Socialist noodles and Xmas party hangovers!

Jeremy Corbyn is the socialist pot noodle this country crys out for daily. Having had a heavy night out with big bankers throwing money around and dealing with the subsequent 10 year austerity hangover, Corbyn is the much needed, totally underrated, instant fix. With an endless shelf life, this humble and delightful classic is rejected by snobs and constantly given a bad rep, as the media would hate to admit our troubles could be so easily resolved. If only he were given a little hot water, the power to make real change, to break the mold, and, essentially, escape the pot.

I don't know how Jeremy would feel about me likening him to a dehydrated savoury snack, but is it absolutely meant as a compliment.

As may be obvious from the above opening, pot noodles are currently at the fore front of my mind, and with good reason. With many work Christmas dos up and down the country facing the possibility of cancellation due to the new threat of Omicron, it is probable that the best part of a hangover, which is undoubtedly the infamous cure of the morning-after pot noodle, may not be needed.

It is at this point I take a quiet moment to think of all the lonely little pot noodles, and their King size friends, that will be left longingly at the back of kitchen cupboards, gathering dust next to veggie stock cubes and tins of pineapple. Missing out on their yearly opportunity to shine, unless they were lucky enough to have been brought by a broke student (so any student), a tired mum who can't find the energy to cook, or, of course, someone like me that simply likes them for the taste.

I shed a small tear while I think of them all, in their dry powdered forms, ashes to ashes. The majority of them vegan friendly, they did not deserve this. They deserve to be used and abused by drunken members of the public, yet their window of opportunity is now wearing thin, should we be forced to cancel such gatherings of joy.

Christmas parties should be the ultimate piss up. A yearly opportunity to tell your colleagues what you really think of them without the threat of them remembering your explicit karaoke edition of NWAs f*** da police. Where you can finally let your hair down, get up on the table and dance to ABBA, wearing a flimsy paper hat doused in Tia Maria while gesturing obscenities and waving around a lighter shaped like a grenade. Yet those around you noticing you have really toned things down since last year on account of the fact you are now their manager.

We all know the drill, Christmas parties are all about cheer and good will, if that means drinking a ton and not really giving a shit about HR finding out you exaggerated on your CV. When you said you had experience of finances and moving stock around what you actually meant was you were once a shelf stacker at Aldi who found a pound coin under the refrigerated drinks aisle.

But it doesn't matter, because no one in your office is really Christian and no one goes to Church. Truth is, this time of year is just another British excuse to get paralytic, as if any excuse were needed.

However, with the possibility that this opportunity may now slip away, it is down to people like me to drink as much as we can from home in order to achieve the same standard of hungover-ness.

So, I will therefore be doing my bit if we are forced to stay home. Since my son is still nursing I will have to get prepared. Milking myself like a cow, stock piling hoards of milk in my fridge in order to achieve this task. So long as it doesn’t get mixed up with the Baileys all will be well.

Drunk I shall be, no matter the costs! We owe it to all the socialist pot noodles up and down the country!