Review of December 2025.

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December 2025 swept into Britain like a glitter cannon fired by an over‑excited elf, and I must say what a month! I’ve never seen a nation so determined to enjoy itself while simultaneously complaining about absolutely everything. It’s a talent. A gift. A national sport, really.

London, of course, was showing off as usual. The Christmas lights were blazing away across the city Oxford Street, Regent Street, Covent Garden all sparkling like they’d been sponsored by the National Grid. And the ice rinks! Everywhere you turned, there was another one. all filled with people who absolutely could not skate but insisted on trying anyway. Nothing says “festive spirit” like watching a grown man cling to the barrier like he’s on the deck of a sinking ship!

And the Royal Albert Hall was belting out carols right up until Christmas Eve. Oh, the voices! The harmonies! The audience pretending they knew the second verse of anything! It was all terribly moving especially the bit where half the crowd filmed the entire thing on their phones instead of actually looking at it. Very modern. Very tragic.

Meanwhile, down in Great Yarmouth, they were having the time of their lives. The Hippodrome Christmas Spectacular was back, complete with dancers, singers, acrobats, and that famous water finale. A whole circus building that turns into a swimming pool it’s like Vegas, but with more cardigans. And Sea Life was running an “arctic Christmas adventure,” which I assume involved penguins judging you silently while you walked past. Penguins are very judgemental, They judge as they waddle.

Norwich, not to be outdone, was already selling tickets for next year’s musicals and comedy shows. The Bodyguard was returning, which is marvellous news for anyone who enjoys a dramatic ballad and a man in a suit looking stressed. And hundreds of tiny dancers were preparing for their big moment in Paint the Stage children aged three and up, which means at least half of them will be facing the wrong direction at any given time. Adorable chaos.

Over in Somerset, they were wrapping up their Christmas tree festival dozens of trees decorated by local groups, all displayed in a church like a forest curated by enthusiastic amateurs. And the pantomime in Yeovil was in full swing, with Beauty and the Beast running right up to the new year. Nothing says “British Christmas” like a man in a frock shouting, “It’s behind you!” while children scream like they’re being chased by wolves.

Nationally, December was bursting with special days. Advent kicked off on the first, St Andrew’s Day was celebrated in Scotland, and then came Christmas Jumper Day that magical moment when the entire country dresses like they’ve been mugged by a knitting club. Everywhere you looked, there were jumpers with flashing lights, jingling bells, and slogans like “SLEIGH ALL DAY,” worn by people who absolutely should know better.

And of course, the Christmas markets were everywhere. Mulled wine, wooden huts, sausages the size of small dogs all very festive. People queued for hours to buy handmade ornaments that looked suspiciously like they’d been made in a factory in bulk. But that’s the magic of Christmas: paying £14 for something you’ll lose in a drawer by March.

Transport, naturally, was a disaster. London had station closures, diversions, and enough engineering works to make you wonder if the railways were being rebuilt from scratch. But the good news was: “not as much disruption as previous years.” Imagine that being your festive message. “Merry Christmas — it’s slightly less awful than usual!”

And then,, came the theatre. Oh, the theatre! Les Misérables, Twelfth Night, comedy shows, pantomimes — the whole country was performing. Even people who weren’t in shows were performing, usually in supermarkets, arguing over the last turkey crown or demanding to know why the mince pies were sold out. Drama everywhere.

By the time New Year’s Eve approached, Britain was exhausted full of cheese, slightly drunk, financially ruined, and emotionally fragile. But still smiling. Still sparkling. Still insisting that next year will be “the one.”

Oh, you adorable optimists.


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