In a development that has left the international space community simultaneously bemused and mildly offended, plucky British engineers have unveiled a new line of gym equipment designed specifically for astronauts. Yes, you read that correctly. While the Americans are busy strapping billionaires to phallic rockets and the Russians are patching up their space station with gum and prayer, Her Majesty's finest minds have decided that the final frontier's most pressing concern is, apparently, a decent leg press.
The prototype, unveiled in a Portakabin in Slough that reeked of protein shakes and faint despair, is a marvel of pointed irrelevance. Dubbed the 'Orbital Obliterator,' it resembles a recumbent bicycle mated with a medieval torture device, all in a fetching shade of high-visibility orange. According to Dr. Alistair Fotherington-Smythe, lead researcher and a man whose beard seems to have its own gravitational pull, this device is a 'critical leap forward' in combating the bone density loss that plagues our celestial explorers. Because nothing says 'space exploration' like having your spine tenderly compressed by a machine that looks like it was rejected from a David Cronenberg film.
Let us pause to consider the staggering absurdity of this situation. We have a species capable of hurling a tin can at 17,500 miles per hour, docking it with a research platform the size of a football pitch, and sending back images of galaxies billions of light years away. Yet our latest contribution is a cross-trainer for people who are already weightless. At a time when the UK space budget is roughly equivalent to the GDP of a medium-sized cat sanctuary, we have chosen to invest in preventing space osteoporosis. Because God forbid an astronaut sneezes and shatters their femur while floating in the void.
But let us not be churlish. Perhaps this is a stroke of genius. After all, what better way to assert British dominance in the space race than by ensuring our cosmonauts, sorry, astronauts have the most chiselled glutes in the solar system? While the Chinese are building moon bases, and SpaceX is colonising Mars, we will be there, puffing and sweating, because heaven forfend a tea break is missed. The machine even comes with a built-in kettle, which I'm told is for 'hydration' but we all know its true purpose.
Critics, mostly those without a vested interest in gym equipment for zero-gravity environments, have pointed out that this funding might have been better spent on, say, life support systems or radiation shielding. But where's the fun in that? As one anonymous source at the UK Space Agency put it, 'We wanted to tackle the petty annoyances of space travel. Like how your bones turn to dust after six months.'
In a show of truly staggering chutzpah, the team plans to launch a crowdfunding campaign for a second prototype, which will apparently include a rowing machine and a 'moon-cycle' spin class. Because if there's one thing we've learned from science fiction, it's that the future of humanity among the stars depends entirely on our ability to do burpees in zero gravity.
So while the world watches rockets launch and rovers roam, spare a thought for the brave men and women of Slough. They are working tirelessly to ensure that when the first British astronaut sets foot on Mars, they will have the core strength of a yoga instructor and the bone density of a young ox. Because that's what the space race needed: more reps.
As I file this report, nursing my third gin and tonic and contemplating the surrealism of it all, I cannot help but wonder: will they need spotters in space? And more importantly, who will pay the gym membership?
