Now, imagine you're running an elite branch of the police, responsible for the security of the country's nuclear material and installations. Imagine you're instituting a programme of modernisation and reform so that it can cope better with the threats posed by international terrorism. Would you call the programme "New Dawn"?

I think I would not. If I were in the Civil Nuclear Constabulary's thousands of sensible shoes, I think I'd pick something that sounded less like the title of a post-apocalyptic sci-fi movie – something that doesn't raise the question: "Over what dystopian wasteland is this 'New Dawn' breaking?", or conjure up the image of a heavy blood-red sun creeping across the ash-clogged skies of a new empire of cockroaches and scorpions.

Richard Thompson, chief constable of the nuclear constabulary, which is the country's most heavily armed police force (and that's not even counting all the plutonium it's packing), is of a different mind.

I'm not saying New Dawn isn't a catchy title but is that really a priority here? How important is it for programmes of public service reform to have exciting names? I know we live in an age when everything, from Tower Hamlets waste collection services to the branded sugar sachets of a budget hotel chain, has a tagline. Even the Kilburn High Road boasts the strap: "The closer you look, the better it gets" (which may be true for some – it all depends on how aesthetically pleasing you find the molecular structure of vomit).

I accept that tedious projects are probably made marginally more fun by giving them dramatic names. I'm all for the NHS calling its new anal hygiene initiative "Total Wipeout" if it'll get the job done in better humour. But these schemes aren't films. They don't need box office. They're not things you have to persuade people to get involved in: they're tasks that you just order people to get on with.

And surely there's a public confidence issue here? It may excite those involved but it doesn't help national morale to remind us that, where nuclear material is concerned, the stakes are terrifyingly high. Just as surgeons, to lift their patients' mood, construct phrases such as "pop in, have a look round and then sew you up", to make the prospect of being eviscerated in your sleep seem less daunting, so the police could have referred to this modernisation as "just a spot of paint here and there – you know, keep everything tidy" rather than making it sound so portentous. New Dawn is the equivalent of the surgeon gripping a patient's hand and muttering, in a voice charged with emotion: "Remember every ending is a beginning, my friend!"

Don't get me wrong, I'd have picked it ahead of "Dark Storm Descending", "Half-lives Half-lived" or "Winter's End?" but my favourite would probably have been "The Civil Nuclear Constabulary Modernisation Plan". A bit banal perhaps but, just as many people feel there are some issues that are "not a fit subject for comedy", I feel there are some places of work that are not a fit context for drama.

I was blissfully unaware of the CNC before it emerged last week that questions have been asked about the security around the Sellafield product and residues store, which contains the largest declared plutonium stockpile in the world. And the answer to those questions hasn't been: "It's all fine." Or at least not in a confident enough voice. Any terrorist who succeeded in breaking into the facility would be like a kid in a sweetshop, albeit one developing cancer at a futuristic speed.

The police have been under hostile scrutiny over the past few weeks because of their handling of the student protests. I sympathise: they're in an impossible position, as there's no real national consensus on the extent to which protesting students should be beaten up. Opinions vary from "not at all" to "completely". The compromise they've reached – to let a small riot happen while hospitalising the occasional protester – is probably, like democracy, the worst option except for all of the other ones.

But there's more agreement about the extent to which Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall should be beaten up. In that regard, the "small minority of troublemakers" shouting "Off with their heads!" seem to have misjudged the national mood. That their Royal Highnesses should be subjected to youthful road rage on Regent Street was described by David Cameron as "shocking and regrettable", by Metropolitan police commissioner Sir Paul Stephenson as "hugely regrettable and shocking"; and by Boris Johnson as "very regrettable". It's regrettable that Johnson didn't find it shocking. The duchess, he went on to say, was "plainly alarmed". You're no oil painting yourself, Boris.

Fortunately, Charles and Camilla arrived at the Royal Variety Performance unharmed, but it's disgusting that the heir to the throne and his wife should be subjected to such an ordeal. And the fact that their car was attacked on the way only makes it worse. (Come on, Frankie Boyle, more jokes like that, please!)

The police's competence to protect what our country holds most dear is suddenly in doubt. While a New Dawn is breaking over the security of our nuclear material, the royal protection squad is considering putting the prince in a less glassy car. Maybe it could convert one of the Civil Nuclear Constabulary's old lead-lined vans.

The two things that define our sovereignty – the royal family and our nuclear technology – are under attack. In these straitened times, we may be forced to choose. In the middle ages, people feared royalty. Those born to rule were the Lord's anointed. They carried within them something of the divine, a spark of ineffable heavenly power. That's why the aristocracy were so reluctant to kill kings unless they could cast serious doubt over their legitimacy. A king with an unimpeachable right to the throne had to reach Edward II levels of incompetence to get topped (I believe that's the technical term).

In this more secular age, we reserve our sense of mortal dread for uranium. Being a country openly in possession of nuclear technology is the radioactive jewel in our crown. Our nuclear weapons, just like our royal family, are a harmless source of national pride, but they cost a damn sight more. Those missiles should be driven around London in a gold coach so that the public can have a look at what it's paying for. I suppose that's another simple pleasure that a small minority of troublemakers are spoiling.