Choose ten lockdown friends and family? No thanks

The latest rumblings from Westminster suggest that ministers might be about to relax 'stay at home' restrictions by allowing people to socialise in narrow 'clusters' or 'bubbles'. Under these proposals, households could draw up an unchangeable list of friends and family – maximum ten people per group – with whom they are permitted to congregate for meals and social activities. Other European countries are considering similar measures.

Let’s try to imagine the social repercussions of such a policy. For some, the groupings will be obvious. Older couples with well-established friendship circles will choose their cluster from familiar bridge club or doubles pairings, or use the new freedom to socialise with elderly relatives whose company was previously forbidden. Younger families may take a more utilitarian approach; choosing, perhaps, their in-laws, plus a nearby couple with children, to combine playdates and childcare with cocktail sessions and evening barbecues.

But for young people, especially those living away from home, these ten-person weekly group hangouts could quickly descend into sordid psychodramas, particularly if the rules stay in place for months on end.

First, the agony of selecting the 10 – and the acrimonious repercussions. Those who came of age in the MySpace era will remember how the social media website savagely forced us to rank our 'Top Friends', triggering untold emotional turmoil, such as the awkward moment when someone picked you, but you didn’t pick them, or vice versa. For those lucky enough to have missed MySpace, this was the digital equivalent of being picked last for games. The clustering regime would be much like this, but with higher stakes. Failure to make the cut could see you spending hot summer evenings glowering over Instagram posts of happily clustered ‘friends’ playing the hat game without you.

So far the government advice for non-cohabiting couples has been fairly drastic; either move in together immediately, or accept an indefinite incel state. Members of the covid stasi have delighted in dobbing in rule-breaking housemates and neighbours to the police, just as beady-eyed citizens would report homosexuals in the 1950s. The public may have (largely) complied so far, but none of this has boosted morale, which perhaps explains the government’s apparent softening of its position. We are often told we are at war – albeit one waged from the sofa – and there’s a reason that generals always ensured there were plenty of whorehouses near the frontlines.

Many of us are drinking more than usual under lockdown (I, for one, long for the pubs to open, so we can all stop boozing quite so much). Yet the thrill of being allowed out to socialise, even in small groups, will trigger celebrations worthy of VE Day. Unlikely romances would ensue, drawn from a terrifyingly small dating pool. Even if things went terribly wrong, which seems inevitable, given the levels of alcohol and repressed sexual tension, the rules leave little escape from the awkward impasse. Remember, it must always be the same ten people, and the alternative will be no socialising at all. Already, the madness of coronavirus has forced couples who scarcely know one another into shacking up together and giving each other ersatz haircuts. Ten-person clusters will provide an even more fertile canvas for drama and intrigue.

But consider the artistic implications. Some of Britain’s greatest sitcoms involve small casts living in confined spaces, often against their will: think Porridge, set in the cells of HMP Slade, or the crew aboard the damaged spaceship Red Dwarf, doomed to trawl through space for all eternity. In a decade or so, the great coronavirus comedy could end up being a dystopian version of Friends; part Central Perk, part Black Mirror, part And Then There Were None. I’d definitely tune in.