
How Silicon Valley became the new Tír na nÓg
These Irish legends about the futility of wanting to live forever are thought to be thousands of years old, having been passed down orally for generations before being documented in the 18th century. Obviously, the legends never made it to Silicon Valley, where a movement, based on the notion that death is optional, is sweeping through the glittering halls of the technocracy.
An increasing amount of very rich men, having examined the progress of life expectancy of the past two centuries, are bewitched by the idea that we can live forever and that death is a choice more than a certainty. An entire sub-economy of vitamin pills, diets, self-help books, longevity weekends and genetic engineering initiatives have been spawned in this 21st-century version of Tir na nÓg.
At the centre of this movement is the modern day Oisín -
a man called Bryan Johnson
. Like many evangelicals, Johnson's obsession is fascinating and risible in equal measure. His aim is to engineer immortality (or something close to it). In 2021 he publicly launched Blueprint, an obsessive anti-ageing regimen aimed at making his body function decades younger, subjecting himself to a rigorously measured lifestyle, a vegan diet, 100+ pills and supplements a day, strict sleep and exercise schedules, and constant medical tests overseen by a team of doctors. The goal is to reprogramme his body's ageing process and prove that we might be the first generation that 'don't die'.
READ MORE
[
A tech entrepreneur chases immortality: Bryan Johnson is 46. Soon, he plans to turn 18
Opens in new window
]
Johnson is a tech entrepreneur turned longevity-evangelist whose career began in fintech. In 2007 he founded Braintree, a payment processing start-up that powered mobile transactions for online businesses. He then bought Venmo, a small peer-to-peer payments app, for about $26 million, which proved to be a steal. Venmo – not unlike Revolut - was an easy mobile money-transfer app that exploded in popularity, especially among young Americans. By 2013 its growing user base of tens of millions pushed revenue to more than $200 billion in 2021 alone, making it the talk of the digital finance world. Tech giant PayPal, Elon Musk's original company, acquired Braintree and Venmo in 2013 for $800 million.
Now enormously wealthy, Johnson set about living forever. He spends a reported $2 million per year of his own money on this quest to stay youthful. The routine has earned him the nickname 'the world's most measured man'. He tracks everything in service of what he calls 'optimal longevity'. He's tried blood plasma transfusions (even using blood from his teenage son) and experimental gene therapies. According to Johnson, his biomarkers now indicate he's ageing more slowly than normal and he claims that each calendar year only ages his body about 7½ months.
In recent years as the tech world became wealthier, more self-absorbed and, some might say, deluded, Johnson's pet project has morphed into a fully-fledged 'Don't Die' community. He created a Don't Die app in which users track a daily longevity score and has spawned online forums called Blueprint Discord, now numbering in the tens of thousands. He even hosts Don't Die Summits
,
day-long events mixing wellness with almost evangelical fervour, driven by the genetic possibility that we can slow down and reverse the DNA triggers for ageing.
In early 2024 some 600 attendees paid $249–$599 each to attend a Los Angeles summit featuring biometric tests, complete with its own 'longevity amusement park' of anti-ageing tech demos (VIP tickets at $1,499 included a private dinner with Johnson). At these summits, participants rave together in the morning at 'biohacker dance parties' and test longevity gadgets, such as $500 red-light therapy masks and $125,000 hyperbaric oxygen chambers. It's all designed to build a movement around Johnson's core belief that ageing is a problem to be solved, not a fate to accept.
Like any prophet, Johnson is a branding genius and his public profile has skyrocketed. Earlier this year a glossy Netflix documentary, Don't Die: The Man Who Wants to Live Forever, showcased his daily routine, amplifying his message.
Johnson is not happening in a vacuum; he is part of a much larger economics of longevity business that is gaining momentum. Globally, anti-ageing and longevity is a multibillion-dollar industry. Anti-ageing products from supplements and skincare to wellness programmes already represent a $70+ billion market. (Colleen Rooney has just launched her own supplements range in Holland & Barrett, along with the ubiquitous Kourtney Kardashian.) The market is projected to double to $141 billion by 2034. We are getting old and will spend to stay healthy and young. There is serious money to be made.
[
We hit a second adolescence in our 60s, when beauty isn't skin-deep but 'life-deep'
Opens in new window
]
Investors in Silicon Valley are bailing into the Don't Die movement. In the past few years longevity biotech startups have sprung up, backed by loads of loot. Tech billionaires believe we can cure ageing at the cellular level. Google's founders have backed Calico Labs (short for the California Life Company) to research life-extension. In 2022, Jeff Bezos (who else?) and other ultra-wealthy punters pitched $3 billion to launch Altos Labs, a company dedicated to cellular reprogramming therapies that hope to reverse ageing. Altos Labs has reported success extending the lifespans of mice via gene therapy.
Dozens of other firms, from start-ups to Big Pharma collaborations, are working on anti-ageing drugs, gene edits, stem cell therapies and senolytics (drugs that kill off zombie ageing cells). In 2021 more than $5 billion in venture capital flowed into longevity-related companies. The sector is creating 'unicorn'
valuations, For example, a company called Cambrian Bio, which develops drugs to slow age-related diseases, is valued at about $1.8 billion.
It is easy to be cynical and cite the Tír na nÓg example underscoring our futile fascination with prolonging life and avoiding death; on the other hand, average life spans have extended quite dramatically over the past century. Admittedly, as we get older, living a bit longer becomes more attractive and the phrase '60 is the new 40″ doesn't seem that weird at my age.
Maybe if we can't Live Forever, a tune that will be roared by 60-year-olds at the Oasis gigs in a few weeks' time, our most decorous best bet might be to grow old gracefully. Fat chance.
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles

Irish Times
3 hours ago
- Irish Times
‘I love gowns, volume and a lot of drama': Meet the young Irish designer creating outfits for CMAT and Chappell Roan
What do Irish singer CMAT , actor and TV presenter Siobhán McSweeney , US pop superstar Chappell Roan and drag performer Bailey J Mills all have in common? Well, they are fans of the young Irish designer Oran O'Reilly, otherwise known as Oran Aurelio, a recent graduate of the Institute of Art, Design and Technology's (IADT) four-year course on production design for film , the only course of its kind in Ireland. Aurelio's striking silhouettes, colours and constructions, with some items made from old curtains and deadstock, display a lively and informed imagination at work. He says he was always interested in old movies and Hollywood, and the famous costume designer Edith Head. He originally had ambitions to be a playwright. He speaks highly of designer Peter O'Brien, his tutor at IADT. 'I learned so much from him – the way he thinks, the way he talks about design, his cultural references are so specific to what I love about fashion.' READ MORE He fell in love with costume design on the course, where 'I finally discovered what I was looking for – storytelling but it is fashion and glamour'. Dressed in a stylish white shirt with mosaic cufflinks when we meet in Dublin, his appearance with goatee and moustache has a certain Florentine flourish, no doubt attributed to his half-Italian ancestry. The youngest of five from Rathfarnham, in Dublin, his mother Orla, formerly a make-up artist in Brown Thomas, encouraged his love of glamour and 'dressing for the occasion'. His grandparents on his mother's side were from Reggio Calabria in southern Italy, and owned a shop on the quays selling religious goods – hence the mosaic cufflinks. Ask him how he defines glamour and he cites Maria Callas singing Bellini's Casta Diva 'in a gorgeous gown – that is glamour, it is putting an effort into how you look'. He also references Babe Paley and the Swans, Truman Capote's New York socialites in the mid-20th century, and their famous hangout at La Cote Basque in the 1960s, as other examples of glamour. 'I love the idea of keeping glamour alive,' Oran O'Reilly says The Duchess of Malfi cape from Oran's debut collection Earnest, well read, and impeccably polite, his thirst for knowledge and experience is immediately obvious. His reputation and popularity has been growing rapidly in the drag community and with global pop stars too, after he started posting his work on Instagram. 'Social media has been such a catalogue for what I do. There is instant feedback, every voice is equal – it is quite terrifying in a way,' he says. A mention in British Vogue in 2023 as an up-and-coming talent remains a source of pride – 'it made me look legit'. [ Dublin photographer Sarah Doyle: 'I am more interested in style than fashion' Opens in new window ] Since then, his pieces have included a corset bodysuit with fringing inspired by 18th century dress for CMAT. He has designed a few pieces for Florence and the Machine, including one made from curtains found in a charity shop for Glastonbury in 2023. There was a shirred taffeta gown for Irish singer Nell Mescal, costumes for British indie rock band The Last Dinner Party , a handknit dress with train for American actor Ally Ioannides and a red dress in neoprene for Chappell Roan inspired by the movie Pink Flamingos. 'I had to make 10 neoprene dresses after that for [Dublin boutique] Om Diva last June,' he sighs – with a smile. We discuss how festivalgoers wear elements of the gear their stars sport, such as the sparkly cowboy hats and boots that could be seen everywhere at the recent Tate McRae concert at Dublin's 3Arena. 'It's almost such as a studio system (controlling every aspect of the business). Their persona is referenced in their clothes and that is how they sell themselves to the audience who tend to dress such as them,' he says. 'It's a uniform.' His debut collection, The Tragedy of the Duchess of Malfi, was photographed at Loreto Abbey in Rathfarnham His debut collection is called The Tragedy of the Duchess of Malfi (a Jacobean revenge tragedy), photographed in Loreto Abbey Rathfarnham, where he went to school. It will be presented on the steps of the National Concert Hall on September 2nd for his formal outing as a fashion designer, and will express his combination of theatricality, camp and glamour. 'I love gowns, opera coats, a lot of volume and a lot of drama. And point d'esprit (finely woven net lace).' He hopes the collection will establish him as 'the kind of designer I would like to be and how I like to be perceived. I want to be able to craft gorgeous gown for people, and would be open to working with anyone (in that way). 'I love the idea of keeping glamour alive.' Oran Aurelio's Instagram can be found here, @oranaurelio

Irish Times
7 hours ago
- Irish Times
One Night in Dublin ... at the museum: A nocturnal walkabout at the Irish Museum of Modern Art
At 10pm on a Thursday night, a fox slips out from the shadows at the gates of the Irish Museum of Modern Art (IMMA). Historian Barry Kehoe follows close behind, regarding the fox with professional suspicion. A guide for the night, Kehoe leads the way up a path by now well trodden; he has just shy of 25 years at IMMA under his belt. Kehoe adjusts his head lamp and offers a small torch as the sky quickly darkens. 'The Drummer' by Barry Flanagan, 1941–2009 in the grounds of the Irish Museum of Modern Art IMMA in Kilmainham. Photo: Bryan O'Brien Royal Hospital Kilmainham at night, home to the Irish Museum of Modern Art IMMA. Photo: Bryan O'Brien He heads towards the courtyard as the fox disappears into a hedge. Presumably he has rounds to do. By day, IMMA is full of chatter and curated light. But by night, it's quieter and more theatrical. The building looms in a way it doesn't during daylight hours, suddenly more mausoleum than gallery. READ MORE 'We're walking with Dublin's dead,' Kehoe says, referencing the graveyard a stone's throw away on the site of the Royal Hospital in Kilmainham on the west side of Dublin city. He speaks in hushed tones as if not to disturb them. Built between 1680 and 1684, the Royal Hospital was once home to hundreds of retired soldiers and was the capital's main burial grounds. In more recent history, a temporary mortuary was erected on the old hospital grounds in grim anticipation of a Covid-19 surge in 2020. Today it houses more than 4,500 contemporary artworks by Irish and international artists. Kehoe is not alone within these walls. Aside from the company of ghosts of Ireland past, somewhere in the east wing is artist-in-residence Eoghan Ryan. He lives onsite, in the old stables at the edge of the museum complex only a short walk from the main building. Ryan's immaculate studio shines like a beacon on the otherwise darkened campus. Inside, the walls are painted with brightly coloured trains and a desk in the corner is covered with the works of Thomas Kinsella . The collection is inherited, says Ryan; the poet was his grand-uncle. IMMA artist-in-residence Eoghan Ryan at work in the old stables. Photograph: Bryan O'Brien Artist Eoghan Ryan at the door of his studio/residence at IMMA. Photo: Bryan O'Brien The multidisciplinary artist from Dublin moved back from Berlin and has lived on IMMA's grounds since January, one of a lucky few who have been granted a place on the museum's Dwell Here residency programme. While Ryan's stay lasts a year, others are here on a shorter contract. 'If people come for a month, they're really on a different buzz,' he says. 'The tempo shifts.' The blurring of domestic and professional quarters is not unfamiliar to Ryan. 'I don't know if it's the healthiest relationship,' he says, as he thinks aloud, 'to be so close to the institution that you're working in. But it's something I've been doing a lot in my life.' Much of his artwork – a blend of performance, puppetry and video installations – wades 'through the entanglements with institutions', meditating on systems of power. 'So living close, at that line between where something is made and something is shown, is kind of interesting.' A few days after we meet, Ryan's latest project – a collaborative dance performance piece – takes place on IMMA's grounds. 'It's a very specific mode that I really enjoy, being in a place and getting to know a place as a stage. You start to see things in a different way.' There are some uneasy contradictions, as well, that the artist grapples with. 'You're living in a completely surreal situation, especially when there's a large housing crisis in the city and you're living in a gated ex-military hospital,' says Ryan. 'It's very odd. It adds to the theatre of things. Everything starts to feel weirdly fictional when you come home from the pub and have to press the gate.' Barry Kehoe in the courtyard at the Irish Museum of Modern Art. Photograph: Bryan O'Brien The IMMA courtyard at night. Photograph: Bryan O'Brien Security guard on night duty, Keely Raghavendra. Photograph: Bryan O'Brien But eventually, 'you do start to switch off from the strangeness of it all'. 'There is something comforting about knowing if you get really scared at night, you can go over to the security guards with a blanket. It's nice to know they're there,' he says. One of the security guards on night duty, Keely Raghavendra, takes a brief pause from patrol to say hello. 'Sometimes I scare myself,' Raghavendra says. When it gets into the wee hours of the morning, the shadows can start to play tricks on even the most grounded guard. 'I saw something in a basement. When I opened the door someone was looking at me. I was scared for a second, then I closed it and relaxed. Then I opened it again and it was gone,' he recalls. [ Lunch with a side of art: Seven Irish galleries with great cafes Opens in new window ] After a sound sleep knowing security have his back, Ryan's days to tend start early, usually at about 6.30am. Looking out the bedroom window in the morning, he often finds a spectacle. 'You wake up and there's always something weird. I woke up last Wednesday and there were just a load of soldiers rehearsing for the commemoration‚' he says, referring to last month's National Day of Commemoration Ceremony . 'I opened the blinds and was like: 'Oh great, this is happening today.'' With the exception of the museum's resident seagulls who continue to swoop and squawk even at night, the museum's courtyard feels otherworldly – strangely detached from its city setting. IMMA's permanent collection at night is a sight to behold. Much of the artwork takes on a new energy. 'When the lights are fully on, the red is a lot more dominant,' says Kehoe, considering Vik Muniz's Portrait of Alice Liddell, after Lewis Carroll. 'Seeing it now gives a completely different sense and feel to it.' Barry Kehoe with Mnemosyne, 2002, by Alice Maher in the IMMA gallery space. Photograph: Bryan O'Brien A wall plaque in the baroque chapel, Royal Hospital Kilmainham. Photograph: Bryan O'Brien Bluer hues are more present in dimmer lighting, giving the portrait's young subject a melancholy look. Barry Kehoe pictured in the Great Hall. Photo: Bryan O'Brien Machines whirr and hum, keeping control of the galleries' humidity levels and providing ambient background noise for a steady stream of consciousness as we take in the art. An audio loop of bird song from a distant installation filters through. Kehoe steps inside IMMA's baroque chapel, which was consecrated in 1686. It is pitch black. Stained glass windows gifted to the Royal Hospital by Queen Victoria in 1849 cast an eerie reflection on to the chapel wall. 'You can sort of feel the weight of history in this part of the building that you don't quite feel in the rest of it, because it still has that very ceremonial element to it,' Kehoe says, shining a torch over the decorative windows. 'They used to lock the pensioners out of the chapel because if they came in here during the daytime they'd fall asleep.' [ Sam Gilliam: Sewing Fields review – At Imma, an outstanding experimentalist's work takes over three floors Opens in new window ] From there, Kehoe walks on to the Master's Quarters, the palatial dwelling place of the hospital's masters and their families. Passing from the old diningroom through deserted corridors, Kehoe comes to stand in the Oak Room. He says it contains the strongest poltergeist presence. 'There's a lot of potential about these rooms in terms of great events. It's believed that some of the leaders of the 1916 Rising may have been questioned here before their executions,' he says. A light drizzle starts to fall as Kehoe enters the Master's Garden, an expansive green space dotted with fruit trees and cherub statues. The isolated cherubs once formed part of the triangular plinth of the Victoria Statue removed to the Royal Hospital from Leinster House, home to Dáil Éireann, in 1948. 'It's a strange sound oasis. The walls and the trees kind of cut out the city's sound,' says Kehoe. Apartment blocks and cranes join Phoenix Park's Wellington monument on the city's night-time skyline above the treetops. Barry Kehoe the military cemetery in the grounds of Royal Hospital Kilmainham. Photograph: Bryan O'Brien 'Weirdly, the city is growing up around us. When I started working here you wouldn't have had any of that in the skyline so you wouldn't have seen anything over the wall of the garden,' says Kehoe. A swarm of bats descend at the headstone of Master Lord Frederick Roberts' beloved warhorse, Volonel. Erected in the garden in 1899 with great ceremony, the headstone's original location meant it could be seen from the windows of the Master's Quarters. Lord Wolseley, who preceded Roberts, also buried his treasured dog Caesar in the garden, under a mulberry bush. Moving from one miniature cemetery to a far greater one, Kehoe's tour arrives inside the gates of Bully's Acre where more than 200,000 estimated burials were made. As the main public burial ground for Dublin city before Glasnevin Cemetery, dating from the early 1600s until 1833, there are a few big names in the soil beneath. The remains of Brian Boru 's son and grandson are thought to have been buried here after the Battle of Clontarf. Bully's Acre was subject to much body snatching over the years. In more recent history, Robert Emmet was laid to rest here following his 1803 execution up the road from here on Thomas Street. However, his body was later secretly dug up and taken elsewhere; its final resting place a mystery . At the far end of the grounds, the Royal Hospital's recently restored military cemetery lies unlit and exposed to the open road. An ambulance blares past as the museum sleeps behind the walls. The night outside holds many more stories beyond the Royal Hospital. Next in the 'One Night in Dublin' series - a night out with Dublin's street cleaners - on Wednesday


Irish Times
7 hours ago
- Irish Times
Jerry Fish: ‘I'm a London-born Dub but I discovered most of my DNA is from exactly where I now live'
How agreeable are you? It depends on what you want from me. I'm friendly, easy going, reasonable, but I've never been a pushover. What's your middle name and what do you think of it? My middle name is Joseph, and it was my grandmother's name, Josie, and my grandfather's as well as my father's and my brother's first name. It's a family name. I think it's strong and friendly. Where is your favourite place in Ireland? I just love Ireland as a country, especially when the sun is shining. I tell people that I live where the last wolf in Ireland was killed, on Mount Leinster, where we've been for 20 years. It's quite strange because I did the DNA thing, and I discovered that most of my DNA is from exactly where I live. I'm obviously here for a reason. That said, I'm a Dub, and my family and ancestors are all inhabitants of Raytown [better known as Ringsend], the mouth of the river Liffey in Dublin, so my heart is at Poolbeg lighthouse in Dublin Bay. Describe yourself in three words. An emotional fish. READ MORE When did you last get angry? I was very angry when I was the singer in An Emotional Fish in the 1990s. I was disappointed to find that as a working-class person I was isolated in the music industry, and that most of the industry comprised middle-class people whom I didn't really understand at the time. I wanted to be Iggy Pop. I still look to Iggy as a role model, but he is cool, not angry. Luckily, I've veered more towards the former than the latter. What have you lost that you would like to have back? I've never had an inkling to look back, but I've lost a lot of dear friends – I lost my best friend when he was 20. I've realised recently that not only have I spent a lot of my life dealing with grief, but also with the realisation that grief comes with a gift, which is the knowledge that we're all visitors to this world, that we're just passing through. What's your strongest childhood memory? I grew up in south London, an Irish immigrant. We were the melting-pot generation, so my parents were greeted by the infamous 'No blacks, no dogs, no Irish' signs. Yeah, welcome to London. It was a diverse, tough childhood; most of my peers were from the Caribbean or were cockneys. The older I get, however, the more I reflect on my childhood in London. I'm grateful for it because I think the 1960s and 70s, in particular, were when Britain changed. It became a new Britain, if you like, a new people, and I'm still quite proud to have been part of that London community. [ 'No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs': Irish Times readers recall seeing notorious signs in Britain Opens in new window ] Where do you come in your family's birth order, and has this defined you ? I'm the eldest of six. I left home at 17, returned to the UK and started travelling. The eldest has responsibilities; I had to help out a lot, and that certainly taught me things, but I also had the fortune of being able to leave first, to escape chaos. What do you expect to happen when you die? No idea, but you are what you bring to the party, not what you take from it. If you spend your life being kind and generous, you leave that behind, and that rolls forward. If you're mean, you put that on the Earth. When were you happiest? I spent much of my misspent youth playing in garage rock bands and living as a beach bum in the Mediterranean, but I became happiest of all when I became a father. Even though I had a tremendously liberating youth that I can recall great moments, from being in An Emotional Fish, touring the world, even before that, sleeping on beaches and not having any worries or cares. Fatherhood filled a gap, something I realised I was missing. Which actor would play you in a biopic about your life? I recently watched the Robbie Williams biopic, Better Man, where he was portrayed by a chimpanzee. In my biopic, which would be directed by the late David Lynch or Wes Anderson, I could be played by a fish. Which fish? I think carp have great faces. [ Better Man review: Robbie Williams as a monkey is a surprising look at the ego-driven's star's life Opens in new window ] What's your biggest career/personal regret? I think everything happens for a reason, and we learn from our mistakes and failures. I've been through many ups and downs, but they all led to a better place in some way. I'm very happy in the here and now, and for me, that's where it works. Have you any psychological quirks? I'm an artist who ran away with the circus, so I am a psychological quirk. It's a whole mess, a circus, and I am its monkey. In conversation with Tony Clayton-Lea Jerry Fish brings his Electric Sideshow and Fish Town to Electric Picnic, August 29th-31st,