In 2025, Britain was engulfed in a tsunami of twee

It’s hard to be scientifically precise, because there isn’t a quango or an official body measuring the levels, but it’s my firm suspicion that 2025 marked Britain’s twee-est year (so far). It certainly knocked 2012 (the London Olympics), 2018 (the Wooferendum) and 2022 (the Platty Jubes) down the charts. The capacity among British progressives for fluffy, ‘custard cream and a cuppa’ passive aggression is, I suppose, preferable to the Jonestowny, Manson-girls vibe of their American cousins (though we have a fair bit of that, too). But in 2025, British twee mutated into a new and even more transmissible strain. Let’s call it Omicron Twee – and if it continues to spread, there may have to be a lockdown of some kind to protect the public.

It feels like Britain’s progressive establishment is sinking, potentially fatally holed by the gigantic iceberg that is the Labour government. The twee hordes lived for so long in the hope that when they kicked out those horrible Tories we could all go back to 1998 – to the ‘nice quiet’ of Britain being, as broadcaster Andrew Marr put it, ‘a little haven of peace and stability’. Unfortunately, real life is not a pantomime.

This collapse is having very strange effects. The mass online huff-off to Bluesky has been mirrored in the physical world by people huffing off from friendships – my anecdotal evidence file is packed with tales of progressives performatively flouncing away from chums in 2025. And this is coupled with a further retreat into the denial of hardcore twee.

In March, RAF engineers Daniel Heath and William Lawrence were sentenced at Reading Magistrates’ Court for vandalising a statue of Paddington Bear in Newbury town centre. District judge Sam Goozee told the pair they had committed ‘an act of wanton vandalism’, which is true enough. Unfortunately, he didn’t stop there:

‘Paddington Bear is a beloved cultural icon with children and adults alike. He represents kindness, tolerance and promotes integration and acceptance in our society. His famous label attached to his duffle coat says “please look after this bear”. On the night of 2 March 2025, your actions were the antithesis of everything Paddington stands for.’

I’m amazed that the defendants, let alone the journalists in court, kept straight faces. This was the solidification of Paddington Bear as the sacred totem of British progressivism and its ‘values’, the holy icon that is their replacement for the social contract, history and indeed God.

In June, comedian Dawn French posted a peculiar video in which she jammed her face into close-up, and rambled in a baby voice about the conflict in Gaza. Speaking as if for Israel, she burbled: ‘Yeah, but you know they did a bad fing to us, yeah but no. But we want that land… and we have history…’ The ‘bad fing’ in question being, of course, the invasion, mass murder and rape of Israelis on 7 October. This profoundly disquieting snippet didn’t seem so much like a political observation as an episode requiring urgent medical intervention. For those of us over a certain age, this high-pitched, silly voiced take on international warfare was inescapably reminiscent of the 1970s kids’ TV treat, Michael Bentine’s Potty Time, and Dawn had certainly gone fully potty.

Paddington wasn’t the only icon to be vandalised. In July, the two unpleasant men who chopped down the ‘iconic’ Sycamore Gap tree were each sentenced at Newcastle Crown Court to four years and three months in prison for their actions. Fair enough, you might reasonably say. But hang on. For contrast, disgraced BBC newsreader Huw Edwards was sentenced in September 2024 for only six months (suspended!) for possession of child-abuse images, including those of a victim aged between seven and nine. The tree apparently counts for a lot more than that child; the National Trust even read out a victim-impact statement on the tree’s behalf in court. Its stump is thankfully now showing signs of life.

Now, the twee aesthetic is starting to infect the people committing acts of vandalism. In December, the case containing the Crown Jewels was smeared with crumble and custard – because ‘democracy is crumbling’, do you see? – by naff students calling themselves Take Back Power. I predict more tweerorism of this kind in 2026.

The purest stream of twee I’ve found this year emerged in October – it is essentially the defining document of the movement. It is written by one Sofie Jenkinson, co-director of Round Our Way, an initiative that ‘shares stories about the impact climate change has on our communities’. The article, titled ‘Mr Blobby patriotism’, appeared under the banner of Renewal, a self-described ‘journal of social democracy (aka another progressive boondoggle). You can read it for yourself here. But I must in good conscience append a trigger warning: such high levels of schmaltz might kill a beginner.

Sofie compiled a list of ‘all the things I love about Britain’:

‘Yorkshire Tea adverts with Sarah Lancashire and Sean Bean, Greggs, Pete Postlethwaite’s speech in Brassed Off, 2p machines, hun culture, the relentless sarcasm, Sam Fender hungover on breakfast TV, Big John, Bob Mortimer, Ainsley Harriott (Why hello Jill!), that specific bit of Come Dine with Me (You won, Jane. Enjoy the money. Dear lord, what a sad little life.) Supermarket Sweep, Monster Munch, everyone knowing the rap in “Wannabe”, Irn Bru adverts, Tango adverts (apple and orange), Mr Bean, really bad service stations, Chicken Shop Date, the phrase “Can he do it on a cold, rainy night in Stoke?”, the different names we have for bread rolls (see also: sex, chewing gum, woodlice, the TV remote), the montages before and after big games like Wales in the Six Nations and the Lionesses going into the final, taking the piss out of our mates, meal deals…. and Mr Blobby… This is what I love about our country – the not-taking-yourself-too-seriously and the begrudging patriotism I feel as I hear someone make a your-mum joke.’

You may think I’m being a little harsh. But hang on a second. What occasioned this tsunami of schmaltz from Sofie? ‘I guess I found myself thinking about this because of the summer we’ve had – of riots outside of asylum hotels, the Tommy Robinson march through London and a rising political temperature’, she wrote. ‘And then last week the awful attack on a synagogue in Manchester.’

Yes, this is what progressives like Sofie have to offer in answer to the truly grim horrors confronting the nation in 2025. And there’s worse:

‘Most people will have a chat with you about anything if you go about it the right way. My friend, Rachael, was telling me about this cracking plumber she has who’s a top lad and recently while he was head-under-sink mentioned something to her about asylum hotels. She paused for a second, and then asked him what it was about the hotels that was worrying him the most and allowed him into a respectful, honest and open conversation with her about his fears. And this allowed him to talk those fears through, but also unpick his understanding about where the people in that hotel might have come from and why they might need help and support. This is the Britain I know we are, the one that lets someone ask you a genuinely curious question about what you think and answers it in kind. And every time this happens, getting us all knowing each other a little better.’

I’m just going to unpick your understanding, prole, by asking you a genuinely curious question… I hope the top lad charged Rachael, the patronising pass-agg bell-end, a grand for turning her stopcock off and on.

‘It’s not twee’, says Sofie, of what she calls ‘Silly Sausage Britain’. I’ll be the judge of that. Calling it ‘Silly Sausage Britain’ may not be the best way to avoid the accusation.

It is understandable that, when threatened, we want to retreat to safe comfort zones. I like to pretend Terry Wogan is still alive, for example. But the moment you notice that something trivial but precious is lost, and try to revive it by putting a frill on it… then you really know that it’s gone.

Twee is a comfort blanket for progressives. But the blanket is too small and too thin – you pull it up to cover your chest, and your legs poke out. It is the end of something, a desperate rearguard action at the beginning of a new historical era. Serious times – and very silly people.

Gareth Roberts is a screenwriter, author and novelist, best known for his work on Doctor Who.