In a move that has left the nation’s gin distilleries trembling with patriotic fervour, NASA has announced the selection of British-backed astronauts for its Artemis Moon programme. Yes, you heard that correctly. Her Majesty’s finest (or at least those who passed the psych evaluations) are to stride across the lunar surface, planting Union Jacks and complaining about the lack of decent tea shops.
Let us pause to savour the sheer ridiculousness of it all. The Artemis mission, named after the Greek goddess of the hunt, is ostensibly about exploring the Moon. But let’s be honest: this is a game of celestial one-upmanship. The Americans, feeling left out after the Chinese started building a space station out of what looks suspiciously like leftover IKEA parts, have decided to reboot their lunar ambitions. And who better to join them than the British, whose space programme has historically consisted of a few blokes in sheds launching weather balloons?
The chosen British astronauts – let’s call them the ‘Gin-tonauts’ – are said to be ecstatic. One was quoted as saying, ‘It’s a dream come true. I’ve always wanted to see the Earth from afar, preferably with a G&T in hand.’ Another mused, ‘The Moon’s gravity is perfect for perfecting the art of the perfect pint pour.’ I am, of course, paraphrasing. But the sentiment is there.
Now, the real question: what will the British contribution be? We’re not known for our rocket engines or space suits. No, we excel at bureaucracy. Expect the lunar module to be equipped with a committee to discuss the feasibility of lunar speed bumps, while the astronauts spend their first week filling out health and safety forms. The flag planting ceremony alone will require three risk assessments and a quorum of minor royals.
But let’s not be cynical. This is a grand moment. The UK’s space ambitions have grown from a twinkle in the eye of a disgraced MP to a full-blown moonshot. We have universities churning out space engineers, and companies building satellites that can spot a badger from orbit. The Artemis programme is our chance to show the universe that we’re not just a small, rain-soaked island obsessed with queuing.
And what of the Americans? They’ll provide the rocket, the expertise, and the funding. We’ll provide the stiff upper lips, the witty banter, and the distinct aroma of stale biscuits. It’s a match made in heaven, or rather, in low-Earth orbit.
I can already see the headlines: ‘Briton first to order a round on the Moon.’ ‘UK astronaut demands refund for missing luggage.’ ‘NASA confirms: Marmite is officially a space superfood.’ The possibilities are endless, and utterly absurd.
But here’s the rub. The Artemis programme is a risky business. The Moon is a harsh mistress. One wrong step and you’re drifting into the void, your last words a garbled complaint about the lack of mobile signal. Yet our brave British astronauts are undeterred. They’ve faced worse: the M25 at rush hour.
So raise a glass of warm Chardonnay (it’s the British way) to our lunar pioneers. May their journey be smooth, their landings soft, and their expense claims promptly processed. And if they happen to discover a cheese mine, well, that’s just the cherry on top of this celestial folly.
In the end, this is about more than just Moon rocks. It’s about proving that even in the vast, uncaring cosmos, there’s still room for a bit of British eccentricity. Hats off to NASA for indulging us. And hats off to the British taxpayer for funding another glorious misadventure. The Moon awaits, and it smells faintly of gin.
