A gung-ho diversion from daily misery effected with military precision

Conflict provides the perfect antidote to domestic turmoil. In fin de siècle Russia, Vyacheslav von Plehve, Tsar Nicholas II’S interior minister, reportedly recommended “a short, victorious war to stem the tide of revolution”. The rout that followed in the Russo-japanese War spelt disaster for the Romanovs; the annihilation of the Baltic fleet and bloodshed outside the Winter Palace. However, von Plehve may have been on to something, as I realised during the Prime Minister’s defence statement yesterday.

Boris is at his happiest when unveiling some substantial spending pledge or other, and yesterday’s bread and circuses materialised as a £16.5 billion multiyear defence package. This he revealed with resounding fanfare, despite his exemption from front-line Commons service by a self-isolation order.

As the PM burbled merrily about lasers, aircraft carriers and rockets in the Scottish Highlands, I felt more excited about a few new frigates than I’d been about anything for months. When he vowed to “restore Britain’s position as the foremost naval power in Europe”, I sensed the shade of Jack Aubrey roaring, “Huzzah!”.

Until recently, however, the MOD had been earmarked for swingeing cuts. So was this investment a distraction or simply a reward for good behaviour? Aside from certain members of the Royal family, our Armed Forces are about the only department or national institution that hasn’t blotted their copy book during the pandemic.

They’ve built Nightingale hospitals and prised mass testing from Public Health England’s clammy grasp, while quietly keeping Russia out of Estonia on the side. All without demanding Thursday night clapathons.

The pandemic has stirred a longdormant militancy. At every press conference, especially those involving our beloved Health Secretary, a small part of me longs to bring in the generals.

How did Ben Wallace pull off this remarkable coup? Certainly his timeless military countenance commands respect; you can picture him manning the howitzer at Waterloo, sinking nobly at Jutland or salvaging the Queen’s Colour at Isandlwana. I was thus all too willing to overlook his ridiculous remarks to Kay Burley yesterday morning, patiently defending the space programme on the basis that Burley’s job depends on satellites for its existence.

Wallace’s metaphors, like the Royal Navy’s “Hearts of Oak”, were patriotically wooden. “We are a plank in Global Britain. We are a plank in flying the flag for the United Kingdom”, he announced proudly. Our Armed Forces may be a plank, but Wallace won’t let the Government walk all over them. I even forgave the nightmare ministerial formulation “our funding never matched our ambition”. At a time of Hancockian misery, perhaps what we need is a bloody good war.