Two books. One argument.
Published simultaneously because the moment has arrived. These books were not written in response to this week's events. They were written because this week's events were foreseeable — because a state without accountability eventually exhausts its leaders, and because the question of what comes next required an answer that was ready when it was needed.
The new Prime Minister has no published plan. That is not a criticism of the individual. It is a description of the system: a state that cannot plan beyond the electoral cycle, led by a government that inherited a crisis it did not cause and has not yet diagnosed.
The diagnosis is in the first book. The plan — costed, phased, and anchored to a fixed date — is in the second.
THE STENCH OF THE STATE is the diagnosis. How the doctrine of ministerial responsibility was quietly replaced over three decades. How the process state was built, one individually defensible decision at a time. Why every actor can follow the rules and the outcome can still be indefensible.
FINALLY WORTHY is the prescription. A costed sixteen-year national renewal programme anchored to the centenary of VE Day 2045. Built on a single doctrine that is the exact inverse of the process state. Every significant task placed with a named person, given real authority and honest constraints, held to the result.
Both books are non-partisan. The argument is structural, not tribal. It indicts a system and its incentives, not a party. Figures are sourced to the OBR, ONS, NATO and Cabinet Office. Claims are revised down, not up, where the evidence demands it.
Arthur King is a pseudonym. The author's background is military and governmental. He has chosen to publish under this name so the ideas can be judged on their merits alone.
THE STENCH OF THE STATE → https://t.co/YAVWDX3IVw (affiliate link)
FINALLY WORTHY → https://t.co/r6A2NnRPS7 (affiliate link)
A welcome event, and the title contains the real question. The chains are not fiscal. The OBR’s report describes the arithmetic of a state that has promised more than its productive base can sustain, but the arithmetic is a symptom. The cause is a governing machinery that cannot stop doing anything: every programme acquires a constituency, an agency and a review process, and no individual anywhere in the system owns the decision to end it.
I have spent some time on the one modern precedent that actually worked: Canada’s Programme Review of 1994 to 1996. The details reward close study, because they contradict most of what passes for consolidation thinking here. Seventy per cent of the savings came from terminating programmes and restructuring transfers, not administrative efficiency. Departmental spending fell by a fifth in four years because the state stopped doing things: business subsidies cut by sixty per cent, one department cut by half with its functions privatised or ended outright. Every programme faced six published questions, of which the last, is it affordable, drove the outcomes. And the finance minister imposed a zero-sum rule on cabinet: object to a cut in your department and you find an equal one elsewhere. No free passes.
Contrast the British method across every consolidation since 2010: protect everything that matters politically, then salami-slice the remainder and call the thinnest year an efficiency. The result is a state that does everything it did before, slightly worse, at greater cost, with each department briefing against the others for a shrinking share of the pot.
Within three years Canada moved from a deficit of forty-two billion dollars to surplus, and the compounding did the rest: falling debt, falling interest costs, growing fiscal room. The mechanism is available to any government willing to answer one question honestly. Not how do we fund what the state does, but what should the state stop doing, and who, by name, owns each decision to stop.
That is the discussion I hope the event has. The fiscal rules debate is displacement activity.
Rules constrain a machine that cannot choose; they do not teach it to choose.
Mark's closing line deserves more attention than it will get IMO: European decision makers have not absorbed this reality, and Britain least of all.
The most instructive detail FOR ME in his piece is the desalination threat. Iran achieved escalation dominance not by striking those plants but by holding them at risk, because the Gulf states' water dependence converted a civilian vulnerability into strategic leverage. Now apply that lens to us. A fifth of our gas through one terminal. Food resilience measured in days. Undersea cables and interconnectors that my years at sea taught me are indefensible along their length against a determined adversary. We are a nation whose critical dependencies would hand an opponent escalation dominance on day one, and we have no equivalent card to play back.
His observation about Trump's muddled objectives generalises further than the piece takes it. Economic warfare rewards the belligerent who knows precisely what outcome he is coercing toward and who owns the campaign. It punishes the one whose aims are processed through committees. That asymmetry should worry us more than any capability gap, because it is the one we are structurally worst placed to fix. Coercion is a contest of decision-making architectures, and ours distributes every decision until nobody owns it. Our OODA loop rarely gets to A.
The Cold War state understood itself as a target: stockpiles, dispersal, protected industries, a merchant fleet on the books. We dismantled that machinery and booked the proceeds as efficiency. Rebuilding it is not a procurement question. It requires the state to plan in decades and to name who owns national resilience as an outcome. Nothing in our current architecture can do either, and Mark's piece is quietly a demonstration of why that now matters.
Allison is right about the core fact, and it is worth sitting with how damning it is. Carsington, 1992, was the last major reservoir. Ten million more people since. Leakage still running at a fifth to a quarter of everything we treat. And this January it rained for thirty consecutive days in parts of the south-west, flooding hundreds of properties, with nothing built to catch the water that six months later we are banning people from using.
That last point is the one the hosepipe announcement conceals. Britain does not have a water shortage. It has a storage and transfer shortage. The rain falls in the wrong place and the wrong season, and we have declined for thirty years to build the infrastructure that moves it: the reservoirs, the transfer network between wet west and dry east, the aquifer recharge that other countries treat as routine. The Victorians built the water system we still depend on with a fraction of our wealth and none of our technology. They had the two things we have lost: political will and a planning horizon longer than a spending review.
The failure is not a mystery and it is not weather. Flood management and water supply are treated as separate problems by separate institutions, no one of which owns the outcome of water security, and so the same water that ruins homes in January is rationed in July. A hosepipe ban is not a drought measure. It is an institutional confession.
A new government arrives promising to rewire Britain. A reader who has watched this for twenty years is right to be wary. Every government promises renewal. The process state answers every problem the same way: a new hub, a new plan, a new framework, a fresh initiative.
So here is the test that separates renewal from rearrangement, and it is a simple one.
Take any promise made this week — reindustrialise the regions, rebalance power, make every pound work harder. Now ask: for each task in it, is there a single named person, given the resources and the authority, who will answer for the result? Or is there a body, a board, a strategy, a coordinating centre — something that can be praised when it works and dispersed into when it does not?
If it is a person, it is renewal. If it is a structure, it is the same machine in new paint.
This is not an argument against devolution, or against ambition, or against the men and women who hold these offices. It is one question, applied without favour to all of them. The doctrine that built the most complex undertakings of the modern age was never a plan. It was a name attached to a task, and the authority to deliver it, and the certainty of answering for it.
Rewiring Britain is possible. But not with more wiring. With someone, somewhere, who can be held responsible when the lights do not come on.
Francis is spot on and the French comparison makes the point precisely. The Loi de Programmation Militaire commits funding in law across seven years, voted by Parliament, with annual reviews to check delivery against the plan rather than to reopen it. Industry invests against that certainty; programmes are priced against stable volumes; the state gets more defence per franc spent because nobody is paying the premium that annual uncertainty imposes.
Annuality does the opposite. Every programme is repriced each year against the possibility of raiding, so every contractor prices in the risk, every project manager hedges, and the taxpayer funds the hedge. I watched this for years from inside: the frantic underspend scramble each February, the deferrals that converted a saving on paper into a cost in reality.
The revealing question is why a mechanism that demonstrably costs more has survived every review for decades. It survives because it serves the controller rather than the outcome. Annuality gives the centre a lever it pulls annually; a programme law would oblige it to commit and then be held to the commitment. The obstacle is not analytical. No one who has examined it defends it on value grounds. It persists because giving it up means the centre accepting accountability for a multi-year result rather than control of an annual process.
Ah - roger that - better to be lucky than have effective fire control systems, as we used to say.
But yes, good for lots of things nowadays, if actually fitted of course. Was there ever a stated reason for leaving the carriers without?
At least we haven’t replaced it with interceptor drones launched from an autonomous RIB…yet.
@TomSharpe134@thinkdefence ASCG you say? We’re a bit short of them for some of our higher value units aren’t we? Nice to know the killer tomato isn’t the limit of its capability though.
This is normal Cold War activity. Albeit a while ago, I saw them do this to us and we did it to them. What has changed is that we are barely, if actually, able to defend ourselves should they decide to push further. In this case certainly the F 35 and the type 45 could’ve managed but the UK is wide open to cruise and ballistic missile attack and has no substantive plans to purchase and effective integrated and missile defence system as far as I can see,
The Royal Navy under the proposed hybrid approach will attempt to do something that nobody else has done with technology that does not exist to produce an outcome, it seems fanciful. The problems with the Type 45 destroyer are down to a novel unproven propulsion system. European ships with the same AAW capability but conventional propulsion have had no problems. We are risking everything on developing, integrating and making operational technology that does not currently exist on the back of “drones can do everything”.
@Dark_Falcon7@NavyLookout@HMSPWLS Sure - I’m 25 years out of date and they have certainly always had some good tech/kit. But the Nor/Swe SSKs have always been extremely hard to find.
@Dark_Falcon7@NavyLookout@HMSPWLS Hopefully there’s a friendly boat there somewhere but I would have thought it unusual to be that close to the carrier…and the Bear wouldn’t hear them anyway! 🇳🇴🇸🇪👍
To be fair, exactly this was going on 40 years ago when I was in the North Atlantic doing similar things to the Russians. What has changed is that we have allowed our military capability to diminish to the point of incapability. We do not have the right systems, the right platforms, enough people or the industrial and societal assets necessary to deter an increasingly politically unpredictable Russia from doing what they would never have done in the Cold War.
Two hundred and fifty years ago today, thirteen colonies declared their independence. The anniversary invites a question Britain has never properly asked itself: not why the Americans left, but why we failed to see it coming.
The record is uncomfortable. The British officers on the ground saw the change clearly. Percy warned in 1775 that whoever took the rebels for an irregular mob would find himself much mistaken. After Bunker Hill a wounded officer conceded that the Americans, equally well commanded, were fully the equal of the King's troops. The men closest to the problem recognised that something structural had shifted. The institution they served was unable to act on that recognition. Every escalation was met with the tools the state already possessed, applied more firmly. General Carleton sailed away in 1783 still convinced the colonists would return to their former allegiance.
That pattern is not confined to the eighteenth century. A state confronted with fundamental change has two options. It can recognise the rupture and rebuild for the new reality, or it can manage decline incrementally and hope the old equilibrium reasserts itself. Britain chose the second in America. It made the same choice after 1918, spending a decade conceding piecemeal what events had already decided. Each time, the energy devoted to sustaining an obsolete settlement was energy unavailable for building its replacement.
We are making the same choice now. Institutions have lost not merely trust but visible authority. The state costs more each year and delivers less. Thirty years of reform programmes have reinforced the failures they promised to cure, because each was designed within the assumptions of the system that produced the problem.
The lesson of 1776 is not about America. Recognition must come first. No renewal is possible while the state still believes the old settlement can be administered back to health. Prompted by Mark Urban's excellent piece on what the redcoats thought of their enemies, I have set out the fuller argument in an essay published today.
In April 1982, three days after Argentine forces took the Falklands, the Foreign Secretary resigned.
Lord Carrington had not failed personally. The inquiry that followed found the invasion could not reasonably have been foreseen and that no minister could be blamed for failing to foresee it. Had he chosen to fight, he would have been exonerated.
He did not fight. The Foreign Office had been the department responsible for anticipating the attack. The department had not anticipated it. The nation required a resignation. He resigned.
The government was not weakened. A successor was in place within forty-eight hours. Public confidence rose, because the public could see that responsibility still lived at a visible point.
That doctrine has not been repealed. No vote abolished it. It was replaced, quietly, across thirty years, by a different one: that a minister may acknowledge failure in words and decline it in substance.
The test was never whether the minister was personally guilty. Carrington was not. The test was whether the office could continue to be held by the same person after what had happened under its authority.
We have lost the habit of asking that question. The whole architecture of the modern state is arranged so that it can no longer be answered.
Al is right, and this is the most serious statement of the problem I have seen from anyone in Parliament. The final paragraph contains the essential insight: our adversaries see one British state and probe it as one, while we defend it as a collection of departments briefing against each other for a shrinking share of the same pot.
What the piece describes cannot be delivered by a spending settlement, because the obstacle is cultural. The British state has spent thirty years learning to treat every problem as departmental, every commitment as reviewable at the next fiscal event, and every plan as a document rather than a rehearsed distribution of responsibility. Sweden and Finland matter for a reason beyond the pamphlets and the bunkers. Their comprehensive security models are the product of societies that decided, decades ago, that resilience is a permanent national undertaking rather than a programme. The planning horizon is generational. Ours is the length of a spending review.
That is the change Al is really asking for, whether the piece says so or not. A national security plan worth the name requires the state to plan in decades, to sustain commitments across governments of different colours, and to treat the public as participants in the plan rather than spectators of it. The Cold War generation understood this; civil defence, reserve liability and visible preparation were normal features of national life, not emergency measures. We dismantled that culture and have not replaced it.
The money has been found before. The culture has not been rebuilt once in thirty years. Until it is, every strategy the state publishes will describe the problem accurately and then be filed.
A senior civil servant sat before a select committee this spring and explained, without raising his voice, why the Prime Minister could not have been told that his chosen ambassador had failed vetting.
The confidentiality of vetting, he said, runs in both directions. It shields the process from political pressure. It also shields the minister from the findings. A minister who could demand to see the result could lean on it. So he is told nothing.
Read that again. The rule that protects the integrity of the process is the same rule that guarantees no minister can ever be held responsible for ignoring it.
Every part of this is defensible on its own. The vetting body is independent for good reason. The confidentiality protects against interference. The override authority exists because decisions sometimes need speed.
Assemble the defensible parts and you have built a machine in which an unsuitable man is appointed, the appointment is the minister's, and the minister cannot be blamed because he was not permitted to know.
No rule was broken. That is precisely the problem. The system worked exactly as designed.
When every actor follows the rules and the outcome is still indefensible, the fault is not in the actors. It is in the design.
Carns is right, and his resignation makes the point better than any speech. The certainty he describes is not produced by communiqués. It is produced by visible national capacity: the ability to procure and manufacture at scale, a population with some part in the plan, and a state that has rehearsed what it would actually do.
My time in uniform in the Cold War taught me how carefully the other side reads this. Moscow does not probe where commitment has depth. It probes where it detects ambiguity: capability announced but not funded, reinforcement that exists as a paragraph rather than a rehearsed movement of named units, a public kept deliberately out of the picture because honesty about the threat is judged politically inconvenient.
The Cold War generation understood that resilience was a national undertaking. Civil defence, reserve liability, industrial capacity and visible exercises all formed part of the signal. We dismantled that machinery over thirty years and have not rebuilt it, because rebuilding it requires first admitting that the situation has changed. That admission is the step we keep refusing to take, but are happy only to describe. Everything else, the procurement, the training, the honesty with the public, follows from it. Nothing follows without it.