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Imagine, if you will, a scenario so absurd it could only be real: the future of European defence, a matter of utmost gravity in a world growing ever more volatile, teeters not on the might of armies or the foresight of leaders, but on the humble fish. Yes, fish. The noble ambition of strengthening Europe’s military resilience is being held to ransom by French trawlers and a stubbornness so quintessentially Gallic it could drive even the most stoic diplomat to despair. In an act of breathtaking cheek, the French government has tied the United Kingdom’s role in Europe’s defence future to access for its fishermen to Britain’s post-Brexit waters. It’s a comedy worthy of the stage, yet its repercussions echo across the Atlantic.

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The United States has long pressed Europe to take greater responsibility for its own defence. Since the Second World War, America has bankrolled European security through NATO, providing a shield under which the continent could recover and prosper. But times have shifted. The war in Ukraine, grinding into its third year, lays bare Europe’s weaknesses. Yet, to the Trump/Vance/Hegseth administration, it’s a regional spat—serious, no doubt, but not the defining peril posed by China’s ascent. Beijing’s burgeoning military and economic power dominate US strategic thinking, with the Pacific, not Eastern Europe’s fields, seen as the crucible of future great power rivalry. Washington’s directive is blunt: Europe must pull its weight, both in coin and in boots, to guard its own patch.

So, who can steer Europe’s defence? The continent boasts few heavy hitters: Poland, its forces modernising swiftly as it faces Russia head-on; France, armed with nuclear weapons and a knack for far-flung operations; the United Kingdom, a nuclear power with a storied military past and worldwide reach; and Germany, whose economic clout is only now, hesitantly, turning into martial strength. Among them, the UK stands distinct. Free from EU defence schemes after Brexit, it remains a cornerstone of NATO and a vital US ally. Britain’s part in European defence is a choice, not an obligation—a mark of goodwill in troubled times.

Consider France’s historical flair: once, it sent the Marquis de Lafayette to bolster America’s fight for independence, a deed etched in memory. Today, though, Lafayette is no heroic figure riding to the rescue—it’s a Parisian department store peddling luxury wares. The irony stings. Where France once offered selfless aid, it now seems keener on securing fishing rights than nurturing transatlantic bonds. The shift from martial glory to retail speaks volumes about its current priorities.

France’s knack for putting itself first is hardly new. Charles de Gaulle’s 1963 veto of Britain’s bid to join the European Economic Community kicked off decades of Franco-British friction. Leaders like François Mitterrand, Jacques Chirac, and now Emmanuel Macron have kept up this tradition, placing French goals above shared ones. This fishing row is just the latest twist—a bold ploy to exploit Europe’s security needs for national gain. It’s exasperating, yet I’ve a grudging nod to the sheer chauvinistic brass neck of it.

Across the European Union, irritation simmers. Kaja Kallas, Estonia’s EU Commissioner, voiced restrained surprise: “I’m surprised how important the fish are, given the security situation.” Her tactful words mask a sharper truth: France’s focus is wildly off-kilter. Essentially what she is saying in diplomatic code is, “What the hell are the French playing at?” Off-record whispers from other EU voices are blunter, wondering if Paris truly cares about European defence or is just playing a game of leverage. With Russia unrelenting and America’s eyes turning to Asia, Europe can’t afford to let fish torpedo its strategic aims.

What, then, of Britain? Should it cave to France’s demands, swapping fish for a defence role? Not a chance. The UK wields a strong hand, bolstered by its ties to the Anglosphere—the English-speaking nations of the US, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. The Five Eyes programme, binding these countries in an unmatched intelligence-sharing pact, anchors global security. Britain’s nuclear arsenal, top-tier agencies like MI6 and GCHQ, and its ability to project force worldwide make it a linchpin for the US, EU or no EU. The UK doesn’t need Europe’s nod to protect itself or its partners—it’s already equipped and allied to do so.

NATO, history’s most enduring military alliance, further cements Britain’s place. While European defence plans are admirable, they’re more hope than reality for now. NATO, proven and robust, counts the UK among its leaders. Britain’s nuclear deterrent, rapid-response units, and intelligence heft are cornerstones of the alliance. To suggest it must trade fish for a spot in Europe’s fledgling defence setup is both an affront and a miscalculation.

France’s gamble could backfire. By tethering European defence to fishing rights, Paris risks standing alone when unity matters most. The UK, secure in NATO and its Anglosphere links, can hold fast. Lord Salisbury’s “splendid isolation” may be outdated, but a modern take—“not very splendid isolation, within NATO”—fits neatly. Britain can back European security on its own terms, keeping its sovereignty and its catch intact.

For the US, peering over the ocean, the message is stark: Europe’s petty rows carry weighty consequences for transatlantic safety. France’s stubbornness could not only push Britain away but also hobble Europe’s bid to stand tall. America, fixated on the Pacific, needs a Europe that can handle its own squabbles—fish included. By digging in, the UK helps ensure European defence doesn’t sink beneath French self-interest. The fish are trifling; the stakes colossal.