What’s in Your Christmas Glass Says More Than You Think

Ah, Christmas. That magical window between December and New Year when families reunite, sprouts are overcooked with grim determination, and we buy wine as if the shops might close forever. Again.

But pause mid-pour for a moment. Have you ever wondered why we drink what we drink at Christmas?

From dusty bottles of Port clutched in draughty drawing rooms to chilled English fizz popped in underfloor-heated kitchens, the British festive glass tells a surprisingly revealing story. Empire, war, class anxiety, feminism, marketing, and the eternal fear of running out of booze are all sloshing around in there.

A hundred years ago, Christmas drinking was a fortified affair. Interwar Britain was cold, coal-heated and deeply respectful of Sherry. It warmed you up, didn’t go off, and gave people a reason to gather before lunch. Sherry parties flourished, while Port was solemnly passed to the left after dinner by the men, as women were dispatched to the drawing room with polite smiles and suspiciously empty glasses. Tradition, you see.

The Empire also made its presence felt. “Empire wines” from Australia and South Africa were enthusiastically promoted as the patriotic choice, even if they tasted like boiled raisins with attitude. Nothing said Christmas cheer like supporting global trade while grimacing.

Then came the war, and festive drinking turned into an exercise in endurance. Imported wine was scarce, France was occupied, and shipping lanes were under attack. Enter the infamous “Government Sherry”, cheap, anonymous and sold by merchants through clenched teeth. If your grandmother ever served a Sherry that tasted faintly of regret, this was probably why. Mulled wine was largely a fantasy; citrus fruit was rarer than joy, and powdered egg was doing the rounds instead.

Post-war Britain, however, was desperate to have a good time again, and preferably a glamorous one. Cue Babycham: fizzy, sweet and marketed squarely at women, complete with its own dainty glassware and a smiling deer. It made pubs feel acceptable and festive drinking feel modern. Around the same time, food writers like Elizabeth David were quietly suggesting radical ideas such as drinking wine with food and not automatically roasting everything in sight.

Supermarkets got involved, too. By the 1960s, you could pick up a bottle of French wine alongside the bread rolls, and the Christmas table began to look a little more continental, or at least aspirational.

The 1970s and 80s were less about aspiration and more about sweetness. Britain didn’t necessarily know what it was drinking, but it knew what it liked. Blue Nun, Mateus Rosé and Black Tower reigned supreme, often chosen for their bottle shape as much as their contents. Snowballs flowed freely, turning Advocaat and lemonade into something resembling festive custard. Le Piat d’Or insisted, “The French adore it. They didn’t, but we remained undeterred.

By the 1990s, everything changed again. Wine arrived with grape names, and Britain was delighted. Chardonnay. Sauvignon Blanc. Shiraz. Labels you could pronounce without apologizing. New World wines offered consistency and reassurance; if you liked it last year, you’d like it again, and the nation wrapped itself in a comforting blanket of reliable alcohol. It was the age of Bridget Jones and her Chardonnay, consumed liberally while reflecting on life choices.

By the early 2000s, New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc had conquered Christmas starters everywhere. If you didn’t have a bottle chilling by December 1st, questions were asked.

Then came Prosecco. By the mid-2010s, it had swept the nation, outselling Champagne and ushering in the era of “everyday luxury.” Why wait for a special occasion when a Wednesday exists? At the same time, Christmas markets turned mulled wine into a commercial sport, served in novelty mugs at prices that encouraged strong feelings and questionable budgeting.

Today’s festive glass reflects modern Britain: eco-conscious, slightly smug, and keen to show it knows a small producer in Sussex. English Sparkling Wine has become a Christmas staple, while natural wines, cloudy, funky, and occasionally smelling like a barnyard rave, have found their way onto many tables. If it were fermented in clay and looked like pond water, someone will insist it’s “interesting”.

And for those not drinking at all, salvation has arrived. The No & Low boom means alcohol-free wines and botanical alternatives now sit proudly next to the real thing, proving that you can still feel festive without forgetting your aunt’s name before dessert.

So whatever you’re pouring this Christmas, vintage Port, supermarket Prosecco, English fizz or a trendy Pet-Nat that smells faintly of cider, raise a glass to a hundred years of festive evolution.

Because you’re not just having a drink. You’re taking part in British history.