Who needs enemies when you’ve got allies? France and Germany competing to sell Argentina three new submarines. Denmark selling them F-16s. The Americans approving a potential package of equipment and support. Lovely. Always reassuring when your mates help restock the military of a country that still claims your islands. Presumably the next defence summit comes with a catalogue and a fucking discount code. To be clear, the submarine proposals aren’t signed contracts. But the fact they’re on the table is quite enough to piss me off. “We haven’t sold them yet” isn’t exactly the declaration of friendship I was hoping for. And Andy Pandy Burnham seems desperate to jump back into bed with the EU. Before anyone starts fluffing the continental pillows, perhaps we could establish what Britain actually gets out of these wonderful relationships beyond a handshake, a group photograph and an invoice. Because from where I’m standing, the UK is increasingly looked on with contempt. We’re still trying to act like a big player while successive governments have run this country into the ground—and had the brass neck to do it on the global stage. We turn up talking about influence and leadership while everyone else appears to be wondering whether our card’s going to decline when the bill arrives. We’ve got the posture of a superpower and the bargaining position of a bloke trying to return a toaster without a receipt. And those of us who remember the Falklands War have every right to be livid about this. British servicemen died. Others came home carrying injuries and memories they would live with for the rest of their lives. Families paid a price that doesn’t disappear because there’s now a lucrative export opportunity. You’d think that history might warrant a slightly more awkward conversation among our supposed friends before someone starts measuring Argentina up for a new submarine fleet. Apparently “close ally” comes with terms and conditions. Friendship subject to availability. Loyalty excluded where a profitable order can be secured. And what do I want from our government? A bit of bloody backbone. Ask the awkward questions. Make our objections clear. Stop treating every diplomatic relationship like we should be grateful we’ve been invited. We don’t need another solemn photograph of politicians standing shoulder to shoulder if nobody’s prepared to explain what that friendship is actually worth. I’m sick of watching Britain talked down to while our leaders grin like they’ve won a competition to visit the building. The Falkland Islanders’ future is theirs to decide. Their home isn’t a bargaining chip, and the people who fought for them aren’t an inconvenient footnote beneath somebody else’s sales figures. We can cooperate with allies and still tell them when they’re taking the piss. Being British shouldn’t mean standing politely in the queue while our supposed mates sell the bloody queue-jumping equipment.