Today’s topic is one of those bizarre British traditions that we’ve all absorbed so deeply into the cultural bloodstream that we don’t really see it anymore. It arrives every year, on schedule, like clockwork, or mould, and we treat it as perfectly normal, perfectly wholesome, something we’re supposed to feel good about and participate in without asking too many questions. It’s the televised charity spectacular, the national guilt-management ritual, the sparkly, smiley, tear-jerking night of emotional whiplash known as Children in Need.
And the more I think about it, the more completely unhinged it is that this show even exists in the first place.
Because beneath the dancing, the celebrities, the cheerful presenters, the shiny set, Pudsey waving like the nation’s weird bear-therapist, beneath all that vague sense of goodwill, lies a question so big, so fundamental, so utterly damning that the entire country seems determined to pretend it doesn’t exist: why do we need this? Why, in a supposedly advanced economy – a nation that struts around on the world stage bragging about modernity, innovation, global leadership – are we running an annual telethon to keep children fed, safe, housed and healthy? Why the fuck is this still happening? And how has this become so normal that people actively look forward to it like it’s the Great British Bake Off?
Children in Need should not be a yearly event. It should be a historical artefact. A museum exhibit. A relic from a time when the country was broken enough that we needed a telethon to plug the holes in essential services. Instead, we’ve turned it into a festive tradition, something we anticipate, something we celebrate, something we collectively binge-watch like it’s a national comfort blanket. And the fact it keeps happening, year after year, with the same problems, the same tragic stories, the same pleas for help, the same “heartbreaking clips”, should be treated as the loudest possible alarm bell.
Every November the same choreography unfolds. The BBC rolls out the cameras, the theme music starts, Pudsey’s brought out of hibernation, the presenters beam with the kind of smiles that can only come from being trained by PR professionals, and the nation settles in for its yearly ritual of emotional self-flagellation. And then it happens. The segment. The clip. The carefully produced mini-documentary showing the life of a child who has been catastrophically failed by the system. The piano starts. The slow-motion shots glide by. The soft-spoken narration drips into your living room like emotional chloroform. And for the next three minutes, every viewer in the country is invited to gorge on someone else’s misery.
And then, without pause, without reflection, without any sense of the absurdity of the transition, we cut straight to a celebrity dressed as a dragon riding a tricycle for “awareness” while the audience claps and the presenters shout about the phone number at the bottom of the screen. It’s such a violent tonal shift, yet the country just swallows it. We don’t question it. We don’t stop to think that we just watched a child struggle for survival and are now watching a comedian fall into a foam pit like it’s all part of the same emotional tapestry.
Because in Britain, this is apparently what we do. We take suffering, turn it into entertainment, wrap it in warm lighting, give it a theme tune, and present it as a charming national night in. And then we donate a tenner, pat ourselves on the back, and go right back to ignoring the actual causes. We don’t ask why these children are suffering in the first place. We don’t ask what political decisions led to this. We don’t ask why nothing ever changes despite the millions raised every single year. We don’t ask where the government is in all of this. And we never, ever ask the only question that actually matters: why do we need this?
Let’s be brutally honest. In a functioning country, this show wouldn’t happen. It wouldn’t need to happen. The fact it exists at all is an indictment. The fact it keeps happening is a scandal. The fact it has become tradition is a national humiliation.
Imagine, for a moment, a world where Children in Need gets cancelled not because of controversy, not because of funding issues, not because of scheduling conflicts, but because the underlying needs have disappeared. Imagine a world where a BBC producer stands up and says, “We’ve had a look around and, well, it turns out children aren’t in need anymore. Everything’s funded. Services are working. Families are supported. Schools aren’t collapsing. Children with disabilities have the equipment they require. Carers have respite. Mental health services actually exist. So, we’re calling it a day.” The nation would collapse from shock. Some might actually be disappointed. The stock market might faint. The Daily Mail would write twelve editorials calling it “unpatriotic.”
And that is not normal. Children in Need has become the country’s annual pressure valve. A way of letting the public release just enough guilt, just enough sadness, just enough empathy to get through another year without turning around and saying to the government, hang on, why the fuck are we doing your job for you? Why are we raising millions of pounds for basic support services when you’re the ones with the tax system, the budget, the mandates, the power? Why are we plugging gaps you’ve created through cuts, negligence, incompetence, or sheer ideological cruelty? Where are you in all this?
Because every single clip that appears on Children in Need, every tiny slice of tragedy served up for entertainment, corresponds to something that should be funded by the state in any remotely civilised society. A child with complex needs doesn’t need Pudsey. They need NHS funding. A young carer doesn’t need a montage. They need proper social care. A kid struggling with trauma doesn’t need a voiceover. They need accessible mental health services they don’t have to wait six months to access. A school that can’t afford support staff doesn’t need a telethon. It needs a functioning education budget. A family living and breathing in mould doesn’t require a national charity to intervene. They need safe housing, regulation, inspections, enforcement.
But instead of demanding that, we donate. We watch. We clap. We raise the total. And the government – any government, whatever colour it happens to paint itself at election time – quietly breathes a sigh of relief, because once again the public has stepped in to absorb the political fallout of austerity, underfunding, and structural decay.
Children in Need lets politicians sleep at night. It lets the government avoid the moral shame of children relying on charity. It lets ministers shrug and say the public is generous, communities pull together, isn’t it wonderful? It lets the BBC parade suffering as inspiration. It gives corporations a cheap way to pretend they care while avoiding every meaningful responsibility they actually have. And it lets the public feel like they’ve contributed to fixing the problem without realising the same problems come back every year.
And here’s the part no one likes to admit: the amount raised each year is not a sign of success. It is a measurement of failure. The bigger the number, the bigger the gap. The more we raise, the more the government didn’t. The total is not a celebration. It is a symptom.
You’ll never hear the BBC say that, because the show is built on hope and sentiment and the soft-focus illusion that generosity alone creates structural change. But structural change does not arrive through a phone line. It arrives through budgets, taxes, policies, priorities, and pressure put on the people who run the country. It arrives when we stop treating a telethon as a miraculous solution and start treating it as a giant, neon sign saying: nothing is working.
And yet, somehow, every year, instead of outrage, we get anticipation. Instead of protest, we get Pudsey pyjamas sold in supermarkets. Instead of political scrutiny, we get celebrities doing geography-themed dance routines. Instead of accountability, we get a national costume day at work where you all show up dressed in yellow and pretend it’s activism.
We don’t ask the question. We don’t sit with the discomfort. We don’t look at the children on screen and say, “Your suffering is a direct result of political decision-making and I’m being emotionally manipulated into filling the gap.” We just donate, cry a bit, and move on.
And it’s not because people are bad. It’s because people are decent, and decency is easily misdirected. When you’re presented with a child in need, your instinct is to help the child, not question the government. You don’t want to politicise suffering, even though suffering is always political. You don’t want to blame anyone, even though someone is always to blame. You don’t want to say, “This should not be happening,” because the show treats “this” as a natural phenomenon, like weather or gravity, something tragic but inevitable. But it’s not inevitable. It’s engineered.
We’ve become so emotionally conditioned by Children in Need that we treat the problems as seasonal. Each November, we gather around our screens for the same catalogue of human suffering, like an annual release of a franchise film. The films change, but the themes remain the same. It’s Hunger: The Sequel. Disability Support 5. Housing Crisis: Return of the Damp Walls. Mental Health: Still Waiting. SEND Support: The Budget Strikes Back. And the public watches each instalment with the same tragic amusement, as if these problems are recurring characters rather than unaddressed catastrophes.
We should not be asking, “What are you doing for Children in Need this year?” We should be asking, “Why the fuck is there still a need for Children in Need this year?” Because if the country were functioning properly, this show would have ended years ago.
Imagine saying to someone, “I can’t wait for Children in Need this year.” Why? Why the fuck are you excited? What you’re actually saying, without realising it, is, “I can’t wait for another round of children suffering in ways that could have been prevented, so I can give ten pounds to temporarily reduce my feeling of helplessness.” The correct emotional reaction would be dread. The correct reaction would be, “God, I hope there isn’t a Children in Need this year.” Not because you’re heartless, but because that would mean society had finally grown a spine and addressed the root causes.
But we’re miles from that. Instead, we get the corporate sponsors strutting in like they’re heroes. We get the supermarkets doing their Pudsey-branded pastries while screwing their workers. We get payday lenders donating money they extracted through interest rates that should be illegal. We get energy companies tossing in pocket change while half the country sits in cold houses. It’s reputational laundry by donation. “Look, we care about the children!” they say, while contributing to the conditions that create those children in need in the first place.
And then the celebrities arrive to complete the spectacle. Again, it’s not the individuals – many of them mean well, and some of them genuinely do good work – it’s the culture. The celebrity challenge has become the emotional palate cleanser between the tragedy clips, a way to lift the mood while maintaining the illusion that entertainment and suffering can coexist on the same stage without compromising each other. It’s not intentional cruelty. It’s what happens when tragedy becomes part of a TV schedule. But it still distorts everything. Because it makes suffering consumable. It makes political failure a backdrop to light entertainment. It makes the viewer feel like they’ve gone on a journey, when in reality they’ve gone nowhere.
The show ends, the total gets revealed with massive applause, the fireworks go off, the presenters say goodnight, and everyone goes back to bed feeling warm, inspired, cleansed. And the next morning, the children are still in need.
Because charity does not fix the system, it just fills the gaps. Charity props up the broken architecture so the government doesn’t have to. Charity is a plaster, not a cure. And the more charity you need, the more broken your system is. You don’t need a degree in economics to understand that. You just need common sense.
So what’s the solution? This is where people always get uncomfortable, because everyone wants a neat answer. A positive message. A hopeful sign-off. But the solution is not a list of policies or a ten-point plan or a funding diagram. The solution is to ask the question. The question we never ask.
Why do we need this?
That question, asked loudly enough, asked often enough, asked to the right people, undermines the entire premise of the show. It forces accountability. It forces reflection. It forces politicians to answer for the conditions that make Children in Need possible. It reframes the show from an inspiring display of generosity to a yearly indictment of political failure.
And that is what it should be. A siren. A warning light. A sign that something is deeply, fundamentally wrong. Not a tradition. Not a celebration. Not a cosy night in. A reminder that in a country this wealthy, this developed, this smug about its own greatness, no child should ever need a telethon.
As long as the show continues, the problems continue. As long as we celebrate the total, we ignore the causes. As long as we treat this as entertainment, we let the government off the hook. And as long as we participate without asking questions, we ensure the show will be back next year, with the same issues, the same suffering, the same emotional manipulation, the same plea for help.
So please, ask.
Why do we need this?
Why is this normal?
Why the fuck is this still happening?
Where is the government in all this?
Until we ask these questions, loudly and relentlessly, Children in Need will continue exactly as it is now – a yearly audit of national failure dressed up as a night of national pride.