A vortex of dust and detritus swirled around the silver-grey carapace of the spacecraft, as it settled — surprisingly gently, and very precisely — on the surface of the moon.

Inside, Major Charles Fortescue Bracewell-Brown, of Her Majesty’s Space Service, allowed a small glister of satisfaction to nictate across his chiselled features. Next to him, Lieutenant Horace Carstairs felt similar delight, and his left eyebrow twitched accordingly. Bracewell-Brown reached for the radio.

Orbiting above in the rocket Victory 4, Captain Jack “Jacqueline” Jackson prepared to light another fag. As he struck his match against the console, Bracewell-Brown’s unmistakable voice crackled into his ears: “We’re here, Jackie, old darling. We’ve done it.” Jackson tossed aside the unlit cigarette and reached for a celebratory cigar.

The moon-suits were suffused with a hint of Arthurian legend

Back in the module — known affectionately as “Monty”, thanks to its uncanny resemblance to the old general’s infamous beret, not-to-mention its temperamental bouts — Bracewell-Brown and Carstairs performed their final checks.

The moon-suits they wore were really quite extraordinary. An airtight sheath of synthetic rubber encased their bodies, overlaid with a metallic-coated material and under-studded with a network of tubing (pumping low-boiling liquid to maintain the temperature within). Atop the suit sat the helmet — glistening silver, with a protruding chin and a visor reminiscent of a mediaeval knight. The creations were, in short, the height of mid-1950s technology and innovation — suffused with a hint of Arthurian legend.

Bracewell-Brown released the panel on the side of the craft and stepped onto the lunar surface. It was then he uttered the phrase that would go down in history, the first words spoken by the first man to walk upon the moon.

“This territory is now under the jurisdiction of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second. Bugger me, this place is desolate.”

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Of course, it was not to be. Figures such as Major Charles Fortescue Bracewell-Brown now exist solely in the fervid imaginations of Twitter’s Anglo-futurists. Perhaps such men only ever were, like Bracewell-Brown, works of fiction. Certainly, it is only in books and niche, mischief-making online communities — dreaming of British space ports, blaring out Heart of Oak — that they live on.

The British Lunar Spacesuit did exist, however — sort of, at least, on paper. The brainchild of British Interplanetary Society member Harry Ross, the suit was as remarkable in its appearance (a model is currently on display at the National Space Centre museum in Leicester) as its intention.

Essential requirements, no doubt, for picnicking on the moon

It must be seen to be believed: the bizarre helmet, the huge chest unit and backpack. The suit even featured a small compartment where the astronaut could keep his packed lunch — and a shooting stick that folded out into a seat. Essential requirements, no doubt, for picnicking on the moon.

The BIS was a quintessentially British organisation, the product of a culture that saw itself as idiosyncratic rather than twee. Founded in 1933, and happily still going today, it offered a place for like-minded people — including novelist Arthur C. Clarke, Journey into Space creator Charles Clinton and inventor Archibald Low — to champion British space exploration.

Ross’ proposals, drawn up in collaboration with artist Ralph Smith, may have been eccentric, but they were serious. Indeed, NASA scientists later stated that Megaroc — the group’s plan to bastardise V2 tech and build a craft capable of sub-orbital spaceflight — was 10 years ahead of its time. By 1951, carrying British astronauts into space was within grasp.

Alas, the mood had changed. The Victorian spirit of adventure was dead. Post-war Britain saw itself differently: a country easing into retirement, more concerned with expanding the welfare state than mankind’s horizons. When the government explicitly abandoned all commitments to crewed space-flight, it did not come as much of a surprise.

Truthfully, this was not a sudden crisis of confidence. The Second World War had taken its toll, yes, but the UK had been feeling increasingly insecure for decades — half a century, even, ever since a bunch of poorly equipped Dutch farmers had given Sir Redvers Buller the runaround in South Africa. Exploration for exploration’s sake was thought a waste of time and money.

Perhaps it is. Maybe the consensus we are stuck with today is Enlightenment. Maybe there isn’t anything for our government to do but pump eye-watering sums into its vast suite of programmes, hoping that 25 years of dismal results suddenly improve.

I am unconvinced the welfare is the most inspiring use of our wealth

Personally, I would be happy for the UK — and the West, generally — to look beyond simply redistributing everything. I am unconvinced that the gigantic state we are currently sustaining — not just by taxes today, but tomorrow, too — is the most worthwhile, or the most inspiring, use of our wealth.

Could, as Aris Roussinos noted in a piece for the website Unherd, the Anglo-futurists have a point? Britain feels like a country in terminal decline. Boris Johnson and the Tories’ bungling of their 2019 election victory is depressing enough in itself; I don’t believe a Labour government will deliver anything except more of the consensus that many millions of us want to escape. The Lib Dems are little more than a protest party for retired Geography teachers, and I’m sure Richard Tice once sold my uncle a dodgy Mondeo.

Whenever I hear a politician now, from whichever major party, I am struck by how rubbish they are — not just lacking in vision, but so witless, so lowest-common-denominator, so thick. Jonathan Gullis, Lloyd Russell-Moyle, Layla Moran — hopeless. The few interesting, non-stupid figures that sit in Parliament (Kemi Badenoch, for example) are kept out of the limelight. Perhaps it’s because they show the others up.

Electing a genuinely conservative or a genuinely socialist government in Britain today is impossible. Is that healthy? Politically, culturally, intellectually? Are we freer, are we happier, are we more ambitious as a nation under this Westminster-imposed concord? Nations must have dreams, as individuals must. Who, now, in any party, offers anything approaching an inspiring vision?

I know it’s romantic, and I know it’s silly — but what if the government had decided to back men like Harry Ross and Ralph Smith? Where would we be now? Perhaps I’d be writing this on a fusion-powered shuttle to Oxford, rather than a train. Though this would be a British shuttle, so I’m sure the coffee would still be terrible, and the toilet would be blocked.