Let’s start with a thought experiment, because all good existential crises do.

Imagine a ship – Theseus’s ship, to be precise. After a storied career of heroic sea-faring, it’s put on display in a glorious Athenian dockyard. But as time passes, the planks rot. So, bit by bit, they’re replaced. A new mast here, a fresh hull panel there. Eventually, every single part has been swapped out.

Here’s the philosophical conundrum: Is it still the same ship?

And if you think you’ve got that sorted, hold on. Imagine all the original pieces were saved, and someone reassembled them in a warehouse across town. Now there are two ships. One with the name, the continuity, the dockside real estate. The other with the original lumber and sails.

Which one is the real Ship of Theseus?

The paradox gnaws at our sense of identity. Is continuity enough? Does memory trump material? When everything is replaced – structure, function, even personnel – what makes a thing still that thing?

Now apply that question not to a ship, but to a rock band. A corporation. A country. Yourself.

That’s where things get fun. And slightly horrifying.

I was recently served a video on Facebook, algorithmic ambrosia for the nostalgic mind, showing the band Foreigner performing one of their chart-groping hits from the ‘70s. Polished, crowd-pleasing, competent. And utterly fake.

Not one founding member in sight.

They weren’t bad, mind you. Just… someone else. A Foreigner cover band trading under the original name, like a haunted jukebox stuffed with licensing contracts.

This, friends, is the Ship of Theseus with a tour schedule.

And it’s not just bands. IBM, once the king of typewriters and tabulating machines, now sells cloud services and AI consultancy. Walgreens, which began as a soda fountain and friendly neighbourhood chemist, now sells LED dog collars and pregnancy tests under buzzing fluorescent lights.

These aren’t companies. They’re brands in drag, corporate necromancers chanting the old names to animate new bodies.

But why stop there?

America isn’t America. Not the one of powdered wigs and musketed revolutionaries. No Founding Fathers™ roam the marble halls, only interns, lobbyists, and PR-tested careerists impersonating ideals they no longer understand. Britain? Please. The Queen is dead, and so is the Empire. France has revolted so many times that they’ve essentially speed-run regime change into a lifestyle brand.

And let’s not get too smug. You aren’t even you anymore, not really. Cells replace themselves, beliefs crumble and reform, memories rot and rewrite. You’re a psychological Foreigner tribute band, just with more trauma and less pyrotechnics.

So here’s the rub: everything persists by pretending. That’s the deal. Names survive, structures remain, but the guts are swapped out, piece by piece, until we’re clapping along to something we no longer recognise, wearing merch from a band that no longer exists.

And we call it continuity.

NB: After a dozen Midjourney prompts, I decided to stop and use this one. Ships of Theseus are as rare as centaurs.