This past week, on a test bed in Britain, a Rolls-Royce jet engine ran at full take-off power on pure hydrogen, putting out water vapour instead of carbon.
Nobody on Earth had managed it before. It is the sort of thing that ought to stop the country in its tracks, and it will be forgotten by the weekend.
Leave aside the recent paroxysms of renewed net-zero insanity from Derelict Ed and the pervasive atmosphere of offended envy that greets much homegrown achievement nowadays in Britain. This engineering is a wonder, and it's British to the bone.
We gave the world the jet engine in the first place - Frank Whittle, a Coventry man and an RAF officer, patented it in 1930 while the Air Ministry assured him it was a curiosity. Rolls-Royce is today one of perhaps three firms anywhere that can build a large aero engine at the outer edge of the possible, and it has just done what most of the industry swore was twenty years away.
As usual, you marvel at how little the people who govern us had to do with it. The engineers in Derby are world-class; the stewardship above them is third-rate. They pulled off a global first while paying the most expensive industrial electricity in the developed world to keep the power on over the bench - a weight no German, American or Gulf rival has to carry. We produce frontier brilliance on the shop floor and fritter it away at the despatch box, and we have done for two generations.
That is the maddening shape of modern Britain: brilliance from below, sub- (or, indeed, ultra-) mediocrity from above. The people here who actually make things are still among the best in the world; the state that is meant to back them treats a firm like Rolls-Royce as a photocall today and a takeover target tomorrow, and prices its energy as though it would prefer the next plant were built in Texas.
Progress starts from the other end. Give these people what every rival government gives its champions and we beg ours to do without: the cheap, abundant power their competitors already enjoy, a supply chain built around them, and a state that guards a national asset rather than auctioning it. The hard part of a British revival - the talent, the nerve, the engineering - is already done, and was done again this week, by people who deserve a far better country than the one currently sitting above them.
We just taught an engine to breathe fire and exhale water. The least we owe the men and women who managed it is a government and a state as brilliant as they are.
Chips fried in beef dripping were a different object to what passes for a chip today.
Walk into a Whitby chippy in 1978. The fryer has been on since 11am. The fat in it is beef dripping, held at 180 degrees by a man in a white apron who has been frying chips since he was fifteen. There are no seed oils in the building. The idea would not occur to anyone.
Thick-cut Maris Pipers, ninety seconds in the dripping. Dark gold at the edges, fluffy inside, crisp in a way that sets your teeth against them. Salt. Vinegar. Paper. Two bob.
You eat them walking home along the harbour wall. The chip tastes of the chip and also of something underneath the chip, something deeper, something you don't have a name for because you are nine and nobody names it, it is just what chips taste like.
That taste was beef dripping.
By 2002, 90% of British chippies had switched to rapeseed, palm, or sunflower oil, on the advice of public health officials citing research since quietly retracted. A stable saturated fat used for ten thousand years, swapped for an industrial oil invented in 1911, oxidised at fryer temperatures for twelve hours a day.
A seed-oil chip is lighter, flatter. The crust doesn't hold. The flavour stops at the potato. No deeper note. No roast beef on a Friday.
Ask a British person under thirty what chips are supposed to taste like and they will describe, with complete sincerity, the chip they have always eaten. A chip their great-grandfather would have considered a practical joke. They cannot miss it, because the reference point was removed from the national palate before they were born.
A handful of chippies still fry in dripping. The Magpie in Whitby. A few survivors in Yorkshire, Lancashire, the Black Country.
Go. Drive. Queue. Eat them standing up, out of the paper.
You will understand, in one bite, what was taken.
The cow is still in the field. The suet is still at the butcher. The fryer could be switched back tomorrow.
A whole country forgot what a chip was.
Want to know who @dave1233445574673827 is? Who you’re arguing with online most of the time? Who’s liking all those pro-Hamas posts?
Here’s your answer.
In PMQs on Wednesday I was so shocked by Keir Starmer’s lies and obfuscation I went through the record and found he told 25 porkies in only 30 minutes.
A thread below, starting with the most glaring example.
https://t.co/EVChRGg0dy
🚨 WHILE EVERYONE ARGUES ABOUT REFORM UK… THE GOVERNMENT IS PASSING A MASSIVE DATA SURVEILLANCE BILL IN SECRET! 🚨
They think we’re distracted. But we’ve been warning about this since lockdowns, digital IDs & 15 Min Cities. And guess what? We were right. Again.
💳 Every single transaction YOU make…
🏢 Every business deal…
📊 ALL under government surveillance!
This is next level government overreach, and they’re hoping you won’t notice.
DON’T LET THEM GET AWAY WITH IT!
🔁 RETWEET if you see the trap. #NoToDigitalID #BigBrotherBritain #DataBillScandal