The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 - Day One: The Christmas Top 40 And The Number One We Waited All Year For

The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 is my festive wander through memories, history, traditions, mishaps and moments — from childhood Christmases of the 60s and 70s to the quirks of celebrating today. Think nostalgia sprinkled with humour, a pinch of honesty, and the occasional whiff of Brussels sprouts. 

Let’s unwrap the season, one story at a time.

 

 

It’s just a few weeks away, but does the Christmas Number One record across the nation still matter?

There was a time in Britain when it was big, and it mattered to a lot of people. It was a national, glittering piece of pop-culture theatre we all gathered around the radio to hear. And, of course, it all happened long before you could tap your phone and know instantly who was selling what. 

There was a time when you had to wait. And wait. And wait.

In the 1960s, 70s and well into the 80s, the race for the Christmas Number One was a proper competition. And there was an annual battle between many artists, bands, and singers every year to produce a Christmas single and be in the top spot.  

The Sunday Before Christmas Countdown

We would find out who was number one with the ‘official’ chart show on the Sunday before Christmas. The ritual was always the same. Early evening, Christmas holidays ahead, or if you had finished school, celebrating already, BBC Radio One, then the countdown would begin. The chart rundown — 40, 39, 38 — each one bringing us closer to the big announcement. 

Who was in the top spot? Who had missed out? Which act, for better or worse, would forever be remembered as the Christmas Number One? Their name etched into British pop-culture immortality.

The Giants of Christmas Past

Everyone has a favourite Christmas Number One. 

For some of a certain age, it might be Cliff Richard. He seemed to always have a Christmas single out, and often still does. In 1960, with The Shadows, he was number one with I Love You. As a solo artist, he had to wait until 1988, when Mistletoe and Wine hit the top spot. This year, glam rockers The Darkness have covered it, hoping to hit the top spot.

Is it possible that in the 1950s, the first Christmas-type song to top the charts was Winifred Atwell, with Let’s Have Another Party in 1954? The next year, it was definitely a Christmas song, Christmas Alphabet, by Dickie Valentine.

Did You Know… In the 1960s and 70s, Every Town Had a High-Street Record Shop With Listening Booths?

 

We had HMV, Woolworths, and tiny independents where you could test a single before you bought it.

Back in the early to mid-1970s, I would pay a weekly visit to an independent record shop in the local city centre, or “up town” as we liked to say. By then, I was old enough to have my own record player at home — an old square box with a lid on it that made a tinny sound. It was mono, and the only speaker was built into the box.

It would be a while before I managed to buy a stereo record player with twin speakers.

The record shop visit was a weekend, Saturday ritual. It had to be a Saturday, because everywhere was shut on a Sunday. I would save up my pocket money, topped up later by money from a paper round.

The high-street record shop was a central part of teenage life, although you would rarely find me browsing the latest Top 40. I would spend my time looking through racks of records of the obscure. Bands and artists, many of which I had never heard of.

The city had the big high street names like HMV, with its iconic dog-and-gramophone logo. A place where everything looked neat, and they had knowledgeable staff. Woolworths, by contrast, had a jumble sale, pick and mix charm — rows of singles in plastic sleeves, “DISCOUNT” boxes, and “ex-chart” records that nobody had heard of.

But it was the smaller independent shops that had real character. Every town had at least one. They could usually be found down a side street, or in the back streets, out of the way. Shops that were a little scruffy, often looked run down and were owned by someone who knew everything that there was to know about the music they sold. They could tell you who produced the B-side, and whether your favourite band’s new single was “a bit commercial, mate.” 

This was long before online streaming, playlists, or algorithms. No YouTube or MTV. All we had was the radio, and that was, for the most part, very mainstream. Music wasn’t just something you clicked to hear. It was something you had to make an effort to get, physically, deliberately.

It was at the record shop that you might find something you liked, but only after a good deal of dithering. But the shop provided us with the means to do it — the listening booth.

The booth was a tiny wooden cubicle where you could sample a record before deciding whether it was worth spending your hard-earned 50p. It was like a phone box, but darker and a lot warmer. There was usually more than one, all in a row.