A study of the UK’s trains, from rural routes to commuter trains, shows that once eight or more units of alcohol have been consumed it becomes a magical ride of stimulating new destinations, mysterious announcements and meetings with strangers.

Professor Henry Brubaker, of the Institute for Studies, said: “There’s nothing wrong with our overpriced, antiquated rail network that can’t be fixed by the warm fuzziness of aluminium-wrapped alcohol.

“Once lightly pissed, being in a long box fired randomly across the countryside becomes a mellow experience. Your slumped face can vibrate against the windows in a happy haze, just as the Victorians intended when they built them whacked-out on laudanum.

“Stations drift past cheerfully. The couple you’re unwillingly sharing a table with become fascinating. Even the toilets are fine when you’re urinating as freely and erratically as all their previous users.

“Whether the night train to Aberdeen, the 4.35pm to Didcot Parkway or a 6.30am commuter train into Liverpool Street, it’s just like mother said: booze is best.”

Market analyst Helen Archer said: “I drank a bottle of prosecco on the way to work in Leeds and woke up in Llanelli. So same as normal, but with prosecco.”

Nikki Hollis, stenographer: “Aw, imagine how cute that would be. Their innocent little intoxicated faces.”

Carolyn Ryan, shipping consultant: “We know drinking from 13 was fine, as evidenced by the 1970s. So let’s begin there and move slowly backwards.”

Steve Malley, divorce promotions officer: “I wouldn’t sell them liquor. Unless they’d recently been dumped by their year seven girlfriend in which case I’d serve them neat whisky while they unburdened themselves to me late into the night.”

Norman Steele, toy reseller: “I’m 59, was at a city centre bar yesterday, and I promise you kids already f**king have their own pubs.”

Helen Archer, lecturer: “We’ll make sure no BBC presenters are drinking in them, right?”

Ireland’s fraught past of Celtic settlement, British rule, famine and rebellion is being saluted in the time-honoured way by putting away multiple Guinnesses in a bar that has briefly hung up some shamrocks.

Oliver O’Connor of Cork said: “You’d think it would be impossible to sum up everything from the Battle of Clontarf to the Good Friday Agreement in one delicious symbol. Think again.

“The good bartenders of Wetherspoon’s have handled the challenge of representing Ireland with utmost solemnity by asking me ‘what’s the craic’ as they pour my pint. They even had a go at the accent and drew a… shape in the foam. Talk about respectful.”

Dubliner Susan Traherne said: “I needn’t have worried that Saint Patrick’s Day would be alienating for English people. If anything you Sasanaigh have shown me how to mark the occasion properly by getting shitfaced on stout.

“Here I was, missing the point by going on parades and dancing at a céilithe. How embarrassing. I hope I don’t offend you by following your customs of wearing a Guinness hat and downing eight pints.”

She added: “Just look at all those lads passed out on the street in solemn remembrance of the long fight for home rule. Brings a tear to your eye.”

Booze-lover Martin Bishop has calculated that between lengthy stints of going to work and being asleep, he is never more than eight hours from being able to indulge in a crisp, tasty pint of lovely beer.

He said: “It sounds like one of those unbelievable facts, like how space is only 62 miles away. But it’s true for all of us, unless you’re teetotal.

“Think about it. If you have a drink before you go to bed, you’re just eight hours away from your next sip. And that’s only if you don’t get up in the middle of the night for a cheeky top up after going for a wee.

“According to HR I can’t drink at work, but there’s nothing stopping me from having a cheeky swig in the car park at 8:59. Then it’s simply a case of watching the clock count down to pub time. If I get really desperate I can usually get away with a half during lunch.

“Long-haul flights aren’t a problem thanks to the drinks trolley. I can’t see myself having to wait more than eight hours unless I get stranded on a desert island or there’s prohibition. Even then I reckon I could figure something out.”

He added: “It’s little babies I feel sorry for. They have to wait 18 years, or if they’re cool, 11.”

Have seven pints on your lunch break

The occasional lunchtime pint to take the edge off an afternoon of emails no longer suffices. If you truly believe the pub is core to British identity, you must neck 112 fluid ounces on a daily basis. Skip lunch. Yes, you may lose your job as you stagger back into the office urinating freely, but no war is without sacrifice.

Pay London prices everywhere

London has shouldered the burden of overcharging for too long. You have a duty to help carry the load by handing over a tenner for a half of Tennent’s Light the next time you’re in a Wetherspoons in Mansfield. If you are in a London pub, voluntarily double its already extortionate prices. Or do you want it to become a community centre for the elderly?

Max out your overdraft on snacks

Pubs desperately need a cash injection to help pay Reeves’s evil new business rates. Restricting your diet to bar snacks only is a start. Can man live on chilli crisps, scampi fries and pickled eggs if washed down with enough lager? You’re about to find out.

Order rounds by yourself at the weekend

Just as you saved Britain by eating out during the pandemic, you must change your drinking habits for these desperate times. By returning with four pints, a large white wine, a rum and coke and sambuca shots from every trip to the bar you’re not only supporting pubs, you’re making yourself seem popular. A statue will be erected to you in Trafalgar Square.

Donate your family

The situation is so dire that Britain needs to be on a total pub footing. This means you need to raid your home for any partners and children who could be repurposed to aid your noble cause. Pile them up in the street, and the government will come along and turn them into bar stools, beer taps and vitally-needed fruit machines.

Assign guests roles

It’s important to represent the full range of Scottish identity. Ask guests to embody the following stereotypes: Braveheart man, Simon Callow in Four Weddings, unintelligible Glaswegian in shellsuit, purse-lipped disapproving crofter, Calvin Harris and Begbie. Hair should be dyed vivid red.

Serve appropriate food

Scotland has a rich and varied cuisine of shortbread, Buckfast, tablet, Tennant’s Super, single-malt whiskey, grouse stuffed with lead shot and giant panda. All should be served with ‘the auld enemy’ as the Scots term Irn Bru because it is solely responsible for their low life expectancy.

Provide a Scottish soundtrack

Guests should be piped in. If you have no bagpipes due to being sane, a Henry vacuum cleaner packed with school recorders and set on blow will produce a similarly discordant wail. After which play Scottish music, beginning with the fey indie of Teenage Fanclub and working up, via Deacon Blue, Texas and Del Amitri, to the giddy heights of Runrig.

Read poetry

Poetry is central to Burns Night. Read selections from the work of William McGonagall, Irvine Welsh, Iain Rankin, Oor Wullie, any Doctor Who episode where Jamie is a companion, Alexander McCall Smith and the Culture novels of Iain M Banks. Ensure your Scottish accent is as broadly insulting as possible.

Perform in a cupboard

All Scots love the Edinburgh Festival, so recreate it by asking guests to put on their most monied English voice and perform a stand-up set, one-man play with full frontal nudity or Alan Ayckbourn farce in a cupboard, pantry or downstairs toilet to an audience of nobody. Reward each of them with three stars and debts of £18,000.

Get drunk and get burned

Finally, the climax of the evening: get your guests drunker than they have ever been in their lives to this point, or as they call it north of the border ‘Wednesday’. Get out the deep-fat fryer, decide which unlikely food each will be battering and hand-dipping into boiling oil, and administer the first-degree burns! Which is why it’s called that, what else would it be.

Wayne Hayes has proudly told everyone he is laying off the booze for the month but was flabbergasted to learn they expected that meant at home as well.

He said: “You can’t not drink at all, can you? In January? I’m not superhuman.

“I will keep my promise not to set foot in the pub all month, even on quiz nights. Not a pint of Guinness will pass my lips. If you don’t think that’s an accomplishment you don’t know me.

“But at home? That’s my own business. You can’t stop me and you’ll never even know I’ve been drinking unless you see through the kitchen window where I don’t have a blind because it caught fire.

“It’s still one hell of an achievement. Drinking without the camaraderie, the warm haze of shared intoxication, the fruit machine. I tell you, I’ll be bloody glad when John’s pouring me a pint again. Don’t tell me that’s not hardship.”

He added: “Actually, I’m getting to quite like drinking alone at home now. You can start earlier.”

You may have got the impression I was planning to increase business rates for pubs but instantly caved when the Mail and Sun started kicking up a fuss about it. No. It was because I love pubs, and am always ‘up the boozer’ having ‘banters’ with ‘the lads’. Although usually it’s just Rachel Reeves. 

It is no exaggeration to say that pubs are the heart and lungs of Britain and without them society could not function. Every night these beloved community hubs are thronged with Britons uniting as a nation to enjoy a traditional sharing platter and a fight.

That is why I will fight to my last breath to protect our public houses and your right to drink in them – your right to put on weight, your right to develop an alcohol dependency, your right to come home shitfaced and piss in a wardrobe.

Yes, I am passionate about what we drinkers call ‘the old rub-a-dub’. And if you doubt my commitment, let me tell you another boring story about my father. Every night he would come home weighed down by the bag of tools he used to make tools, exhausted but brimming with self-respect after an honest day’s graft.

The first thing he would say to me was: ‘Keir, lad, run to t’pub and tell t’landlord to ‘ave a packet of cheese and onion crisps waiting for me.’ I’m not sure why he turned Northern, but I feel an anecdote so unquestionably true proves my love of pubs is genuine.

And that is why I’m going to the pub right now, for a refreshing yard of ale without the bleeding missus going on at me. That’s a normal thing to do at 9am, right?

Nathan Muir, who did not bother to organise an event but then invited himself along to the one arranged by staff, is welcome to remain for as long as it takes to distribute the drinks he has paid for but no longer.

Employee Carolyn Ryan said: “Christ. Say what you like about Scrooge, but he didn’t expect to socialise with the Cratchits after he’d bought them a f**king big goose. He slunk off round his nephew’s.

“The boss owes us this drink. He owes us far more. Rightly he should put his gold card behind the bar while we abuse it mightily, but we all know he’s too tight for that.

“He’ll be there, talking shop, reminding us of the Q4 KPIs like it’s an unofficial sodding appraisal. We’d send him to the wrong pub but we did that last year so it won’t work twice.

“Once that round’s in, he’s dead to us. He can get in his f**king Merc and piss off back to his six-bedroom house so we can get to mercilessly slagging him off.”

Muir said: “I think it’s important to spend ‘down time’ with my staff, just to show them I’m one of the lads really. Plus it’s the last chance before the New Year redundancies.”

‘Getting smashed for Christmas, I’ve necked a litre of Baileys’ 

The Chris Rea classic updated to replace all that burdensome driving with the equally happy solitary activity of getting shitfaced. Evokes the camaraderie of the season with the line ‘I take a look at the drinker next to me, he’s just the same.’ Really summons the spirit of Wetherspoons on December 14th.

‘Pissed up fine, on Goldschlager and wine’ 

The lyrics Cliff Richard would have written if he hadn’t been so confused he thought Christmas had something to do with God. Goldschlager, because it tastes of cinnamon, is a wonderfully festive drink and doesn’t mix at all well with a dry Riesling. You’ll be clutching the toilet bowl and heaving by midnight, and isn’t that what it’s all about?

‘Good King Wenceslas last looked out, absolutely steaming’ 

What could be more in keeping with the joy and goodwill to all men of Christmas than looking out, seeing someone less fortunate than yourself, and inviting him in for a few cans? ‘Ye who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing,’ as the song says, when you discover he’s got a bottle of gin on him.

‘One more drink’ 

The Leona Lewis classic that provides all her non-investment income, reimagined. ‘Five more evenings swigging jeroboams, four more days of vodka on my own, three more hangovers cured with ouzo, two more crates of Desperados, one more drink!’ Etcetera. Gives licence to be creative with both drink and rhyme.

‘Pissing against the Christmas tree, cause I don’t give a f**k’ 

For the hardened home drinker for whom the Yuletide hearth is so cosy and their three litres of white cider such a beloved friend they can’t be parted from them even to urinate. The good news? When you’re that drunk, it may not be a tree. There may not be a hearth, or a home. You very likely aren’t even indoors, and have not been for some years.

‘Well I wish I could be this drunk every day’ 

Isn’t that how we all feel, once the festive period gets into the swing and morning prosecco inevitable? That every day of our dreary lives could be improved with the application of strong brown alcohol and cheery, repetitive song? Roy Wood has rarely been heard of since 1973 and this song. That’s likely why.

Red wine and Irn Bru

Sometimes a bottle of Sainsbury’s own brand Merlot just isn’t cutting it, and you need to add a Scottish edge. Watching Four in a Bed alone in a drunken haze on your sofa at 3am, you’ll seriously consider serving it up at your next dinner party. If you had dinner parties.

Baileys and Horlicks

Horlicks was once marketed toward infants and invalids, but with winter coming you can give it a festive edge. It’s like drinking a Malteser that gets you even more mashed than you were when you thought of it.

Vermouth and Vimto

Until needs must, it might never have occurred to you to pair a highbrow botanical-flavoured fortified wine with an unbearably sweet berry drink from your childhood. However while drunk you will realise your concoction is a work of art and consider licensing it to London’s most prestigious hotel bars. They will undoubtedly pay hundreds of thousands.

Tequila and dandelion and burdock

F**k knows why you’ve got a bottle of the stuff but it’s a chance to kill two birds with one stone: finish off the dregs of the tequila you did shots of for your 30th and chuck out that poncy glass bottle that’s been staring at you from the fridge for six months. A bottle containing the juice squeezed out of f**king dandelions. It’ll be, er, herby.

Midori and milk

Makes total sense because they both begin with ‘M’. At least it does to your addled brain, with common sense and the ability to remember things long gone. Sure, it sounds as though the flavours might not go together, but it could be a surprise. Waking up to find the bed covered in lurid green puke certainly will be.

Carry a keg around with you

Lifting a glass is easy, even for gays, but health-conscious people like me carry around a keg of beer at all times. It’s great for upper-body strength, and vital when you’ve got the DTs before telling five-star generals they’re obese losers with no self-discipline.

Find exercises you can pair with a drink

Most gyms have a chest press machine, but I prefer dumbbell curls because they leave your other hand free to hold a martini. Just find out what works for you. My personal basic workout routine is: eight sit-ups, eight pull-ups, eight vodkas. Repeat. Sometimes I get so into the zone I have to be carried home.

Remember, falling over is exercise

The effort required to get up after collapsing in a blackout combines squat thrusts, lunges and press-ups in one killer exercise I call the ‘power fall’. How can I have a problem, as my bitch of a wife claims, when giving myself this demanding all-body workout? And projectile vomiting? Really crunches those abs.

Drink through the pain barrier

Being anaesthetised by alcohol pushes you through the exercise pain barrier. While other guys quit after 20 bench presses, you can do insane numbers like 200 because you don’t even hear your body screaming ‘STOP!’ Also your counting might be a little off.

Swap out protein shakes for Baileys

Same texture, same effect on building muscle mass. Also works with a Mississippi Mudslide, probably, I’m not some pussy libtard college professor who does Google searches. Ladies love Baileys too, which makes a great conversational icebreaker when I’m trying to f**k up yet another marriage.

Always carry a bottle

Any personal trainer will tell you to stay hydrated. I do it with bourbon, which takes the tedium out of always lifting shit. I’d recommend investing in an $45 Trump water bottle from the official Trump Store, because despite all my macho bullshit I am a sickening little suck-up.

Exercise with your dick out

There isn’t a specific muscle-building purpose to this, it’s just the sort of weird macho jock thing I like to do when I’m shitfaced. I also shout ‘HURR!’ every time I complete a bicep curl or deadlift, and every fifth one I hurl.