Starmer’s Defence Spending Deception: A Masterclass in Creative Accounting

Prime Minister Keir Starmer strode into the House of Commons on February 25, 2025, with the swagger of a man who thought he could pull the wool over the nation’s eyes. In a grand announcement, he pledged to boost UK defence spending to 2.5% of GDP by 2027, trumpeting an eye-watering £13.4 billion annual increase starting that year. 

 

It was a figure designed to dazzle, to signal resolve ahead of his White House meeting with President Donald Trump, and to placate a public and military increasingly jittery about Britain’s security posture. But peel back the layers of this shiny promise, and what emerges is a tapestry of half-truths, inflated figures, and outright misdirection that should leave every taxpayer—and every soldier—fuming.

 

Let’s start with the headline number: £13.4 billion. 

 

It sounds impressive, doesn’t it? 

 

A hefty injection of cash to bolster Britain’s armed forces in what Starmer calls a “dangerous new era.” But the Institute for Fiscal Studies (IFS), a bastion of economic clarity, swiftly called foul. Strip out inflation and account for the fact that defence spending was never going to stay frozen in nominal terms, and the real increase shrinks to a far less glamorous £6 billion annually by 2027. 

 

That’s right—less than half of what Starmer boasted about from the dispatch box. The £13.4 billion figure assumes a bizarre counterfactual where defence spending wouldn’t have risen at all without his intervention, a scenario so detached from reality it’s laughable. This isn’t a boost; it’s a sleight of hand, a classic case of a politician juicing the numbers to look tougher than he is.

 

But Starmer didn’t stop there. To pad out his 2.5% of GDP target, he’s quietly redefined what counts as “defence spending.” For the first time, contributions from MI6 and the security services—previously excluded—are being rolled into the pot. This accounting trick bumps the figure up to 2.6% by 2027, a convenient little flourish that lets him claim extra credit without actually finding new money for tanks, ships, or troops. It’s the equivalent of a student claiming extra credit for homework they were already doing—except here, the stakes are national security, not a gold star.

 

And then there’s the Chagos Islands deal, the cherry on this cake of deception. Starmer’s government is reportedly shelling out £18 billion to Mauritius to cede sovereignty over the archipelago while leasing back the Diego Garcia military base for 99 years. This is a staggering sum, dwarfing the supposed £6 billion “increase” in real defence spending. 

 

Yet whispers persist—unconfirmed but suspiciously plausible—that these payments might be folded into the defence budget to artificially inflate the numbers. If true, this isn’t just creative accounting; it’s borderline scandalous. The Chagos deal, already a contentious surrender of British territory, could end up eating the entire real-terms defence uplift and then some, leaving the actual armed forces no better off—or worse. Instead of strengthening Britain’s military, Starmer might be funnelling billions into a diplomatic giveaway, all while dressing it up as a commitment to security.

 

Even if we take the 2.5% target at face value, it’s a pitiful offering. Britain’s current spending sits at 2.3% of GDP, so this much-vaunted increase amounts to a measly 0.2% bump over two years. In a world where threats are escalating—Russia’s war in Ukraine, China’s sabre-rattling, and an unpredictable Middle East—this is a drop in the bucket. Military chiefs have been clamouring for far more, with former British Army head Lord Richard Dannatt arguing for 3.4% to match US levels. 

 

And then there’s Trump, the man Starmer is so keen to impress. The US President has repeatedly demanded NATO allies spend 5% of GDP on defence, a threshold last seen during the Cold War. Against that yardstick, Starmer’s 2.5% by 2027 isn’t just too little; it’s too late. Trump, a man not known for subtlety, is likely to scoff at this timid gesture when they meet, seeing it for the window dressing it is.

 

The insult is compounded by how Starmer plans to fund this so-called boost: slashing the foreign aid budget from 0.5% to 0.3% of national income. That’s a £6 billion cut, conveniently matching the real-terms defence increase—a neat little swap that exposes the lie of any grand “generational response.” Starmer’s not finding new money; he’s just shuffling it around, robbing Peter to pay Paul, all while claiming a victory he hasn’t earned. Labour backbenchers and charities have decried this as shortsighted, a betrayal of Britain’s global humanitarian role. They’re right, but the real betrayal is to the public, fed a narrative of strength that crumbles under scrutiny.

 

Starmer’s defenders might argue he’s making tough choices in tough times. But tough choices don’t justify dishonesty. He stood before Parliament and the nation, peddling a £13.4 billion figure he knew—or should have known—was inflated, banking on the fact that most wouldn’t check the maths. His own Defence Secretary, John Healey, squirmed on BBC Breakfast the next day, reluctantly conceding the IFS’s £6 billion estimate was closer to the mark. The Prime Minister’s credibility shouldn’t hinge on such flimsy spin, especially on an issue as grave as defence.

 

This isn’t leadership; it’s legerdemain. Britain deserves a PM who levels with the public, not one who cooks the books to impress a foreign leader who’ll see through the ruse in seconds. Starmer’s 2.5% pledge is too little, too late, and too dishonest to stand as the “biggest sustained increase since the Cold War” he claims. The armed forces won’t be cheering—they’ll be crying. And Trump? He’ll probably just laugh.