Review of November 2025.

November 2025 in Britain… oh, it was a belter. One of those months where the whole country looks like it’s been left out in the rain overnight. Everybody’s damp, confused, and walking about with that expression that says, “I’ve no idea what’s going on, but I’m sure it’s somebody else’s fault.”

The month kicked off with Bonfire Night, of course the annual celebration of a man who tried to blow up Parliament, and every year we go, “Aye, fair enough.” You can always tell it’s November because the dog population of Britain collectively decides to hide behind the sofa until spring. And the fireworks! They used to be wee things a sparkler, a Catherine wheel nailed to a fence. Now they’re like military-grade explosives. You light one and half the neighbourhood ducks for cover. There’s always one guy in a tracksuit lighting rockets out of a milk bottle, shouting, “Stand back, lads!” as if he’s conducting a NASA launch.

Then we had the Remembrance events, which Britain does beautifully. The whole country goes quiet for two minutes which is a miracle, considering we can’t even queue quietly. You get grown men in supermarkets standing still with a basket of frozen chips, looking solemn. It’s lovely. And then, two minutes later, someone’s arguing about the price of custard creams again. Back to normal.

Politically, November was a circus. Parliament came back from whatever break they’d just had they’re always on a break, aren’t they? If they worked any less, they’d be a screensaver. And they started arguing about budgets, taxes, spending, cuts… the usual stuff. You turn on the news and it’s just a bunch of people in suits shouting numbers at each other like they’re doing avant‑garde theatre. “We need fiscal responsibility!” “We need investment!” “We need a biscuit!” Nobody knows what they’re talking about, least of all them.

Meanwhile, the NHS was having another crisis because it’s a month ending in “ember.” Hospitals were warning about winter pressures, staff shortages, flu season, COVID spikes, norovirus outbreaks, and the fact that half the country insists on turning up at A&E because they’ve sneezed twice and Googled themselves into a panic. Doctors must look at us and think, “How have you people survived this long?”

And then there was the weather. November weather in Britain is like being slapped in the face with a wet towel every morning. Cold, dark, windy — the kind of wind that doesn’t just blow, it shoves you. You’re walking along minding your own business and suddenly you’re three feet to the left, heading into a hedge. And the rain! It doesn’t fall — it drifts sideways like it’s trying to sneak up on you.

Of course, November is when the shops start playing Christmas music. Not December. Not late November. No, no — the first. You walk into Tesco for a loaf of bread and suddenly Mariah Carey is screaming at you like a banshee. And the decorations! Britain goes mad for Christmas lights. Every street has at least one house that looks like it’s trying to signal aircraft. You can see it from space. There’s always a dad on a ladder shouting, “Hold it steady!” while his partner stands below thinking, “If he falls, I’m not phoning anyone.”

Then we had Black Friday, which Britain adopted from America even though we don’t understand it. It’s meant to be a day of bargains, but all we get is a 7% discount on a toaster and a fistfight in Asda. People queue at 5am to save £12 on an air fryer just as baby Jesus would have wanted! You’ve got to admire the commitment, if not the sanity.

In Scotland, November brought the usual early darkness, where the sun gives up at about half past three. You wake up in the dark, go to work in the dark, come home in the dark it’s like living inside a coal mine. And every Scottish granny says the same thing: “The nights are fair drawin’ in,” as if it’s a new discovery.

Transport was its usual shambles. Trains delayed, roads flooded, buses disappearing like they’ve been abducted. You check the timetable and it says the bus is due in two minutes. Then it says “Due.” Then it says “Delayed.” Then it disappears entirely, like it never existed. You start questioning your own memory. “Was there ever a number 47? Have I imagined it?”

And of course, November is when Britain starts panicking about heating bills. Everyone’s walking around their house in three jumpers, a hat, and a blanket, refusing to turn the thermostat up because it costs the same as a small holiday.

By the end of the month, the whole country was tired, cold, skint, and pretending to be excited for Christmas while secretly dreading it.

In other words —  

a perfectly normal British November.