In a development that has given the term 'launch window' a sinister new meaning, Jeff Bezos' Blue Origin saw one of its rockets perform an unscheduled, explosive dismantling over Florida this afternoon. The New Shepard booster, in a fit of what can only be described as mechanical existential despair, turned itself into a firework display that would make a Guy Fawkes enthusiast blush. No injuries were reported, unless you count the pride of the entire private space industry, which is now in a coma.
This comes at a particularly awkward time for Britain's own celestial aspirations, which were already wobbling more than a toddler on a unicycle. Our government, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that the future of British spaceflight involves launching rockets from a site in Scotland that is famous primarily for being soggy and having a population of sheep who are now, presumably, eyeing the sky with deep suspicion. The irony is delicious: while Bezos is blowing up rockets in the Sunshine State, our officials are trying to convince themselves that we can punch above our weight in the cosmos.
I can only assume the next step is to announce a mission to Mars using a team of particularly ambitious badgers. But let's not be too hard on Blue Origin. At least their rocket got off the ground before exploding.
That's more than can be said for our space programme, which is currently mired in a quagmire of committee meetings and feasibility studies that would make a sloth feel frisky. The real question is: why are we, a nation that can barely run a railway, trying to reach for the stars? The answer, of course, is that we're desperate.
Desperate to be seen as relevant in a world where billionaires treat space like their personal playground. And so we cling to the dream of a spaceport in the Highlands, ignoring the fact that the most exciting thing to launch from Scotland in recent memory was a half-eaten bag of chips thrown at a bus stop. Meanwhile, Elon Musk is tweeting memes about Mars, and we're here, debating whether our rocket should be powered by potatoes or pure chutzpah.
But I digress. Today's explosion is a reminder that space is hard. Very hard.
And expensive. And prone to sudden, dramatic disassembly. But for Britain, it's also a reminder that we need to get our act together.
If we're going to play with the big boys, we need to stop acting like we're building a rocket out of spare parts from a skip. We need to invest, innovate, and maybe hire some people who don't think that 'launch sequence' refers to the procedure for opening a bottle of cheap sherry. Because if we don't, we'll be left behind, watching from the sidelines as the US and China build space stations and we're still trying to figure out how to get a weather balloon past cloud level.
The alternative is a future where Britain's contribution to space is limited to selling commemorative tea towels whenever a comet passes by. And I, for one, don't want to live in a world where our cosmic legacy is defined by crockery.
