Brace yourselves, dear readers, for the continent’s most expensive game of ‘I’m not sitting next to them’ has reached its predictable crescendo. In a move that has sent shockwaves through the gilded corridors of Brussels and caused a minor spike in gin sales at the Strasbourg bar, the much-vaunted Franco-German Future Combat Air System (FCAS) has been declared dead. Yes, dead. Kaput. Finito. The Franco-German dream of a joint stealth fighter, a marriage made in bureaucratic heaven, has dissolved like a sugar cube in a lukewarm cup of EU compromise.
And what emerges from the smoke? Why, the plucky, union-jack-bedecked, British Tempest programme. That’s right. The UK, post-Brexit, post-sanity, now stands as the sole European sovereign option for anyone who wants to fly a plane that doesn’t need to ask Paris or Berlin for permission to go bang. The Tempest, a jet so secret its existence was first announced by a drunk defence minister at a Farnborough air show, is now the only game in town. It is the ultimate middle finger to European integration, a screaming, afterburning testament to British exceptionalism.
Let us dissect the carcass of FCAS. The French wanted a plane that could launch nuclear strikes while smelling of Gauloises. The Germans wanted a plane that could carefully transport wind turbines to eco-friendly military bases. The two sides, locked in a death embrace of budgetary committees and industrial compromises, eventually fell out over who would build the wings. Yes, the wings. The fundamental lifting surfaces of an aircraft. They couldn’t agree on who got to stick the flaps on. Good God.
So now, the Tempest. A programme that, in true British style, is being developed by a consortium of defence giants who spent the first two years arguing over who gets the naming rights for the coffee machine. But let us not mock. The Tempest will be a marvel. It will fly at Mach 2, will be invisible to radar, and will be powered by a combination of optimism and leftover gin distillate. Its cockpit will feature a holographic interface that only works if you squint and tap it three times. Its weapons systems will be so advanced that they will be capable of shooting down your tax return before you’ve even filed it.
But here is the true beauty. The Tempest is the only sovereign option, they cry. Sovereign. That word again. The word that makes Brexiteers weep with joy and EU officials reach for a dictionary. It means we can fly it wherever we want, whenever we want, without asking Angela Merkel’s ghost for permission. It means we can sell it to Saudi Arabia or Australia or, God forbid, a rogue state in need of a decent air force. It means we are, once again, a nation that builds its own toys.
And what of the poor European allies? They will now have to choose. Buy American, buy Russian, or buy British. And let’s face it, American planes come with too many conditions, Russian planes with too many tracking devices, and British planes with a distinct whiff of mild colonial condescension. It is a glorious position to be in. We are the last pub standing. The last fighter jet that still serves a proper pint of sovereignty.
Of course, the Tempest will cost billions. It will be late. It will be over budget. Its first flight will be delayed by a dispute over the correct shade of grey for the cockpit trim. But that is the British way. We build things that are magnificent, expensive, and just slightly mad. And when it finally enters service, in the year 2040 or thereabouts, it will be the most magnificent, expensive, and slightly mad fighter jet in the world. And we will look back on this day, the day the Franco-German dream died, as the day Britain finally proved that you don’t need to be part of a club to build a plane that goes boom. You just need a few billion pounds, a stubborn streak, and a very good gin distillery.
