In a development that has sent shivers of avarice down the collective spine of the world’s wealthiest troglodytes, the question of who may purchase shares in Elon Musk’s SpaceX has become a new front in the age-old war between men with too much money and men with just slightly less. The answer, as always, is a scathing indictment of our times: only those who are properly anointed by the high priests of venture capital, provided they have the correct breeding (or at least a hedge fund named after a predatory mammal), and crucially, have never, ever expressed a public opinion that could be misconstrued as slightly left of Genghis Khan’s tax policy.
SpaceX, as we all know, is the world’s only functioning space taxi service, operated by a man who occasionally fires a sports car into the void because the sheer weight of his own genius became too much for terrestrial parking. But now, the company is apparently wading through a swamp of regulatory paperwork, legal wrangling, and the kind of exclusive handshakes that would make a Masonic lodge blush. The burning question: who gets to own a piece of this celestial gravy train?
The answer, my friends, is not you. Nor I. Nor the delightful old woman who runs the corner shop and once claimed she saw a UFO. No, the gates to this particular heaven are guarded by the Securities and Exchange Commission, a body whose primary function seems to be ensuring that only people with yachts can lose money on exciting risky investments. For the rest of us, there are savings accounts and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, the bank will honour the free toaster promised for opening an ISA in 1993.
The battle for private space ownership has become a kabuki theatre of pitch decks, non-disclosure agreements, and the kind of jargon that could make a sane person weep: things like ‘accredited investors’ and ‘qualified purchasers’. In layman’s terms, you need a net worth exceeding a million quid, exclusive of your primary residence. That means you must be rich enough that losing a few hundred thousand on a rocket that might explode is a mere bagatelle, a trifle to discuss over your third negroni at the country club.
But hold your horses, as they say in the colonies. There is a twist. Because even among the wealthy, there are tiers. A select few investment banks and sovereign wealth funds are allowed to gnaw at the bone, while lesser millionaires are left to squabble over the scraps. It is a hierarchy as complex and arbitrary as the British honours system, but with more spreadsheets and fewer ermine robes. The true irony is that SpaceX, a company founded on the dream of democratising space travel, has become a temple of unreachable exclusivity. To own a share, you must essentially already own a planet’s worth of assets.
This reporter, of course, attempted to infiltrate these hallowed halls. I called SpaceX’s investor relations line, pretending to be a Nigerian prince with a slight lisp and a burning desire to fund a mission to the sun (“We’ll go at night,” I stammered). I was met with a recorded message: “If you’re not already richer than God, please hang up and go back to your colouring book.” The hubris is as thick as the smog over a Victorian factory.
Meanwhile, the real battle is being fought in the corridors of power. Lobbyists are lobbying, lawyers are lawyering, and everyone is pretending that the ability to buy shares in a rocket company is a fundamental human right, on par with breathing clean air. The SEC is considering new rules that would allow a wider pool of investors to participate, but only if they first sign a pledge to never sell their shares at a profit unless a specific shade of Elon’s tie is magenta. The details are still being hammered out over very expensive dinners.
In conclusion, the battle for private space ownership is a microcosm of everything wrong with modern capitalism. It is a circus of the absurd, where the clowns wear suits and the ringmaster is a man who wants to die on Mars. For the rest of us, we can only gaze skyward, at the twinkling lights that might one day carry the rich to their next tax haven, and dream. Or better yet, become journalists and write scathing articles that no one in power will read. Because that, dear reader, is the only rocket we’ll ever be allowed to board.
