Everybody Cry Now: A Cynic’s Scorecard for the 2026 Christmas Advert Offensive
There is a moment, somewhere in the second week of November, when the ad break stops being an ad break and becomes a national event. The kettle goes on. Somebody says “shh”. The dog looks up, confused, because the dog does not understand why the family has suddenly gone quiet for a supermarket.
And then it arrives: the lonely grandad, the animated snowman, the slowed-down cover of a song you liked in 2009. Four minutes of orchestral melancholy designed to make you cry about gravy.
I’m not against it. I’m against the way we’re expected to discuss it. Every year the same conversation, delivered with the gravity of a Budget statement: which one “won”, which one “made me cry”, which one was “a bit much this year”. It is the Bake Off final of emotional manipulation, and we all pretend the judging is objective.
So here is a scorecard. Not a best-of list — you can get those anywhere, written by people with a media desk and a deadline — but a way of watching the whole ritual with your faculties intact, and still having something to argue about at the works Christmas do.
How the scoring works
Every advert begins with a clean slate of ten points. Points are deducted for each trope deployed without shame. Points are awarded, grudgingly, for craft, wit, or a joke that lands.
Crucially, you are allowed to cry. Crying is not a failure of the system. Crying while fully aware that a multinational has engineered your tears for the price of a mid-range scented candle — that is the sweet spot. That is the whole sport.
The Lonely Grandad (mandatory, minus two points)
He lives alone. He has a kettle that takes an age to boil. He looks at a photograph. Somewhere in the third act, a small child arrives on a bicycle and the lighting changes from grey to gold.
The grandad is not a character; he is a load-bearing wall. Remove him and the entire structure of British festive advertising falls down, which is presumably why he appears in roughly nine out of ten campaigns, glazed in a different knitwear each time.
Deduct two points. Deduct three if he is also a widower. Deduct five if the advert implies that buying a £4.50 tub of chocolates constitutes social care.
The Mistreated Toy (minus two points)
A stuffed animal with one eye. A bauble nobody hangs on the tree. A robot who simply wishes to be loved. This trope operates on the reliable assumption that British adults feel more guilt about inanimate objects than about unanswered texts from their mother.
It works. That’s the infuriating part. A well-animated bit of felt with a sad little face will get you every time, and the brand knows it, and you know it, and the felt thing gets a spin-off plush at £18.99.
The Slowed-Down Cover Song (minus three points)
Original song: jaunty, three chords, possibly about escaping a small town. Advert version: solo piano, whispered vocal, key change at 1:40 for the product reveal.
There is a fixed penalty here, and also a separate offence: choosing a song whose lyrics are entirely about heartbreak and applying it to a saucepan. Deduct extra if the artist is dead and cannot object.
Rare bonus point if the advert uses the original, upbeat recording and simply lets it be fun. This happens perhaps once a decade and should be celebrated like a sighting of a rare bird.
The Celebrity Wink (minus two points)
A famous person appears in a kitchen, wearing an excellent coat, and says something self-aware about the fact that they are in an advert. This is the “we’re all in on the joke” gambit, and it deducts points because it costs the brand nothing and flatters you for noticing.
Bonus point if the famous person is visibly enjoying themselves. Bonus two if they were in a sitcom you loved in 2008 and are now, somehow, doing this.
The Trend Report Advert (minus four points)
Somewhere in a glass building, a deck was made. It had the word “authenticity” in it at least four times. The result is an advert in which diverse strangers meet on a rain-slicked high street and someone says “this is what Christmas is really about” while holding a bag.
It’s not bad, exactly. It’s just legible. You can see the strategy underneath it like the wires on a pantomime fairy. Deduct four and move on.
Where the points come back
A real joke that isn’t explained. A puppet. A slightly weird bit that wouldn’t have survived a focus group. A regional accent that isn’t being used as a punchline. An advert that remembers the product is on sale and doesn’t spend 90 seconds pretending otherwise before revealing the logo like a shameful secret.
And, I’m sorry to report, the carrot. Every year the carrot gets points. The carrot has been doing this for a decade and has never once asked to be taken seriously, which is more than can be said for the rest of them.
How to watch the whole thing without losing your mind
Stop trying to decide which one won. There is no winner. There is a marketing budget and a scheduling slot and a PR team refreshing a media monitoring dashboard at 8.01am.
The better game is this: watch the first ten seconds and guess the trope. Watch the last ten and guess the product. Then check whether the middle made any sense in isolation — because if you remove the piano, most of them are just a nice house and a plate.
And when one of them gets you — properly, embarrassingly, sitting there in your socks with something in your eye — let it. Then have a row about it with your sister. That is the actual national ritual, and unlike the advert, it’s free.
