The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 - Day Five: Shopping like It's The 1970s

It’s Christmas, 2025, but yesterday out shopping, I was reminded of the 1970s. No, it wasn’t the sound of Slade or Wizard singing about Christmas over the tannoy; it was too early for that. I was looking at the prices on the shelf. 

It has become a holiday tradition for certain supermarkets, on this day, Aldi and Lidl, to reduce prices on a number of staple Christmas food items — usually, Christmas dinner.

The prices were at 1970s level.

Potatoes, carrots, sprouts, shallots, parsnips, and turnip were all priced at eight pence. At Lidl, I bought one of each: potatoes, carrots, sprouts and shallots, for thirty-two pence. The receipt told me what the discount was — £3.87.

You would need a time machine to see prices like that.

The UK has been going through a cost of living crisis for some time, and inflation is always there. The longer you live, the more of it you see and remember. Growing up as a young boy in the 1960s and 70s, I saw plenty of inflation. My pocket money, and earnings from the paper round, did not go far. Little changes in that regard, although I gave up delivering newspapers long ago.

So, if you live in the UK and have an Aldi or Lidl nearby, go and get a bargain, and party like it’s 1970!

** An update: I went to my local Lidl this morning (19th Dec), and they have dropped their price to five pence. It's more like shopping in the 1960s now.

And as I left the store, over the tannoy, Noddy Holder and Slade were singing Merry Xmas...

More can be found here: The Twelve Posts of Christmas

 

Image by CrimsonMystique from Pixabay

The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 - Day Four: Brussels Sprouts and the Mysterious Christmas Pong

 

 

The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 is my festive wander through memories, 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 the mid-1970s, the day before Christmas Eve. It’s a typical British winter scene, as I’m trudging through a thin mist that we hope will deliver snow, but more likely it will rain. I’m on my way to the house of the family who was looking after my dog Lisa—a mischievous animal, with a temperament that suggested she was a law unto herself.

As soon as I stepped inside the front room, I was hit by it.

A smell.

Not a strong one, but the kind that creeps up on you — a sort of lingering, unidentifiable pong that is noticeable and doesn’t go away.

Naturally, my first thought was Lisa.

She was sitting in the corner, looking vaguely guilty in that classic canine way. Her ears were slightly down, as was her head, her eyes avoiding mine. If she were a human, her posture would say, “I’d like to speak to my solicitor.”

It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d left an aromatic surprise, but she had been trained to go outside.

Something felt… off.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas - Day Three: 1970s Christmas TV: A Promise of Endless Excitement

 

There was a time, and it wasn’t that long ago, when Christmas television was every bit as exciting as the presents under the tree. It was a family highlight of the year — something to look forward to.

And all of that excitement began with the two sacred texts of television: the Radio Times and the TV Times. As Christmas approached, they arrived at the newsagent's, heavy with festive promise, you could smell the ink on the pages when you opened them.

They were the unofficial start of Christmas in many British households.

What’s In A Name?

The Radio Times was the original British Christmas radio and television listing magazine — how could it not be? Until commercial television and radio came along, there was only the BBC. 

And for a while, it was only radio.

That history and tradition lives on in the name of the magazine, Radio Times. Although, today, and for some time now, the radio has taken a backseat to the world of visual media in the magazine. ‘Television’, in whatever way it is broadcast now — over the air waves, digital, satellite, cable, online or by smartphone, rules the day. 

But it began with radio. The 1940 Radio Times (image above) was all about the radio listings. In those dark, early days of the Second World War, it was the only radio entertainment that people had. 

Then television arrived, slowly at first, but by the 1970s, when Christmas arrived, it gave us everything that the entertainment industry had to offer.

The 1970s Experience—Three Channels, Several Generations, One Living Room.

Christmas telly back then was different. 

With only three channels — BBC1, BBC2 and a regional commercial channel (I think we had ATV) — choice was limited, but the listings had real weight. We did have our own version of ‘doom-scrolling’ the listings magazines to see what was on. You also had to buy both magazines, as each only listed their own TV schedule.

When it came to how we watched, there was no streaming, no catch-up, no play later. Until video came along, if you missed it, you missed it. Forever, or until it was repeated — probably the next Christmas. And television closed down for the evening around midnight, starting up again in the morning.

The fear of missing a favourite show was as real as running out of Quality Street or Cadbury’s Roses on Christmas Day.

Most homes only had the one television — that one source of home entertainment. There was no TV in every room, or parents saying, “Go and watch it on the internet.” There was no, “I’ll watch it on my phone in my room.” 

Christmas became a battleground of television rights, and it could get ugly. There would be ongoing living-room negotiations about what would be watched. The disagreements could rival anything at the United Nations.

“There’s a good film on ATV at the same time. Let’s watch that.”

“BBC1’s got the big Christmas special. We can’t miss it.”

“We have to watch Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em and Blankety Blank.”

“Can we watch Top of the Pops?”

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.

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… There Was a Time When The UK Top 40 Music Chart Was Only Announced Once a Week.

 

No streaming stats — just the suspense of Sunday evening on Radio 1.

A long, long time ago, before Spotify charts, YouTube views or midweek updates on social media, there was just one moment in the entire week when Britain found out what the biggest hit songs in the country were: Sunday evening, on Radio 1, the new Top 40 was revealed in real time.

The Weekly Appointment Everyone Kept

Imagine a typical Sunday evening back in the 1970s. Tea was over, or about to be served, homework for school (I hoped) done, and the house settling into that slightly melancholic weekend-almost-over, work-tomorrow vibe. 

Then came the build-up: the Radio 1 jingle and the DJ’s voice of the official chart show would begin. At the time, the DJ’s were big names, Alan Freeman, Tom Browne, Simon Bates and Tony Blackburn.

This was a world where listening to the chart countdown actually felt like an event. A collective experience that would be shared by millions of households up and down the land. No algorithms, no real-time stats, no leaks. The whole nation found out at the same time who was going up, who was going down, the new songs that made the top 40, and who sat on top — the nation’s number one.

And then it began — the official countdown of the nation’s favourite music. At first, it only covered the top 20, but from 1978, it was expanded — Top 40 down to 1. In an age of instant information, it’s hard to convey just how exciting the slow drip-feed of the countdown was. The slow reveal. The rising tension.

We all had a favourite artist, the bands, and singers that we hoped would get in or move up. And the ones we didn’t like, we hoped would fall. The top 40 was the ultimate chart of mainstream music; it was based on actual sales in the shops. No downloads, digital or online listening — just the sale of records — and they were vinyl records — the old seven-inch single. You had to go out and buy them at an actual shop for it to count!

And vinyl records back then sold in their millions.

The Mystery of Chart Movement

Sometimes we wondered why a record was successful.

Here are a few typical comments that might be heard as the weekly chart revealed itself.

“Why’s that gone up seven places?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“How on earth has that dropped to 18?”

“Who is buying all these records?”

“Why would anyone waste their money buying that?”

But the chart was open to anyone who could sell records. Alongside the big names like The Beatles, Queen and ABBA, one-hit wonders could make their mark. Novelty records often became big hits. There was always a surprise or two making the charts.

Here’s a selection.

Bobby “Boris” Picket and the Crypt Kickers had a hit with Monster Mash in September 1973.

Sylvia had a holiday-themed hit with Y Viva España in August 1974, reaching number 4. “We are off to sunny Spain, Y Viva España…”

Actor Telly Savalas, with his lollipop and “Who loves ya, baby?” got to number one with If in February 1975 due to the popularity of his Kojak character on the telly.

And actor David Soul, who played Hutch in Starsky and Hutch, did even better than Savalas. He had a million seller with Don’t Give Up On Us in 1976. Actually, he sold a lot of records. Between 1976 and 1978, he had five UK Top 20 singles, two at number one, and two Top 10 albums.

Jilted John, otherwise known as comic actor and singer Graham Fellows, (John Shuttleworth), had a hit with Jilted John reaching number 4 in August 1978, singing that Gordon was a moron.

The Art of the Home Recording

Did You Know… There Was a Time When People collected 'Green Shield Stamps' to Get Their First Toaster or TV?

 

Collected from supermarkets and petrol stations, saved in books, then traded in for household goods.

Another journey, back in time to the 1960s and 70s.

Before we had loyalty cards, club points, air miles and shopper loyalty schemes, there was one system that reigned supreme for Britain’s shoppers: Green Shield Stamps.

For those of us who remember the time, these little green stamps were as much a part of everyday life as the weekly shop or the big catalogue that introduced the world of buying on credit. The stamps were everywhere and much sought after. Picked up at the till at the local shop or supermarket, or when filling up the car at the petrol station, they were tucked away into purses and wallets, taken home and stuck in a little book.

For millions of families, eventually, you would have enough for a new kettle, transistor radio or even the first colour TV. Consumerism, and the life of your dreams, was just a stamp away.

A Brief History.

What were Green Shield Stamps?

They were introduced in the UK in 1958, with a very simple idea:

Spend money = Get stamps = Stick them in a book = Swap books for goods. 

It wasn’t complicated, and millions did it. Supermarkets like Tesco, and other retailers, big and small, joined — thousands of them. Petrol stations were encouraged to take part as well. They all handed out stamps based on the amount you spent.

Each book would hold 1,280 stamps, and one stamp was equal to six pence spent. That was pre-decimalisation, 1971. In new pennies, a stamp was given for every two and a half pence.

An occasional trip to the local shop might yield dozens, while the big weekly shop could earn a sheetful. Over time, you’d collect enough sheets to fill up a Green Shield Stamp Saver Book. It was a chunky little booklet with a grid layout that, over time, got fatter and fatter as the stamps were added to it.

But adding the stamps to the book was a weekly job that no one wanted. Licking them was often given to the kids to do, with the comment, “Make sure you put the stamps in straight…” The stamps never went in straight.

It was a novelty at first, until that horrible taste of glue got the better of you. Licking several hundred stamps lost its appeal after a while. No one told us that using a damp sponge in a little soap dish was the way to go.

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.

Did You Know…The 'Art' of the Comic Advert - The Age of a New Consumerism

 

I wrote yesterday about the advertisements on the back of kids’ comics back in the 1960s and 70s, specifically, X-Ray specs.

The adverts themselves were a masterpiece of salesmanship. They understood their young audience perfectly and created ads that would tempt us to part with our money.

The 1960s and 70s were the age of a new consumerism, and it started early.

As kids, we were curious, mischievous, and just about gullible enough to believe whatever the advertising industry told us. The artwork was exaggerated, and the words tempted us. The promises were outrageous but affordable, more often than not, a few shillings — and that included the postage.

The actual purchase would be made with a postal order from the post office. You would go there, queue with the adults, including the grumpy ones, and get your postal order. While there, you would pop it into an envelope with the order, put a first-class stamp on it, which back then cost about 3 pence, and post it in the letterbox outside. Just like an adult.

Job done, then you waited.

This was a world without instant reviews, YouTube and TikTok influencers telling us what to buy, watchdog programmes, or online forums. No one stood between the child and the dream. We never knew what we were really buying until it actually turned up.

It was only then that you would either be overjoyed or totally disappointed.

While catalogues like Littlewoods, Kays and Freemans showed you what you could have for Christmas months before the actual day, the comics promised something you might have by next Tuesday. Of course, that depended on the reliability of the post.

But we didn’t have to wait too long.

Did You Know… Kids In the 1970s Could Buy X-Ray Specs from the Back of a Comic?

 

“See-through clothes!” promised the ads in Whizzer and Chips, The Beano, and just about every comic a kid could get their hands on. Entirely untrue, of course.

 

If you grew up in the 1960s or 70s, you’ll remember that the back pages of children’s comics were filled with adverts for itching powder, magic tricks, prank gum, and rubber masks. But there was one that stood out, aimed firmly at childhood gullibility: X-Ray Specs.

To younger generations today, with smartphones and high-resolution everything, the idea may seem laughable. But in the pre-digital age, a time when TV shut down at night, and “special effects” meant a blue screen on Tomorrow’s World — the promise of being able to see through solid objects was nothing short of a miracle.

That is what the X-Ray specs promised us. It would give us X-ray vision.

The adverts didn’t even try to be subtle about it. The drawing usually featured a boy staring wide-eyed at a young woman, the dotted outline of her body revealed as if by magic. Very 1970s, inappropriate, and unrealistic, but we all wanted a pair.

Just imagine showing up at school being able to look through walls, desks, and…clothes. 

Who would dare turn up with X-Ray specs? Well, my mate Tony did. He had seen the ad in the back of Whizzer and Chips, or it might have been The Dandy. He saved up and sent off for a pair. I think they cost him three shillings, which was about fifteen new pence post decimilisation, including postage.

The specs themselves were made of cardboard, with red-and-white spiral lenses. Inside were thin bits of plastic film that created a double-image effect. When you looked at your hand, you’d see a faint shadow offset from the real thing. That shadow was supposed to represent the X-ray. In reality, it just looked like everything was slightly out of focus.

Even back then, paying three shillings for a flimsy pair of glasses that looked like they would last five minutes seemed a rip-off.