If in doubt, put the kettle on. If you follow this simple mantra you won’t go far wrong in life.

I know that might sound like a vast oversimplification of the trials and tribulations of existence upon this mortal coil but quite frankly, all these great philosophers who write reams and reams on what it all means to exist and all the rest of it, what they could all really benefit from, the lot of ‘em, is just sticking the kettle on.

From Aristotle to Simone de Bouvoir and everyone in between, all worked up about libertarianism this or existentialism that, born free but everywhere we are in chains as good old Jean-Jacques Rousseau rabbited on about - I mean for goodness sake, calm down, dear, and have a cup of tea.

Take Bertrand Russell. A British polymath, philosopher, logician, mathematician, historian, writer, social critic, political activist, and Nobel laureate. Quite a roll call by anyone’s standards. Quite a little list. Rather puts my footballing medals from Oxhey Falcons youth team in the shade. I’ll grant you that. But, did he drink tea?

I don’t think I’m overstating it if I say that the kettle and tea drinking is actually the answer to everything.

I would say, that for any self-respecting Briton, when faced with any sort of adversity, it is not just a polite requirement, it is, in fact, their solemn duty, to put the kettle on.

If it falls upon us, as a nation, to fight injustice with the simple sword of truth and the trusty shield of fair play you may be sure of one thing. We’ll always have a brew on the go, to help things along.

One needs to set an example in this life. I worked out, that if you added up, by the gallon, all the tea I’ve ever drunk (27 cups yesterday alone) it would be a sufficient to refloat the Queen Mary passenger liner out of dry dock and back into the Atlantic.

You translate that sort of devotion into the battle for the moral elevation of a nation and who knows where it’ll end? The sky’s the limit. Or the tea cosy is, at any rate.

But, gentle readers, we have an invasive species with which we have to contend. Rather like the way in which our own indigenous red squirrel has been hounded and run out of town by the grey squirrel of America, we are faced with a lethal competitor. I refer of course to the insidious hegemony of the coffee bean.

Does this vulgar intruder, this imposter of brown liquid appearance, really think they can oust a nation’s beloved beverage of choice? Clearly from all the coffee shops that adorn our streets they chose to make claim to the throne of liquescent splendour.

But, for all it’s delusions of grandeur, I would urge the coffee bean to think again. The graveyards of Britain are full of contenders to the accolade of the nation’s favourite drink. Ask Horlicks, ask Bovril, ask British Rail who used to serve a cup of something that was impossible to tell whether it was tea or coffee, a sort of hybrid, an undefined in between, we might call it toffee (without is being toffee obviously).

All these contenders have been laid to waste by the good old cup o’ char over the years. In tea’s defence we stand prepared for action, a coiled spring of defiance, ready to burst forth at any moment, alert, steely eyed, daggers drawn, fixed bayonets, ready to enter the fray, to skirmish, to brawl and to win.

In the meantime, I’ll put the kettle on.