In a move that can only be described as a desperate, gin-soaked lunge towards relevance, the British government announced a 'strategic partnership' with Elon Musk's ever-expanding space empire mere minutes after the successful launch of Starship V3. The rocket, a towering monument to hubris and reusable metal, tore through the atmosphere like a caffeinated hare fleeing a pack of pensioners. Meanwhile, down in Westminster, a cabinet minister with the charisma of a damp biscuit declared this 'a new dawn for British space ambition.'
Let us pause to examine this 'partnership.' It involves, we are told, 'knowledge sharing' and 'potential collaboration on future missions.' Translated from bureaucratese, this means UK taxpayers will likely foot a sizable portion of Musk’s next intergalactic jolly while receiving a commemorative keychain from the Tesla gift shop. The same government that can't organise a functioning rail network now aims to hitch a ride on a rocket built by a man who tweets memes about taking ketamine in a boardroom. Splendid.
I rang Downing Street for comment. A press officer, who sounded like she was being slowly consumed by a filing cabinet, assured me that 'Her Majesty's Government is committed to ensuring Britain remains at the forefront of space innovation.' She then asked if I could 'please stop calling it a space empire, it's a commercial enterprise.' Commercial empire, then. My apologies.
The launch itself was a spectacle of controlled violence. Starship V3, a beast of stainless steel and liquid methane, rose from the Texas desert with a noise that peeled paint from buildings a mile away. Onlookers wept. Seagulls fled. A local man sold T-shirts depicting the rocket giving the middle finger to the ozone layer. Capitalism, eh?
But back to Britain’s role. We are to provide 'ground support' and 'regulatory expertise.' This is the same regulatory expertise that allowed the Post Office to falsely accuse hundreds of sub-postmasters of theft. I feel safer already. Perhaps our astronauts can use the Horizon software to navigate the asteroid belt.
Musk, for his part, seemed indifferent to the UK's overtures. During a live broadcast from the launch site, he muttered something about 'terraforming Mars before the globalists ruin Earth' and then offered to sell the British delegation a flamethrower for half price. The delegation accepted, believing it to be a symbolic gesture of friendship.
This partnership is, in essence, a cry for help. A nation that once ruled the waves now clings to the coat-tails of a man who names his rockets after sci-fi novels. We have become the gawky teenager asking the cool kid to share his lunch, offering to do his homework in return. The homework in question is probably a report on the viability of jetpacks for the NHS.
I propose a counter-plan: rename the UK Space Agency to 'Blighty's Barmy Rocket Club.' Appoint a minister for space, but only if they can navigate a roundabout without crying. And most importantly, ensure all future British astronauts are equipped with a gin still, for morale. Because if we're going to be subservient to a space empire, we might as well be drunk enough to enjoy the view.
