In a development that has sent tremors through the buttoned-up world of British cultural diplomacy, the Arts and Heritage Fund has, through what can only be described as a catastrophic administrative oversight, accumulated a record £5bn. Yes, you read that correctly. Five. Billion. Quid. Someone left the money tap running, and now the nation's cultural custodians are faced with the horrifying prospect of having to actually spend it on something other than austerity-branded stationery.

Let us pause to savour the sheer, unadulterated absurdity. For years we have been told that the arts must tighten their belts, that culture is a luxury we cannot afford, that the only proper use for public funds is to bail out bankers and subsidise the production of executive bonuses. And now, like a forgotten fiver in an old coat, we find ourselves sitting on a veritable mountain of cash. The collective howl of anguish from the treasury must have been audible from the Gherkin to the Shard.

But what to do with this embarrassment of riches? The official line, of course, is that this marks a "new golden age for UK cultural diplomacy." Which is bureaucrat-speak for: "We have absolutely no idea what to do with this money, but please don't ask us to give it back." Already the great and the good are sharpening their knives, preparing to carve up the spoils. Expect a flurry of initiatives designed to make the UK look slightly less like a morally bankrupt offshore tax haven. A new museum for the history of bad teeth. A publicly funded opera about the Grenfell Tower inquiry. A statue of Boris Johnson made entirely from his own discarded promises.

And yet, one cannot help but feel a flicker of cynical hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, this obscene glut of cash could actually be put to some use. Imagine if we spent it on something radical. Like paying artists a living wage. Or making theatre tickets free for people who don't own a monocle. Or funding a poetry slam where all the poets are drunk and belligerent. But no, that would be far too sensible. Expect instead a new wing at the Tate dedicated to the art of bureaucratic procrastination, and a series of heritage plaques commemorating the exact location where each penny was wasted.

The real question is how this happened. Was it a computer glitch? An elaborate prank by a disgruntled intern? Or the result of some ancient civil service ritual where they accidentally ticked the wrong box on a form written in Latin? The official inquiry will no doubt cost another few million and conclude that the money must be spent on more inquiries. Such is the circle of life in the arts sector.

But let us not be churlish. Perhaps this is indeed a golden age. An age where we can finally afford to pay for the sort of cultural diversity that makes other nations point and laugh. An age where British artists can stop supplementing their income by painting portraits of oligarchs' pugs. An age where the National Theatre can afford to put on a play that doesn't involve a screaming white man in a chair. I, for one, welcome our new accidental billionaire arts overlords. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a gin to finish and a grant application to write. Fingers crossed for a project involving a life-size flamingo puppet made from shredded lottery tickets.