The laugh-a-minute pro-celebrity puking bug known by the streetname "norovirus" continues to squirm its way through the population, effortlessly transforming ordinarily carefree human beings into spluttering, sulphurous geysers of molten waste. Everywhere the norovirus goes it leaves vast steaming lakes of freshly expelled vomit in its wake. It's like Piers Morgan, but invisible. Which actually makes it slightly better than Piers Morgan.

Everyone hates the norovirus, with the exception of two distinct groups. First: scientists. Professor Ian Goodfellow, who has spent the past decade studying it, has lovingly dubbed the norovirus "the Ferrari of the virus world", not because it makes the contents of your stomach accelerate from 0-60 in 3.4 seconds, but because it's so ruthlessly efficient. Requiring a mere 20 particles to seize command of its victims, the norovirus is 200 times more infectious than Daydream Believer by The Monkees. Consequently many scientists claim to be "impressed" by the thing – a bit like admiring Nazi architecture, if you ask me.

It must be brilliant being a scientist during an outbreak like this because if you get infected yourself, you can at least take the edge off your suffering by admiring the sheer force of your symptoms. The fascinating pitter-patter of stomach contents against the back of your teeth as a fearsome torrent of spew erupts from within like a liquid poltergeist fleeing an exorcism. The impressive way your backside emits high-pressure jets of hot fluid, like the Hulk squeezing silty boiled water from a Fairy Liquid bottle by clenching it abruptly in his fist. The searing aftermath, as your throat rages as though sandpapered and your anus screams like a scalded button. This is nature in all its raw majesty. Film it in HD, get David Attenborough to record the soundtrack, and you've got a Sunday evening treat for millions.

Not that scientists do all the vomiting themselves. Researchers at Derbyshire Health and Safety Laboratory have developed a "vomiting robot" called Larry, to help them understand how far the virus can spread when someone spews it round the room. They push a button, Larry projectile-pukes, and then they analyse the spread of droplets. Must be a hard job to hold down when you've got a hangover. I imagine they have short lunch breaks.

The other group of norolovers are newspaper editors, who get to fill their front pages on the quiet post-Christmas news days with headlines like PALACE "FULL OF VOMIT" and BILLIONS DEFECATE. If, like me, you're an emetophobe – someone with an irrational fear of vomiting – such headlines are on a par with MADMAN ON LOOSE AND STANDING BEHIND YOU. Traditionally, I've been a bit of a wreck during puke season, but this year I seem to have finally conquered my fear of the norovirus. Mainly because I still haven't caught it. And unless I'm one of the small percentage who's naturally immune, I suspect I haven't caught the norovirus thanks to a very simple mental trick I observe religiously at this time each year.

It's easy. Just imagine you're a murderer, that the entire world is your crime scene, and that if you leave a single fingerprint anywhere, you are GUARANTEED to die in jail. If you adhere to this rule, you won't touch anything with your bare hands, and almost certainly won't fall victim. You'll also get so good at opening doors with your elbows you'll feel like a Paralympian.

Hey, it's not that impractical. You get used to thinking like a killer pretty quickly, and the sheer challenge of it can be fun. Using the office loo, for instance, becomes a task from the Crystal Maze. Using a clean bit of toilet paper as a makeshift "glove" you can lift the seat, shut the lock, operate the flusher and then, if you're really good, spin round and unlock the door, then toss said "paper glove" down the swirling pan before the flush cycle finishes. Do it correctly and an entire forensic team couldn't prove you were there. You're a devious villain conducting the perfect crime, like the dashing guest star in the opening scene of a classic Columbo. Just like that. Apart from the bit where you pulled your pants down and did a poo.

Sometimes you may have to shake people's hands, which is problematic. The trick here is to imagine that you're James Bond, and they're a double agent who's just stuck a small explosive device to your skin. If you don't scrub it off with soap and water within 60 seconds millions will perish – starting, perhaps most significantly, with yourself. (Incidentally – and you can consider this a public service announcement – forget most hand gels, the majority of which will scarcely dent the norobastard unless the label specifies otherwise.)

The revolting noro-friendly practice of shaking hands is reason enough never to become a politician or a movie star, or some combination of the two, like Barack Obama. Imagine how many faeces-encrusted palms he's had to shake. And then he's always having to pose for a photograph afterwards, eating a hotdog or something. He might as well be licking the damp porcelain rim of a great big bum-Pollocked bog bowl.

If things go disastrously wrong, and you've shaken someone's revolting disease-sodden hand and you don't have immediate access to hot water and a sink, it's imperative to remember your hand is "evil" until you've had a chance to wash it. Don't eat with it, and don't pick your nose or rub your eye with it either or you will die. Keep it in a pocket. Or sit on it, like a moron watching a lapdancer. Just don't use it.

Now wash your hands.