First off, this isn’t your quiet, hungover shuffle to the sofa. This is London saying, “I’m awake and I brought dancing.” Over a million people line the streets. That’s like the entire population of a small country standing in the cold for a good time.
And you get to be one of them. Or, you can watch it from your warm bed like a sensible person. No judgment here. I’ve done both, and both are valid life choices.
The Route: Where the Magic Happens
The parade snakes from Piccadilly to Parliament Square. It’s about two miles of pure, unadulterated pageantry. You’ll see giant helium balloons the size of double-decker buses—though hopefully with less traffic trouble.
You’ll get marching bands that are so loud your great-aunt in Croydon will hear them. And don’t even get me started on the cheerleaders. They’re smiling in January. How? I can barely smile when my tea is too hot.
There are also vintage cars, clowns (the fun kind, not the scary IT kind), and dancers from all over the globe. It’s like the Olympics had a baby with a circus, and they raised it on Christmas pudding.
