In a move that has sent ripples through the corridors of power and the cold, dark waters of the Atlantic, the Royal Navy has announced a £2 billion investment in a drone fleet designed to patrol the depths. Because nothing says 'global maritime dominance' like a fleet of remote-controlled submarines piloted by a bloke in Slough eating a Wagon Wheel.
The Ministry of Defence, with all the solemnity of a man announcing he's invented a self-lighting candle, declared this the 'future of underwater warfare'. One can almost hear the sea creatures collectively sighing. 'Congratulations, humans. You've now made war so boring even the fish are filing complaints.'
The drones, we are told, will hunt enemy submarines, protect undersea cables, and generally loiter about the ocean with the menace of a particularly territorial hermit crab. But let us not get carried away with the technical jargon. This is, at its core, a £2 billion game of Battleship. Except the stakes are higher, the water is colder, and there is no room for the phrase 'You sunk my battleship!' because that would require admitting defeat, and the Royal Navy does not do that. Not publicly, anyway.
What of the enemy, you ask? The spectre of Russian submarines haunts these waters, their periscopes occasionally popping up like dubious periscopes in a Carry On film. The drones will listen, lurk, and presumably send back grainy footage of fish looking confused. Meanwhile, our own submarines will continue their time-honoured tradition of surfacing off the coast of Scotland at inopportune moments, startling seabirds and local fishermen alike.
But I digress. The real question is: can these drones be piloted while drunk? The Ministry would never confirm, but I have it on good authority that the prototype controls include a coaster. For the captain is not a grizzled naval officer in a cramped control room; he is a contractor in a nondescript office park, nursing a cup of instant coffee and a mid-life crisis. The future of naval combat, it seems, is just another form of remote work. 'Sorry, Admiral, can't join the hunt today. The plumber's coming.'
And what of the cost? £2 billion. For context, that is roughly the price of 400 million packets of Hula Hoops, which I suspect would be just as effective at deterring a Russian submarine. 'Sir, the British have launched a packet of Hula Hoops. We must retreat!' It is the sort of expense that makes you wonder if someone in Whitehall has a share in a drone factory. Probably the same chap who sold them the idea of a hydrogen-powered aircraft carrier. 'It's green, Admiral. Think of the carbon credits.'
Let us not forget the practicalities. Drones, like all things that beep and move, will break. They will develop glitches. They will, on occasion, accidentally annoy a pod of whales, leading to a diplomatic incident with Greenpeace. 'Your drone offended a humpback. This is a formal complaint.'
And yet, despite all my cynicism, I find myself oddly charmed. There is something almost comfortingly British about this. We cannot afford to heat our homes, our trains are on fire, and our political system is a pantomime that forgot the audience. But by God, we will have a drone fleet to patrol the Atlantic. We will guard the underwater cables with the same grit and determination that once guarded the Empire. We will do it from a desk in Swindon, but we will do it.
So raise a glass of gin, dear reader. The seas are safe. The drones are coming. And somewhere, a Russian submarine captain is looking at his sonar and wondering why it suddenly shows a schools of drunken...fish. Or whatever these things are.
Biff Thistlethwaite, signing off. I'm off to buy shares in Wagon Wheels.
