As this miserable year comes to a close I have finally found a way to deal with Donald Trump’s victory in the US presidential election. And, while we’re at it, the Brexit vote. And the deaths of Prince, David Bowie, Alan Rickman, Victoria Wood, Leonard Cohen and the rest. I know what you’re thinking: something which deals with this cloudburst of apocalyptically framed headlines, bombshells and all round calamity must be strong juju indeed.

And it is. Brace yourselves. Here it comes: it’s a tub of Haägen-Dazs salted caramel ice-cream. Don’t be surprised; it was always bound to be something serious. As they say on the BBC, other brands are available. And other flavours for that matter. This, my friends, is my magic cure-all for 2016: comfort eating. Lots of it. Lock the doors, switch off the phone, clear a space on the sofa and pull off the lid. It’s time.

Often, comfort eating gets a bad press. In 2013 it was added to the US Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the bible for psychiatrists, as a condition in need of treatment. Then again, they’ve managed to pathologise almost everything. The manual also includes histrionic personality disorder (what the rest of us call being a total drama queen) and dependent personality disorder (being needy) so we shouldn’t worry that they want to get us on the couch for our comfort food habits.

I suppose I should acknowledge that for some people bingeing can be a problem. Then again, some people become alcoholics. That doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t extol the virtues of getting pissed occasionally. (Another reasonable way to deal with the news, but with irritating side effects. I long ago realised I hate hangovers more than I like being drunk.)

Comfort eating is a broad church. I have specified ice-cream, because eating it is an all-consuming process. It takes hard spoon work to get at. There’s the hit of cold in the mouth and only then does the flavour come through. Finally you are soothed by the sensation of melted cream slipping down your throat. And then it starts all over again. Your comfort food may be something other: it may be instant noodles weaponised with extra dollops of sriracha sauce; perhaps it’s a whole tube of Pringles (although not the special edition mint and chocolate ones; I’m trying to help you feel better here, not encourage a perversion).

When we reach for comfort food we are going in search of the simplest version of ourselves, the small child that remains within us; the one who was nurtured by the food cooked for us by those whose love we trusted. We yearn to be the child who was protected from knowing about (let alone understanding) exactly what was going on in the world. Wanting to be that child again, wanting not to know, is a rational response to the headlines.

For that reason comfort foods are always the simplest propositions: a blunt hit of sugar or fat or chilli to overwhelm the senses and silence the voices in our heads telling us that too many of the good ones die young, or that the world’s going to hell in a handcart. This, then, is how I shall celebrate the passing of a dismal year. Not with reflection and deep thought. Not with news overload and anxiety. But with a spoon in one hand and a tub in the other. Join me.