In a development that has sent a ripple through the stratosphere and a shudder through the Gin and Tonic industry, Nasa has finally named the crew for its Artemis Moon mission. Four souls, brave enough to strap themselves to a controlled explosion, have been selected. But the announcement has triggered a furious row, a dust-up, a celestial strop, as British astronauts clamour for a place at the cosmic table.
Yes, dear reader, the Union Jack is being waved with all the vigour of a man trying to flag down a cab in a hurricane. The British Interplanetary Society, a group of chaps who have clearly hidden their disappointment behind a wall of stiff upper lips and slightly damp sherry, have demanded that Her Majesty's subjects be allowed to partake in this moonshot jolly.
But let us be frank. The British space programme, if one might call it that, has been about as successful as a chocolate fireguard. Our finest efforts have consisted of a satellite named Prospero, launched in 1971 on a British rocket, which now orbits the Earth like a forgotten relative at a wedding. And let us not forget the legendary 'Beagle 2' mission to Mars, which famously failed to deploy its solar panels and instead became the world's most expensive paperweight, sitting on the Red Planet with all the utility of a chocolate saucepan.
Nevertheless, our plucky islanders are undeterred. They point to their contributions to the International Space Station, the European Space Agency, and the fact that our language is the lingua franca of space. 'We invented the language of flight,' they say, conveniently forgetting that the Americans also speak English, albeit with a strange twang and a penchant for calling biscuits 'cookies'.
The reality, however, is as stark as the vacuum of space. The Artemis programme is an American endeavour, funded by American taxpayers, featuring American hardware, with American astronauts. The crew announcements are a masterclass in political symbolism: a woman, a person of colour, a token Canadian (because it's polite), and a token scientist. But no Brit.
'It's a disgrace,' huffed Sir Richard St. John Bartholomew-Ponsonby, a man who exists purely to be quoted in articles like this. 'We built the engines for the ship that took them to the Moon in the first place! Well, not me personally, but my countrymen. It's time we reclaimed our place among the stars.'
One can almost hear the collective sigh from Houston. The Americans, bless them, are too polite to say it, but the truth is: we haven't put a man on the Moon. We haven't put a woman on the Moon. We haven't put a marmot on the Moon. The closest we've come is a brief cameo in a Pink Floyd album cover.
So what is to be done? Perhaps we should embrace our role as the plucky underdog, the galactic Cockney sparrow. We could send a team of astronauts trained exclusively on a diet of bangers and mash, their spacesuits lined with tweed, their oxygen tanks filled with a fine claret. They would step onto the lunar surface, plant a tea shop, and demand that the Apollo landing sites be declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
But until then, we shall have to content ourselves with the knowledge that our voices are being heard, even if our bodies are still planet-bound. The British have made a stink, and that, after all, is what we do best. We shall have a committee, a white paper, and possibly a sternly worded letter to the Times. And then, when the Artemis mission lands, we shall watch with a jar of Marmite in one hand and a gin and tonic in the other, muttering about how we would have done it better.
In the meantime, let us toast the brave American astronauts who will soon be bouncing on the Moon. They are the dreamers, the doers, the ones who actually go. And we? We are the ones who talk, complain, and write satirical columns from the comfort of our armchairs. Cheers.
