Imagining a night at the Met Ball, 50 years in the future

Today marks the first Monday in May, which, under normal circumstances means only one thing: the Met Ball. This year, however, our circumstances are far from normal, and the glittering, star-studded event has been cancelled in the face of the coronavirus. With that in mind, here, one writer explores their own fantasy Met Ball set 50 years in the future, where cyborg designers make their way down the *green* carpet, guests sit down to a dinner of vegan wildebeest legs, and President Kim Kardashian oversees proceedings. 

The carpet last night was green. Not because red is suddenly passé, as evidenced by Pierpaolo Piccioli, who dressed all of his muses in head to toe crimson, but because the theme was ‘life’. Poor taste perhaps, but I rolled with it, as anyone would be inclined to had they been told they’d be sitting at a table flanked by Donatella Versace, Björk, Tyler, The Creator, and a resurrected Yves Saint Laurent. The fashion tablescape of dreams (quite literally, in case the fact this scenario is complete fantasy has escaped you thus far). 

Until now, I’d imagined resurrections to be a complete myth, but fashion is always so swift to adopt new technological trends these days it actually came as no surprise that, halfway up the green carpet, I bumped into both Andy Warhol and Valerie Solanas. The tension, unsurprisingly, was palpable, as Warhol blanked her and Solanas glared in his direction. I continued my strut, wondering how the Met had managed to import the trees that lined the walkway. Under the new Carbon Elimination Legislation it should have been impossible, but if anyone could pull it off, it’s [redacted editor] and her kitten-heeled cronies. Normal rules, as ever, do not apply. 

Invited to the Gala as a plus-one, my chaperone had been busted, and subsequently cancelled, for flying in on a private jet just hours before. Without them, I was a nobody: I lingered in front of the paparazzi for a moment too long, trying to look as enchanting as I possibly could, but thanks to facial recognition tech, the paps’ camera bulbs stayed mortifyingly dim. Collecting myself, I wrangled my way past the cyber-doorgirl by ducking under her retina scanners. A flaw they should probably fix, given anyone could sneak past them.

“I lingered in front of the paparazzi for a moment too long, trying to look as enchanting as I possibly could, but thanks to facial recognition tech, the paps’ camera bulbs stayed mortifyingly dim”

As I walked up the stairs, my whole dress – made of leaves naturally, because we love a theme  – was ripped off in plain sight. Who was standing on it? None other than Miss Stefani Germanotta, returned from actual planet Chromatica, which she forced her label to build after her album became the highest selling record in universal history. And so there I was, fully nude – save for my tattoos and the scar from my microchip – in front of the whole fashion community. 

Years ago this would have been truly mortifying, but since Virgil Abloh made nakedness the new hottest trend – we all remember the “the only way to be sustainable is to not wear clothes” speech he made when he became creative director of LVMH, right? – I became the instant toast of the grass-hued carpet, even though Zendaya was wearing the exact same (no)thing. We styled it out – very Samantha and Miley in Sex and The City The Movie 2, but without the racism obviously.

Inside I was escorted to my seat by a cyber-hostess who was wearing head to toe Tesla x Chanel — a strange flex, but to be expected since Elon Musk had the French house design the uniforms of all the people working on Mars. Speaking of the Musks, Grimes, War Nymph, and her own baby Dirt were there, too — all in head-to-toe Soil-From-The-Surface-Of-Mars x Richard Quinn. I’d never seen Mars soil up close before, but it wasn’t like the pictures — it was more dull, less red, less shimmery. 

Anyway, I digress. When I sat down, I was embarrassed once again – floating chairs were the seat du jour for the evening, and of course – as it was my first time sitting on one – it overturned and kicked Donna in the shin on the way down. I thought she was gonna deck me, but since she’s had her skeleton replaced with medical grade stainless rhodium she just laughed it off and began to tell me about the first time she sat on a floating chair. Let’s just say it nearly killed her – “thank God for resurrection” she slurred through a Versace face mask while eyeing Yves, who stayed silent and smoked a slender, holographic Juul for most of the night.

“I was escorted to my seat by a cyber-hostess who was wearing head to toe Tesla x Chanel – a strange flex, but to be expected since Elon Musk had the French house design the uniforms of all the people working on Mars” 

Dinner was simple but luxurious: vegan nitrogen frozen leg of wildebeest and an apple – god I’d forgotten what an apple tasted like since all the apple trees were moved to Neptune for safe-keeping. Powdery to be honest. Rumour has it that [redacted editor] has 40 contraband apple trees in the back garden of her floating Hamptons home, but who am I to speculate?

By the time dinner had finished, we were addressed by President Kim Kardashian who had just recovered from her merging-surgery with her iPhone 9011 and truly, she’s never looked better. She spoke of fashion’s power for adaptation before presenting an award to her new wife – Monica from Cheer – for being the first person to successfully bring skinny jeans and ankle booties back into fashion. It was a moving speech. 

Timothée Chalamet and Armie Hammer’s biological child Steffan, who they’d conceived and given birth to live in the 18th Call Me By Your Name sequel (Brown Bunny eat your heart out), began heckling. If nothing has changed, it’s that celeb offspring are as wild as ever. 

Later, [redacted reality TV model] offered me space coke in the loos, but it really turns my stomach, so I declined. I did my mandatory Tweet, thanking my robot hosts, President Kardashian and [redacted editor] for such a fun night, but I decided I had to leave – the conversation was stunted on account of the fact I was the only person on my table without a holiday home in one of the other galaxies. Besides, my good friend Billie Eilish – now almost 70 but as youthful as ever thanks to impressive cryogenic advances – had blown off the official event and was hosting an illegal party underground in Park Slope. I hailed a Huber (a hovering Uber for the uninitiated), flung myself in its backseat and headed across town, 10 stolen apples tucked into my invisibility clutch: chicken nuggets are long since extinct, you see.

Check out our playlist for the Met Gala that never was here, some of the wildest looks to land on the red carpet here, and revist the 2019 event in the gallery below.