Lonely This Christmas – A Song That Still Hurts So Good
It wasn’t snowing that year, but it felt like it. December of ’74—cold, grey, and full of that quiet sort of sadness that only seems to come around the holidays. You’d walk down the High Street, past tinsel-draped shop windows, hands in your pockets, scarf pulled tight, and then you’d hear it—soft, slow, aching.
“It’ll be lonely this Christmas… without you to hold…”
And just like that, Mud had done something no one expected from a band best known for glam and glitter. They reached into something deeper. Something that didn’t sparkle. Something that hurt.
For all the cheesy Christmas singles of the 1970s—and let’s face it, there were plenty—Lonely This Christmas stood apart. It wasn’t sleigh bells and fake snow and Santa suits. It was a man sitting by a silent tree, missing someone who wasn’t coming home. It sounded less like a Christmas party and more like a love letter written too late.
Les Gray’s voice, almost Elvis-like, crooned with such sincerity it made your chest ache. It wasn’t just an impression; it was a confession. That slow, drawling heartbreak gave the song its soul. It was theatrical, yes—but real too. You could see him: paper hat falling off his head, tinsel still hung up from happier times, staring into the fire with only silence for company.
For those of us who had lost someone—or were about to—Lonely This Christmas wasn’t just a song. It was company. It said what we couldn’t say. It filled the space between radio static and memories that wouldn’t sit still.
I remember Mum turning it up in the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth, and going quiet. Or Dad pretending not to listen while he stirred his tea a little longer than needed. We all heard it. We all felt it. And even though none of us said anything, the room was full of the same thought: Christmas just isn’t the same without them.
Even now, all these years later, it still stops me. No matter where I am—whether in a shop, a pub, or sitting by my own fire with the lights low—when that first note plays, everything stills. And in that moment, I’m 20 again. Or 15. Or 33. And I’m missing someone all over again.
But maybe that’s the gift of a song like this. It reminds us that grief and love sit side by side, especially at Christmas. That it’s okay to feel the absence. That it’s normal to stare at the tree and wish things were different. And that we’re not really alone—not when so many of us are quietly carrying the same ache.
So this Christmas, if you hear Lonely This Christmas come drifting through the cold air—don’t skip it. Let it play. Let it hurt a little. Let it remind you of who you loved, and who you still do.
And maybe—just maybe—sing along.