The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 - Day Six: The Year Parliament Cancelled the Festive Season

 

Christmas Was Once Banned in Britain

It’s strange to imagine, in an age where Christmas seems to start in October, as the shops gear up for a winter spending spree, that there was a time when the festive season wasn’t just discouraged — it was actually illegal in Britain.

Yes, Christmas was cancelled.

In 1647, right in the aftermath of the English Civil War, Parliament cancelled Christmas. And not just for a year or two. For thirteen years, Christmas Day, decorations, feasting, and merriment were all banned by law.

England in Turmoil

By 1647, the first English Civil War had ended. Parliament’s forces had defeated the Royalists after seven years of conflict. But the fighting didn’t immediately stop. There was a brief and bloody second war, and eventually King Charles I was taken prisoner.

Negotiations failed, and compromise was impossible. In early 1649, England executed its king. Power now rested firmly with Oliver Cromwell and the Parliamentarians. The country was declared a republic. In the aftermath, the Church of England was abolished and replaced with a strict Presbyterian system.

And the Puritans were now in charge.

The Ban on Christmas

To the Puritan mind, Christmas had drifted away from its religious roots. They saw it as a day of excess, idleness, drinking, feasting, dancing, and wastefulness. In general, people are having too much fun. It was everything they disapproved of.

So Parliament abolished it.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 - Day Two: The Christmas Truce, 1914 - Football in the Trenches

 

 

 

The First World War was unlike anything the world had seen before. A conflict of mud, wire, artillery and unimaginable loss. By winter 1914, the Western Front across Europe had solidified into a vast network of trenches. 

A front line of two armies faced each other, with long, zig-zagging trenches dug in the earth that stretched for hundreds of miles. Between them lay a wasteland of destroyed cities and villages. The ground was a mixture of shell holes, shattered trees, churned mud, and lost lives. 

This was No Man’s Land, and to cross it — “going over the top” — was for many the last action that they would take in the war.

On some days, casualties ran into the tens of thousands, as each side took it in turns to find a breakthrough. And yet, for all the horror, the opposing trenches were often just a stone’s throw away. In places, there were no more than fifty yards between the British and German soldiers. They could hear the enemy talking, singing, and coughing. Occasionally, even laughing. 

A Different Kind of Silence

As December approached, winter tightened its grip. But something else began to happen too — something unexpected.

On Christmas Eve, on certain stretches of the front, the guns went silent. Not everywhere; there was no official truce, but it was enough to be noticed. British soldiers reported hearing carols drifting across the lines. “Stille Nacht” sung by German voices. Some units replied with “The First Noel” or “O Come All Ye Faithful”. 

For a moment, music replaced gunfire.

These were not formal negotiations. There were no officers signing an agreement or diplomats shaking hands. The truce emerged from the trenches. Enemies called out to one another.

Did You Know… People In The UK Used to Phone the Speaking Clock (and some still do)?

So yes, did you know people really did phone the Speaking Clock — thousands of calls a day — just to set the time? Another wonderfully peculiar detail of everyday British life from a world that didn’t yet run on digital certainty.

 

There are some bits of everyday life from the 1960s and 70s that younger generations struggle to believe. Like how we would phone a number just to find out the exact time. And we would pay to do so as well. But for decades, the Speaking Clock was as essential to British households as the kettle, the teasmade, and the bedside alarm clock.

Phoning the Speaking Clock became a regular part of our lives.

Before smartphones, digital displays, checking the internet, or shouting out to Siri or Alexa, “Hey, what time is it?”, the Speaking Clock was the most reliable way to find out the correct time.

And people used it. A lot. At its peak, it received tens of thousands of calls a day. It even had a human name — of sorts. If you dialled TIM (or later, 123), you were immediately greeted by an unmistakably British voice.

Imagine the scene — I need to know the time.

“Mam, what’s the time? The clock has stopped.” I would shout out.

“I haven’t got my watch on; give TIM a call.”

Of course, you would need to have a landline phone at home, and ours didn’t arrive until the mid-1970s. But when it did, it was a novelty to call the Speaking Clock.

“At the third stroke, the time will be…” TIM spoke, followed by three neat pips.

It was simple, functional, and, in its own way, a tiny bit magical.

Did You Know… Until 1987, You Needed a Licence to Own a Dog in The UK?

 

 

So yes, did you know that until 1987, you needed a licence to own a dog — and it cost 7 shillings? Another small detail from a time when the family dog trotted happily beside you, blissfully unaware it was the subject of official government documentation.

 

There are certain quirks of everyday British life that quietly disappear and later resurface in memory with a mix of amusement and mild disbelief. 

One of these is the dog licence. 

There was a time when, if you had a dog, you would need that small piece of paper to prove you were the owner. It was legally required to have one until 1987, and for decades, they cost the princely sum of 7 shillings (35 new pence). 

'Princely' was the right word, though, as my first family dog went by the name of Prince. Despite his royal name, he was a mongrel dog, a happy one, but also an illegal one. I don’t remember us ever having a licence for him, but there again, I was quite young at the time. Such legal matters were not on my mind, and I don’t think it bothered Prince either, as he just went about his business of being a dog. 

In the 1960s or 70s, you might occasionally hear someone say, “Have you got a licence for that dog?” It wasn’t said as a joke but as an entirely sensible question. Although I think the police probably had better and more important things to do with their time.

Like today, back then, dogs were everywhere. We British do like our pet dogs. They become part of the family and like to be treated as such. They don’t ask for much, just to be fed, taken for lots of walks, and shown a little love. In return, they give loyalty. 

When I was very young, my mother would take Prince with us on the morning walk to school. Then, mid-afternoon when I was picked up, after a hard day of ignoring the teachers, there he would be, waiting at the school gate, ready for his next walk. Like all dogs, Prince liked his walks, whether it was to the school, local shop or pub. The pub was where he would snooze under the table, waiting for food scraps to come his way. After a long walk, he was hungry. 

Wherever we took him, I don’t think anyone ever asked us if we had a dog licence. He was never barred from anywhere.

But for the law-abiding, owning a dog meant a trip to the post office to do your duty and buy the licence. It was a simple enough process — you filled in a form, handed over your 7 shillings, and left with your official piece of bureaucracy. 

The dog would not have had to pass any test, no inspection, no check of the owner's ability to control a dog that had ideas above its station. You were not asked any questions about its background or where it came from.

It was, in truth, an exercise in mild government administration. One that had been around for a long time, and no one seemed to question. It was taken seriously enough to make the responsible dog owner feel properly legitimate.

A little like having a radio licence, and a TV licence, and a fishing licence, and…

Did You Know… Central Heating Wasn't Common in British Homes Until the Late 1970s?

 

So yes, did you know that for most UK households, central heating didn’t become the norm until the late 1970s? Many of us grew up in cold bedrooms and homes where keeping warm in winter was a yearly challenge.

This morning was cold. I looked out of the window and noticed that every roof was covered in ice. Cars and the pavements were iced over as well. And, officially, winter hasn’t begun yet.

At least today, we have central heating to keep out the cold.

If you grew up in a British home before the late 1970s, you’ll know that heating the house — the whole house — was being optimistic. Heating a room, usually a single room, was a more accurate description of family life.

The idea that every room could be warmed at the turn of a thermostat belonged firmly to the future. If you were well-off, or posh, maybe you could afford it, but there was no one like that in my neighbourhood. Futuristic TV adverts and the pages of the Ideal Home magazine promised a better future, but for most of us, central heating was an exotic luxury, like a colour TV or crisps in flavours other than ready salted.

The typical UK home of the 60s and 70s was built around the living room fire. It was king. King Coal, in fact. That single fire was expected to heat the entire family and, if you were lucky, most of the downstairs. Bedrooms? Bathrooms (if you had one)? The landing? Those were places you dashed through at speed, wrapped in a dressing gown, determined to complete your journey before frostbite set in.

Condensation wasn’t a minor annoyance — it ran down single-glazed windows like a miniature waterfall, creating small black mould that everyone pretended not to notice. This was long before the days of double glazing, and insulation in houses was, well, what was insulation? In winter, ice on the inside of windows wasn’t unusual. Your bedroom felt less like a domestic space and more like a poorly insulated Arctic outpost.

An icebox.

What’s in a Name? Forgotten British Names of the Past

 

Ever wonder what happened to names like Hilda, Norman, or Enid? This nostalgic look back explores the once-popular British names that defined generations — and quietly disappeared from everyday life.

 

What's In a Name?

My name is Martin. I’ve no idea who chose it for me — Mam? Dad? A coin toss? I never asked. Apparently, it was a popular name in the early 1960s, so perhaps they simply went with fashion. Not that “fashionable” is the word you’d associate with “Martin” these days. Dependable, perhaps. I might have picked something else.

Names, like hemlines and pop bands, go in and out of fashion. Some have their moment in the sun, then quietly slip away, only to be revived decades later by a new generation of parents who think they’re wonderfully vintage.

Others never quite make a comeback. They seem to be too firmly anchored to another time, another place, another era entirely.

Take a look at the top baby names in the UK in 2024, and it’s a different world altogether.

For boys, the top five last year were Muhammad, Noah, Oliver, Arthur, and Leo.

For girls — Olivia, Amelia, Lily, Isla, and Ivy.

Arthur surprised me, though. A name from the past. I came across quite a few Arthur's in the 1960s and 70s. Not just the historical ones, like King Arthur. There was Arthur Lowe of Dad’s Army fame and Arthur Askey and his ghost train. In tennis, Arthur Ashe won Wimbledon in 1975.

Arthur was the number one boys’ name in Wales in 2024. Not bad for a bloke who once pulled a sword from a stone. Arthur, it seems, never truly goes out of style; it just goes to sleep for a few decades.

But what about the names that have gone quiet? The ones that once filled playgrounds and office chats, pub quiz teams and post office queues. The Hilda's, the Normans, the Enid's of yesteryear.

Where did they all go?

Time for a nostalgic wander through a few of them.

Hilda

Once common across Britain, particularly among the working classes in the early 20th century, Hilda comes from the Old Norse hildr, meaning “battle”. A tough name, and there was probably none tougher than Hilda Ogden from Coronation Street. Jean Alexander played her from 1964 to 1987, with her curlers, her flying ducks, and her famous “muriel” on the wall. Hilda and her long-suffering husband Stan, the Ogden's of the street.

The only other Hilda I recall was Hilda Braid, who played Florence in Citizen Smith. Robert Lindsay’s Wolfie Smith shouted “Power to the people!” from revolutionary Tooting. Braid, as Florence, brought a mix of motherly naivety and comic relief. I doubt there are many Hilda's in Tooting these days.

Enid

Enid is one of those names that seems destined for the world of writing. We have a best-selling author, 600 million worldwide and counting, Enid Blyton. From Noddy to The Famous Five, she was a prolific writer who had the output of an AI writer today.

Her books were sometimes banned for being too old-fashioned, too class-conscious, or too politically incorrect for the time, but they were read all the same. Even today, millions still read them, though probably on a Kindle rather than with a torch in a secret smugglers’ cave as the tide comes in.

The Boy, the Bonfire, and the Man Called Guy – Remembering Bonfire Night

It begins in October, with the sound of a loud bang in the early evening, followed by an occasional whoosh. It tells me Bonfire Night is almost upon us. Come November, the air will smell faintly of smoke and fireworks—it was the same when I was a boy. 

A memory stirs.

I’m back in a 1960s backstreet, clutching a homemade “Guy” and hoping for a penny or two. This is a look back at Bonfire Night, the real story of Guy Fawkes, and the fading sparks of a very British tradition.

Somewhere in Middle England, late 1960s

A small boy stands outside a corner shop with a homemade effigy, whom we call “Guy”. A bundle of old clothes stuffed with newspaper, a hat perched at a slight angle, and a paper face meant to resemble one of the most famous villains in British history: Guy Fawkes.

“Penny for the Guy?” the boy calls, hopefully.

A man passes, uninterested. The boy tries again. “Penny for the Guy, please, sir?”

A young woman looks over, smiles, and rummages through her basket. She pulls out a purse and produces a big copper penny, and then another — pre-decimal coins that felt like real money.

“Be careful with those fireworks,” she says kindly, handing them over.

He grins, pockets the coins, and can already hear the whoosh and bang of rockets in his imagination.

I was that boy, out on dark nights, asking strangers for a few pennies so I could buy fireworks to celebrate a tradition that, at the time, I had little understanding of. Except we were told that Guy Fawkes was a bad man.

The Spark Behind the Celebration

For those unfamiliar with the roots of Bonfire Night, it all goes back to 1605, when a group of English Catholics plotted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. It was called the Gunpowder Plot, and its aim was simple but spectacular—to assassinate King James I and wipe out much of the Protestant ruling class in one fiery blast.

The ringleader was a man named Robert Catesby. He believed that Catholics were persecuted under Protestant rule, and, in fairness, they were. Catesby’s “solution”, however, was not one that would have gone down well in any century.

Enter Guy (or Guido) Fawkes, a soldier and explosives expert who had been fighting for Catholic Spain. He was recruited to handle the dangerous bit, guarding the barrels of gunpowder and, when the time came, lighting the fuse.

As plots go, it was elaborate, daring, and destined to fail. The conspirators were betrayed before they could strike. Fawkes was caught red-handed in the cellars beneath Parliament with enough explosives to change the course of history.