Today I stood awkwardly, as I do every morning, on my commuter tube and stared hard at nothing in particular. Everyone else did the same; heads bowed, eyes averted, phones out and grimaces on. Nothing out of the ordinary…but wait, what’s that I see out of the corner of my eye?
A cartoon reindeer, bright red and festooned in wreaths peeks out from behind the mundane brown coat of the woman just across the carriage. In such an arena – one of sober, stoic silence – it’s such an unexpected appearance that I grin despite myself. And me, a card-carrying Scrooge.
Such is the appeal of a Christmas jumper.
Much like the eye-wateringly expensive festive advert, Christmas knitwear has become somewhat of an institution. And on Friday, the country will worship at the altar of gaudy nylon as it experiences its fifth annual Christmas Jumper Day for Save the Children. Like many campaigns in recent years – who can forget the Ice Bucket Challenge for ALS? – this is a charity event that has taken on a life of its own. And like the Ice Bucket Challenge, I can’t help but think that much of its appeal lies in its silliness.
Generally-speaking, this is a silliness that is at odds with that stiff upper lip the British are still famed for. London in particular is a city seemingly populated by grey-faced . Seize such a community of grumps, thrust them into lumpy, once-maligned knitwear and dare yourself not to smile.
The Christmas Jumper is the relaxed, goofy and eccentric person that most of us are when we’re at home, unleashed in a public place. An American in a Christmas jumper isn’t quite the same as a Brit in a knit. While the former smack of goofiness 365 days in a year, the latter strike a far more awkward figure in their fire-resistant, tinsel-tangled second skins. Think sour-faced Mark Darcy in that reindeer jumper at the beginning of Bridget Jones and then try telling me I’m wrong.
While this (awkward) embrace of tack is something rather American however, its fondness for comfort is quite Danish. “Hygge” – a Scandi way of life that’s having its fifteen minutes of hashtag fame – embraces life’s simple pleasures but has come to reference that particular brand of well-loved, basic pleasures. Log fires. Slipper socks. Flushed cheeks from a dog walk in the countryside. That sort of thing. Well, Christmas jumpers are the poster boys for hygge. Nobbly, bobbly warm and roomy enough to accommodate post-binge bloat, they are an irresistibly slobby option.
When a nation famed for grumbling takes to this tacky indulgence en masse, the currency of the Christmas Jumper spikes dramatically. Much in the same way dog walkers and early morning joggers may share a smile of solidarity, so too does unflattering fashion connect us by a (lurex) thread.
Cheap, childish and cheering, Christmas jumpers are just the pointless, fluffy sedative Britain needs after such a terrible 2016. Will you be wearing yours?
