In a move that has shaken the biscuit tins of the scientific establishment, NASA has finally named the crew for its Artemis Moon mission, a testosterone-fuelled foursome that will, presumably, spend a great deal of time planting flags and complaining about the lack of decent pubs. The announcement, made from a podium that wobbled slightly, listed Commander Reid Wiseman, Pilot Victor Glover, and Mission Specialists Jeremy Hansen and Christina Koch as the lucky souls who will get to bounce around on lunar dust while the rest of us watch from our sofas, suspicious of any sudden change in gravity.
But hark! The British Space Agency, not to be outdone, has confirmed that a UK astronaut is in the pipeline. The pipeline, sources say, runs directly from a Wetherspoons in Slough to a cramped office in Didcot where civil servants spend their days wondering if it is too early for a sherry. The unnamed astronaut, rumoured to be a former geography teacher with a passion for model rockets and a surprising ability to digest a full English breakfast in zero gravity, is expected to begin training immediately. Training will involve, I am told, a rigorous regimen of queuing, apologising, and mastering the art of brewing tea in a vacuum.
This is, of course, a triumph for the nation. For years, we have watched with envy as the Americans, Russians, and even the French (those bastards) sent their citizens into the void. Now, at last, a Briton will stride upon the lunar surface, presumably to complain about the cost of a pint and the lack of mobile signal. Imagine the scene: a Union Jack planted firmly in the grey dust, while the astronaut reads a prepared statement about global collaboration, only to be interrupted by a flock of seagulls that have somehow followed him from Brighton.
But let us not get ahead of ourselves. The Artemis mission, currently scheduled for some time after the next apocalypse, has been dogged by delays, budget cuts, and the occasional existential crisis. The rocket, the Space Launch System, is a magnificent beast, a towering phallus of American engineering that cost more than the entire GDP of Luxembourg and has yet to actually fly anywhere interesting. The crew will train in simulators, eat freeze-dried ice cream, and pretend that the toilet situation is perfectly fine. It is not.
As for our plucky Brit, one can only hope that he or she will bring a proper sense of perspective to the proceedings. No doubt NASA will try to impose their rigid schedules and jargon-filled mission briefings. But the UK astronaut, schooled in the arts of compromise and passive aggression, will politely suggest that perhaps they could all pop down to the local for a swift half before deciding which rock to pick up. The American astronauts will look nonplussed. The Canadian will probably agree. And the world will marvel at how a nation that cannot run a railway can somehow negotiate a space treaty over a packet of crisps.
In the end, this is all theatre. A grand spectacle designed to distract us from the fact that our planet is slowly cooking itself alive. But it is a diverting spectacle, and one that allows us to feel a brief glimmer of national pride, untainted by football or colonialism. I raise a glass of gin, probably watered down thanks to airport security, to the new astronauts. May their journey be smooth, their tea hot, and their return to Earth accompanied by a suitable discount on duty-free.
