Brace your monocles, Britain, for the Yanks have done it again. Elon Musk, that perma-tanned purveyor of electric jalopies and cosmic cock-rockets, has launched the Starship V3, a contraption so enormous it makes the Gherkin look like a gherkin. This thing is the size of a small moon, or alternatively, three Boris Johnsons stacked end to end. The launch, conducted from Boca Chica, Texas, was described by SpaceX as 'flawless,' though one suspects their definition of flawless involves at least three minor explosions and a cloud of methane the size of Wales.
Now, the UK Space Agency, those polyester-blazered bureaucrats who last made headlines for accidentally launching a rubber duck into low earth orbit, are sniffing around for a collaboration. 'Synergy,' they bleat. 'Partnership opportunities.' What they really mean is: 'Please, Elon, let us bask in your reflected glory while we continue to fund pointless studies on the aerodynamics of the Cornish pasty.'
But let us not be entirely churlish. The Starship V3 is, by all accounts, a magnificent beast. It stands 150 metres tall, can carry 200 tonnes to low earth orbit, and has more thrust than a Tory party conference. Musk claims it will take us to Mars, populate the galaxy, and solve world hunger, presumably by dropping crates of Tesco value beans from orbit. The man is a walking, tweeting, Lord-of-the-Rings-quoting fever dream, and we are all just hobbits in his sprawling Middle-earth of consumer-grade space hardware.
The real question, though, is what does this mean for the British taxpayer? We have our own space programme, you see. It's called the 'UK Space Agency,' and its greatest achievement to date is not crashing the Hubble Space Telescope when we borrowed it for a school fete. Our scientists are currently developing a small satellite called 'Tyche' that will take pictures of the Earth's surface, presumably to spot an M&S on the moon. The idea of collaboration with SpaceX is laughable: it would be like a toddler asking to join a heavy metal band.
Yet the headlines are filled with talk of 'British ingenuity' and 'cutting-edge technology' as if we can suddenly compete with a man who owns a car company that launched a sports car into the asteroid belt. Our industry, bless its cotton socks, is focused on building smaller, cheaper, more sensible rockets. The 'Skyrora XL' can carry 150 kilograms to orbit. The Starship carries a hundred and thirty times that. It is a spectacular mismatch of ambition, like comparing a recalcitrant mule with a thoroughbred racehorse on amphetamines.
But perhaps there is method in the madness. The UK's space industry, valued at a robust £16 billion, does have niches. We excel in satellite communications, earth observation, and the manufacture of really smug-looking telescope mirrors. We also have the 'Spaceport Cornwall,' a facility that currently launches nothing more ambitious than the occasional lost kite. If we can attach ourselves to Musk's gilded rocket, we might get a few crumbs. A seat on a Starship flight. A chance to test our space socks in zero gravity.
So by all means, let our ministers fly to Texas, drink Texas gin, and sign fluffy memoranda of understanding. But let us not pretend we are equals. We are the nation that invented the steam engine, the telephone, and the World Wide Web, yet we now find ourselves begging for scraps from a man who has made his fortune selling flamethrowers that don't actually throw fire. It is a humbling, absurd, and deeply British spectacle.
In conclusion: Hooray for the Starship V3. It's a magnificent achievement of human engineering. But while our officials froth with excitement, I will be at the pub, ordering a double gin and tonic, and contemplating the vast, gin-soaked cosmos.
Good night, and don't let the space bugs bite.
