The 2016 intake assessed on how likely they are to induce a sentimental lunchtime tear
Flavour: Dominated by the too-thick layer of port and cranberry sauce. Aggressive attention-seeking, really. For shame!
Nostalgia rating: All the usual suspects have snuck in but the crispy onions and spinach stop it feeling too familiar. It’s that one Christmas where no one could relax because your cousin invited the Czech weirdo she met on her gap year. 7/10
Flavour: Two very complementary things collide. Nice in a comforting, predictable way, like putting on a fresh pair of sports socks.
Nostalgia rating: If you kidnapped every uncle in the country and forced them to create a filling, this would be it. Of course this would be it. It is the smell and flavour of every crap family function. Beef and ale, oh mercy. 9/10
Flavour: Resolutely safe and even-handed. No frills. Solid like a chest of drawers.
Nostalgia rating: As straightforward an invocation of Christmas as you’ll find. It is literally every single Christmas you’ve ever experienced. It’s turkey. It’s turkey and cranberry. It’s the year mum threw the bird at the wall and stormed off to her sister’s. But it’s also a sodding wrap, so… 7/10
Flavour: Stupidly creamy. The chutney is OK though and offsets its rich bedfellow. One for all the low-level hedonists out there.
Nostalgia rating: Nostalgia can be general (a mood or place) or ultra-specific. This is firmly in the latter group. It’s the taste of dull afternoons at the house of a distant relative, politely eating “posh cheese” and giving tips on UCAS applications. You’d forgotten those afternoons for a reason. 6/10
Flavour: Too good to be true. Flawless. Best one here by miles. Put a ring on it.
Nostalgia rating: The sausage is too garlicky for nostalgia, really. No one has garlic sausage at Christmas. This isn’t Oktoberfest, mate. This. Is. Yule. 4/10