Oh God, is it that time of year AGAIN? I must admit, I approached 2023’s offerings with a heavy heart because… well, it’s just all a bit much, isn’t it? These ad ‘breaks’ are such an assault on the senses, and I don’t have the bandwidth to cope with a) sentient household items b) celebs enriching their already-rich coffers c) ickle kiddies/creatures tugging the heartstrings or 3.14) mental festive shit. But we’ve all got to do our bit, haven’t we, and my yuletide contribution, for the last eight years, has been to do this. Alright then: *rolls up sleeves, pours sherry*.

After the #GrateGate debacle, the new M&S Home advert will now feature Hannah Waddingham doing a Cersei Lannister-style naked walk of shame through Tunbridge Wells as penance. No one can remember what the original advert was about, because mists of rage have obliterated it. M&S now stands for Marked & Shamed, and we’re not allowed to shop there anymore since that strict headteacher nutjob wrote a deranged letter denouncing our ‘national department store’.

Incidentally, has it become obligatory to cast Hannah Waddingham in everything? Because she’s also in the Baileys ad, conducting a choir. She’s had a great year, Hannah. Pair her up with Sam Ryder and let them rule the world.

Moving on, the M&S Food promotion bypasses a potentially interesting storyline about a girl called Lilly and her lost mittens in favour of showing you a table groaning with M&S Food. I know it’s an advert for M&S Food, and should thus include M&S Food, but it seems like they set up an intriguing back story only to discard it like two-day-old sausage rolls in an alleyway dumpster. It turns out the ad is actually in SIX PARTS, the finale of which reveals the reunion of gloves and girl. Like I said, it’s all a bit much, isn’t it? It’s a commercial, not Killers of the Flower Moon. And it centres around some sentient wool. If you stretch it, it might unravel…

Talking of gloves, the Morrisons ad features a series of oven mitts mouthing the 80s power ballad ‘Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now’ while their human owners go about their Christmas business, oblivious. Now, if my oven glove suddenly came to life, I’d whack it with a spatula, which I reckon would stop it, but for some reason these sinister singing sock puppets are completely overlooked. In the six-part version, they’re finally reunited with the oven glove mother ship, and the humans welcome their thermal overlord for a turkey crown.

Continuing the ad world’s obsession with animating inanimate objects, Argos has produced a shocker, basically giving us M3GAN: the Christmas edition. Their dancing doll is deeply disturbing and I’m glad Trev the toy dinosaur didn’t manage to film her, or all our souls would have been compromised.

If you’re worried what to do now you’re not allowed to shop at M&S, then Waitrose comes to the rescue with its own sumptuous spread. In their advert, a raucous party is underway, and the catering is second to none, to the extent that Graham Norton is outshone by his Golden Bûche de Noël. This is not just food; this is Waitrose food, i.e. dead posh, probably being eaten in Islington. Pass the Florentine-inspired Panettone, darling, and pop another bottle of Moët in the ice bath.

Which bring us to Asda, not as renowned for fanciness, but famous for its pocket pat, denoting good value rather than luxury. Which is why I found it faintly baffling that, according to their advert, Asda’s Chief Quality Officer is none other than Michael Bublé. Having the time of his life, he swaggers around sampling stuff, approving products and looking super-suave. Now, I adore Micky Bubbles – he’s a top-notch crooner, his festive album played on a constant loop in our house come Crimbo – but I’d have him down as more of a Fortnum & Mason man? He just looks – and sounds – very expensive. It’s like Frank Sinatra advertising Costco.

Celeb cameos are a classic Christmas tradition, however, so while Asda gives us Mr Bublé, Sainsburys offers up… Rick Astley. A little girl hijacks the store tannoy to ask what Santa has for Christmas dinner, and employees come up with suggestions which include – surprise, surprise – their Taste The Difference range. Rick, randomly standing in an aisle, says ‘cheese’ which prompts staff to quote lyrics from his most famous hit, ‘Cry For Help’… Just kidding - Rick is never gonna give up that copyright. It’s a determinedly cheesy moment, and I don’t begrudge him the paycheck, but I feel that, despite promising not to, he’s somehow… let me down. He’s hurt me.

Not as much as Aldi though, who’ve resurrected Kevin the Carrot AGAIN, this time in a Willy Wonka homage that’s less Tim Burton and more Timmy Mallett. Please, can Willy blow him up like Violet Beauregarde because I can’t take it anymore: *channels Old Rose in Titanic* ‘IT’S BEEN 84 YEARS…’ (Actually 8, but advertising moves in a different time zone, like dogs).

Boots are also guilty of flogging a creative dead horse, still trying to pretend that a high-street chemist can produce decent gifts. Another little girl – they’re the chimney sweeps of the ad world, little girls – asks her mother who gives presents to Santa, and her mum, instead of huffing ‘I don’t fucking know!’, grins mischievously and takes her on a mission to pay back St Nick. On the way, they hand out gifts from their stash to people who help them, but it’s all Boots bollocks like serum and smellies. Oh, I tell a lie – they give a Dyson Airwrap to their long-locked pilot, which is a cool pressie although James Dyson is a wanker. But all they’ve got left when they reach the Big Man is flight socks – ho, ho, hosiery! Well, call me an old Scrooge, but it’s far too long and arduous a journey to justify tipping such a utilitarian stocking filler down Santa’s smokestack. If I was him, I’d get a right mard on and throw my toys out the sleigh.

OK, you want a tear jerker, don’t you, and some would say it’s the Lidl ad, but I wouldn’t because I’ve got a heart of stone and also it’s shit. There’s this raccoon, right, who saves a boy’s lost toy monkey. It fills me with such fury that I might write a stiff letter to the Lidl bigwigs. The Bidls. The raccoon’s journey is Herculean, but he gets no thanks for it, growled at and chased by the family dog, then left to shiver in the snow and watch from afar as the kiddywink clutches his new cuddly. I don’t know what message we’re supposed to get from that? Work hard and be selfless and you’ll get fuck all in return? Was this ad devised and produced by the Conservative party? That boy’s monkey should come to life and read them the riot act for leaving that poor trash-diving fluffster out in the cold. Then everyone gets eaten by a giant oven glove. There, fixed it for you.

But it turns out there’s nothing to fix in the John Lewis ad. They’re the best, generally, but this year it’s been made by Saatchi & Saatchi, rather than the usual Adam & Eve. I wondered how they’d continue this new Christmas tradition we have of the John Lewis creation always being head and shoulders above the rest, and worried it was too tall an order. But they’ve produced a total gem.

The teaser clip is a masterclass in misdirection. A little boy buys a ‘Grow your own perfect Christmas tree’ from a market. Because everything looks old-fashioned, you immediately assume this is a tearjerker ‘time passes’ kind of ad and we’ll see him surrounded by his great-grandchildren, the fully-grown tree towering above them. But that’s not what happens at all. Oh no.

Firstly, it’s not a Christmas tree at all but a Venus flytrap. The music is also unexpected – not a slowed-down, crooned cover but an upbeat original, ‘Festa’, sung by operatic legend Andrea Bocelli. It’s MAD, a bit Freddie Mercury, hugely energising. ‘Snapper’ springs up quickly, the chomping, writhing, over-enthusiastic Triffid rapidly outgrowing its home, finally dragged and dumped in the garden by Alfie’s overwhelmed family, much to his dismay.

Alfie’s not having it, and the result is a charming, startling and very festive garden gathering that shows some Christmas traditions can be created in a glorious moment, from scratch. The whole thing is adorable, riotous, and weirdly moving without being sentimental. That’s how you do it, chaps - a heart-warming Little Shop of Horrors that chews up everyone else’s oven gloves and cuddly monkeys and crappy talking carrots, and spits them out in a spectacular ticker-tape parade.

What is that strange sensation? It’s almost like… I’m starting to feel… Christmassy.

Oh, hang on. It’s just Graham’s Golden Bûche de Noël repeating on me.