In a development that has sent shockwaves of moderate curiosity through the nation's Wetherspoons, NASA has deigned to reveal the names of the lucky souls who will once again desecrate the lunar surface with their space-booted feet. Meanwhile, the UK Space Agency, desperate for a seat at the grown-ups' table, has been spotted frantically waving a British Union Jack tea towel and shrieking 'Partnership! Partnership!' like a child trying to join a game of four-square.
Let us pause to savour the sheer absurdity of the situation. NASA, the agency that put a man on the Moon while most of Britain was still arguing about the correct way to queue, has graciously allowed us to tag along like a slightly smelly dog on a walk. The UK Space Agency, which I suspect operates out of a leaky shed in Swindon, has announced it is 'in talks' to contribute a pedal bin full of science experiments and possibly a flask of weak tea to the Artemis programme.
The astronauts themselves, a quartet of impeccably chiselled jawlines and textbook American optimism, have been presented to the world with all the gravitas of a Hollywood premiere. Their names: Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, Christina Koch, and Jeremy Hansen. I imagine their job interviews went something like: 'Can you survive in a tin can for months on end? Excellent. Can you fix a toilet with a spanner and a prayer? Even better. Welcome aboard.'
But the real lunar lunacy lies closer to home. The UK Space Agency, in its infinite wisdom, has apparently decided that the Moon is the new Costa del Sol, and they want a slice of the lunar real estate. They speak of 'science and technology partnerships' as if they're planning to build a branch of Boots and a Greggs on the Sea of Tranquility. One can only imagine the discussions: 'We'll provide the freeze-dried custard creams, you provide the rocket. Deal?'
Let us not forget the irony. Britain, a nation that can barely run a train service without it turning into a theatre of the absurd, is now reaching for the stars. Our space budget is so tight that I suspect they're still using astroturf in the mission control room. But never mind. We shall contribute our finest minds: mathematicians who can calculate re-entry angles while simultaneously complaining about the price of a pint.
The Moon, that ancient orb of cheese and madness, awaits. And so do the inevitable cock-ups. Will our British astronauts, if we ever have any, remember to bring an umbrella? Will they pack a comprehensive menu of bangers and mash, only to discover that dehydrated food expands in zero gravity? The possibilities for glorious failure are endless.
But for now, we clap our hands and cheer. NASA has named its Moon team, and the UK is scrambling for a photo opportunity. It's a beautiful, stupid, utterly human spectacle. And I, for one, will be watching from my local, gin in hand, as the space circus rolls on.
Because let's face it: if the Moon landing was a triumph of human ingenuity, the UK's involvement will be a triumph of sheer bloody-mindedness. And that, my friends, is the British way.
