Everyone should wear a name badge all the time

One more step towards a frictionless future.

Provocative, right? I can be the most provocative thing in your inbox, if you like. Like Russell Brand before the allegations. Just pop your email in there.

Hear me out. If, like me, you’re used to meeting new people on a regular basis, you’re probably always telling people “I’m not very good with names, but I’ll try to remember yours.” And that’s kind of the best thing you can say in a new name situation. You have a brief, unremarkable conversation and go your separate ways.

You pause mid-step. Your brow furrows. Your care-free smile becomes a burdened scowl.

“Shit. What was their name, again?”

And you feel terrible. Because, of course, they will have remembered your name - they always do. And what’s worse? They’ll use it so often that it’ll cast a naked, dangling bulb on the very ugly truth that you’ve forgotten their name.

And you’ll feel awful. And you should. You’ve forgotten the most important thing about them. Those one or two syllables that define their identity. The only thing they’ve had since they opened their eyes to artificial lights, a slap on the arse and beaming grins in blue gowns. You remembered that they studied Biochemical Engineering because they went to the same Uni as you, you selfish prick.

You only remember things that have some distant connection to your oh-so-important life story, is that right?

It’s probably true. You remember the Jacks and the Lukes because they were your best friends at school. You remember the Claires because your mother’s called Claire.

The Greggs, the Johns, the Mohammeds. They’re just kind smiles with stories to tell.

But you weren’t the only one who met them, no. There was that other girl. She was there. But…what the fuck was her name? Sarah? Sandra? It wasn’t Susan…that’s my aunt’s name. But maybe it was - and maybe that’s why I remember. She’s over there. One sec.

“Susan?” You ask meekly, unsure that the voice even came from your throat, quite ready to disavow it instantaneously.

“Sue’s fine”, she responds curtly.

Shit. She did say Sue. And I’m here full-naming her like a furious father or a substitute teacher who doesn’t yet know the subtle nuances of classroom naming politics.

“Sorry, Sue. Quick question. Can you remember,” you nod over your left shoulder towards the kind face who studied biochemical engineering at the University of Manchester and graduated in 2009 (exactly 10 years before you) with a 2:1 (same grade you got), “his name?”

“Erm,” she pauses unconvincingly, “did it begin with a P?”

Peter? Paul? I don’t think so. He seemed like more of a leader than a follower, but didn’t look a thing like Jesus.

Did you get the Killers ref? Do you feel clever? I certainly did writing that...

Honestly, if you really want to support my new-world agenda, the badge society, and any other extremely intelligent musings I may pose, give me money. Like, enough money to buy a cup of coffee every month. That’s all I need. I can live off that. One cup of coffee a month keeps the doctor away, they say.

I’m getting sidetracked. Where were we? Oh yeah, everyone should wear name badges all the time. I know what you’re going to say. You don’t want to. What if it doesn’t go with your outfit? Why can’t you just get better at remembering names? What if you’re wearing your pyjamas? Didn’t Hitler try and do something similar in the 1930s?

1. Everybody will be wearing one. And you can decorate them however you want, so long as the name is in size 36 font. And no dumb fonts like Caveat or Lobster. Comic Sans, Times New Roman or Arial. The three musketeers. My three wishes in this autocratic onomatocracy.

2. Oh yeah, “just get better at remembering names”. That’s sooooooo easy to say. “Have you tried learning Python?” “In 20 years, everybody will be learning AI prompts.” “I’ve got a 435 day streak on Duolingo.” We’re bombarded with so many new bullshit hobbies to learn and you’re asking me to get better at something that we’re ALL still TERRIBLE at, after hundreds of THOUSANDS of years of names. Give me a society of 30 hunter-gatherers and I’ll get better at remembering names, OKAY?

3. You don’t need a name badge if you’re on your own property. That seems like a sensible rule. Unless somebody’s coming over with dementia. But if someone’s coming over to your house, don’t let ‘em in without a badge. No badge. No pass. What if another friend unexpectedly comes over and there’s a badgeless guest? Recipe for disaster. A disaster that we currently accept as normal life. Let’s move on from living in hell. A badged society is a better society. Trust me on this one.

4. They were a totally different thing. Maybe there would be another rule where you can’t decorate your badge with stars, y’know, to avoid that conversation.

We all got smartphones because they made things easier. They brought smart solutions to everyday problems. They reduced friction.

Now if you consider the untold benefits of universal name badges, there are no drawbacks. They should absolutely become a part of the frictionless utopia that the billionaires will inevitably succeed in shoving down our bloated, bleeding throats.

If you’re so worried about freedom of expression and originality, stitch your name onto your homemade, ill-fitting knitted jumpers. I honestly don’t mind. You can even put your pronouns on. There’s room for innovators in the name-badge society. And you know what? If you don’t want to wear one, I don’t mind. We won’t ostracise you from our utopia. You can play. There are plenty of toys.

However, if you don’t wear a badge, you forfeit the right to the name you were given. Instead, you must be called a name voted in on an annual basis by all citizens. And it can be as awful as we can collectively imagine. I assume year one will be something unimaginative like Karen. But after one or two years they’ll get more and more dehumanising until you spend a year with everyone shouting “oi!” in your stubborn, frictiony face.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.