner hypochondriacs.

The transition has been slow but impossible to stop.

In March 2020, a friend told me about all the things I should stop doing. If I’m not wearing latex gloves, I should refrain from pressing buttons at pedestrian crossings. I should stop holding onto railings, especially those moving, germ-riddled death-traps on escalators. When using lifts, I should call for my floor using a rolled-down sleeve, like I’m a murderer leaving a crime scene. She also said to “cover your mouth when coughing or sneezing”. I gleefully informed her that this was something I did already. I then mimed the act of sneezing while cupping my hand over my nose. The action was met with a distinct look of horror.

In August 2020, while leaving the house I patted my pockets and rattled off a mental checklist, “keys, wallet, phone… mask”. I then squeezed a shot of sanitizer into my palm, opened the door and faced the outside world.

At Christmas my mother rang me as I walked through Cork City. I told her I was soaking up the festive atmosphere and she asked about it. I described the hive of activity. I told her about the Christmas lights, the buskers and how people were strolling around with takeaway mulled wines. I finished by saying there was a “pretty big crowd”. At this last sentence my mother gasped and let out a horrified, “Oh God no”. The reaction would have been apt if I’d been describing a terrorist attack and not people enjoying yuletide beverages. The worst part was that my gut reaction was to say, “I know, it’s terrible”.

Last weekend, I was watching a movie where Meryl Streep plays a bakery owner. Almost instinctively, I found myself judging the working conditions. I was slightly outraged to see staff handle food with their bare hands. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief at the lack of personal protective equipment. My jaw opened slightly while I examined the patrons. At least a dozen stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a cramped area, utterly mask-less and unprotected. I wasn’t sure whether to be disgusted with the director for encouraging these scenes or with myself for having this sad, bacteria-fearing inner monologue.

I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault. Low-level hypochondria has been drilled into us for over a year now. Some have embraced it more than others but we all have a touch of it. We’ve learned to be appalled by youths hanging in large crowds and people hugging. We’re starting to view ourselves as weapons of mass destruction. It’s a strange feeling knowing you could potentially kill someone with a drive-by cough. When this is all over, the biggest adjustment will be battling our inner hypochondriacs.

In 2022, I’m going on the offensive to banish my germaphobia. I will do my best to act like a normal, disgusting human. I’ll sneeze into my hands. I’ll cough with pure abandon, spinning around like I’m a character in The Sound of Music with respiratory droplets crop-dusting the landscape around me. I’ll extend the drop-food-on-the-ground rule from five seconds to several minutes. I’ll hug strangers, cut back on hand-washing and actively seek out handrails. I’ll burn my facemasks and antiseptic wipes in a sort of a spiritual rebirthing ceremony. I encourage others to do likewise.

I’m going to steer clear of handshakes though. That shit is toxic.

10. Millions will grieve the loss of the greatest excuse of all time.

As a kid, whenever I got the flu I would be 10% upset and 90% thrilled by my newfound perks. I’d usually stretch the illness out for at least a school week. I’d spend my time watching TV, reading magazines and revelling in my mother’s attention. I couldn’t do any chores, prepare my own snacks or finish homework. I’d be far too ill for responsibilities. By the end of the week, I’d practically mourn the passing of my sickness.

That calibre of excuse is hard to come by. From what I gather, having a new-born is also excuse-heaven. You have a go-to alibi that can never be doubted nor questioned if used repeatedly. The excuse can be redeemed at all times, even at the last minute.

In terms of excuses, for the last 12 months we’ve had a real humdinger. Social invitations can be shot down with ease. Past commitments can be ignored. And it extends much further than social events. I attempted an alcohol-free November but abandoned it because of the pressures of COVID-19. My wife has bought herself an endless amount of gifts, all under the guise of “cheering herself up”. I’ve been comfort eating, skipping workouts and generally taking it easy on myself. There’s a global pandemic to endure for heaven’s sake.

Next year, fingers crossed, COVID-19 will be a thing of the past. Society will reopen, restrictions will be lifted and we can all breathe a deep sigh of relief. However, when it happens, I believe that we should set aside time to grieve the passing of a once-in-a-generation excuse.

Closing out my ten predictions for a post-COVID world, I wanted to end with weight. I wanted to find one beautiful, thought-provoking thread that would tie the ten predictions together.

But I didn’t get around to it…

because, you know…

…COVID.