Strange Ways People Entertained Themselves During Blackouts In The Early 20th Century

When blackout orders were issued across Britain during the early 20th century—whether due to air raids, coal shortages or power rationing—everyday life had to adjust quickly. The streets went dim, the wireless cut out, and even a cigarette glow could lead to a telling-off. But people didn’t just go to bed early and wait for the lights to come back on. They adapted, often in weirdly inventive ways. Some found comfort in old traditions. Others created entirely new ones.

Here’s a look at the stranger, more unexpected ways people kept themselves entertained when the modern world was temporarily put on pause.

People put on makeshift theatre performances in their homes.

You’d be surprised how many ordinary households transformed into impromptu theatres during wartime blackouts. Living rooms became stages, bedsheets doubled as curtains, and family members or neighbours were drafted in to play parts. These weren’t always polished affairs, but they were imaginative.

Some people dusted off scenes from classic plays, others wrote satirical sketches mocking the war, local gossip or the government. There are diary entries from the Mass Observation project describing full evening performances with costumes and props scavenged from the attic. Kids were usually the stars, but adults often joined in after a few drinks.

It gave people something to prepare for, something to rehearse, and something to laugh about later at a time when the news was anything but cheerful.

Ouija boards made a sudden comeback.

During the First and Second World Wars, people became far more open to the supernatural. Loss and uncertainty drove many to look for comfort beyond the physical world. It wasn’t uncommon for families to bring out Ouija boards during blackouts, particularly during the First World War when spiritualism saw a spike.

By candlelight, people would sit in circles and ask the spirits for answers. Was their loved one safe? Would the war end soon? Sometimes, the messages were comforting. Other times they were unnerving. In fact, the popularity of Ouija boards grew so much that the Church of England publicly discouraged their use, calling them “a dangerous distraction during a time of moral seriousness.”

Some took part in “silent dinners”.

These were never mainstream, but in some corners—particularly among pacifist and Quaker households—there was a push for evenings of intentional silence during blackouts. These weren’t sombre occasions. In fact, many who took part found them calming, even joyful.

People would cook by lamplight, sit together, and eat in complete quiet. Some said it helped reduce anxiety. Others just enjoyed the rare chance to be still. A few even kept a guestbook by the front door, encouraging visitors to write something down rather than say it aloud.

It sounds unusual now, but it was a response to a world that felt chaotic. Turning inward gave people back a small sense of control.

There were knitting parties by gaslight.

Knitting was already common, especially with wartime campaigns like “Knit for Victory” and drives for warm clothing for troops. But during blackouts, people started doing it together—not just for productivity, but as a sort of social glue. In cities like Glasgow and Sheffield, women would gather in small groups with their needles and gas lamps or hurricane lanterns, exchanging patterns and updates while working on socks or balaclavas.

These gatherings were part of what historian Lucy Noakes has described as the “domestic front,” where women’s wartime contributions happened in kitchens and sitting rooms. And while it wasn’t glamorous, it was surprisingly bonding. In some places, knitting groups even developed into long-running social clubs well after the war ended.

People held “blindfold” parlour games for a laugh.

Some households leaned into the absurdity of it all. With little light to go by, people invented games that didn’t require seeing much. One popular game involved blindfolding players and having them guess objects placed in their hands—raw potatoes, cold sausages, old socks—anything to get a laugh.

There was also a game known in some parts as “blackout chase,” where players had to creep through a room without being caught by the “watcher” (who often had just as poor visibility). It was clumsy, chaotic, and usually ended in people tripping over the cat or knocking over a chair, but that was half the fun.

Some used the darkness for sneaky activism.

During both wars, blackout conditions gave certain groups the cover they needed for more rebellious pursuits. Suffragette activity had largely died down by the First World War, but some women used the darkness to distribute underground pamphlets or deface propaganda posters, particularly those pressuring women to shame men into enlisting.

Later, in the 1940s, the blackout became a useful tool for the British Union of Fascists, but also for resistance efforts, including anti-war activists handing out leaflets under cover of darkness. The authorities were aware of it, but policing was limited, and many of these acts went unnoticed at the time.

Not everyone was playing whist by candlelight. Some were out on the streets, using the dark to make a point.

Fortune-telling saw a boom.

With blackout conditions and high anxiety levels, fortune-telling became more than a parlour trick. Palm readers, tarot readers, and tea leaf interpreters all saw increased demand. In poorer neighbourhoods, women who had previously read fortunes for friends began charging small sums for it, often holding informal sessions in front parlours lit by a single candle.

While most of it was light-hearted, some people genuinely leaned on these sessions for comfort. In 1941, the Daily Mirror ran a piece about a “tea leaf woman” in London who had a six-month waiting list of clients, mostly housewives worried about evacuation orders or absent husbands.

The Museum of London has some great archived artefacts from these war-era mystics, showing how deeply these beliefs became woven into everyday life.

Families told stories to help children cope with fear.

Air raid sirens, bombings, and general tension made blackouts a stressful experience, especially for children. One of the gentler traditions to emerge was story-spinning. Parents and older siblings would make up elaborate tales, often serialised across multiple nights.

These weren’t just bedtime stories. They were often full of allegories, with children cast as brave characters or protectors of their street. Some parents used the opportunity to sneak in little bits of history or geography, while others just leaned into pure fantasy.

In interviews collected by the British Library’s Sound Archive, many adults later said these stories were what they remembered most fondly about the blackouts—not the fear, but the shared moments of imagination.

Evenings ended with songs and quiet drinks in the cellar.

Especially during the Blitz, many families slept in cellars or makeshift shelters. But before bedding down, it wasn’t unusual to pour a bit of stout or tea and end the night with a song. Singing became a way of blocking out the noise above—sometimes literally, as bombs fell in the distance.

People sang everything from Vera Lynn to bawdy pub tunes, depending on the crowd. Some made up their own songs, changing lyrics to fit local gossip or taking the mickey out of civil defence officers. There was a kind of quiet resilience in it. The world outside might’ve been frightening, but underground, people still found ways to feel human.

Blackouts forced people to live without many of the comforts they’d grown used to.

However, they also revealed something else: a capacity for playfulness, imagination, and community, even in the worst of times. Whether it was through makeshift theatre, knitting circles, ghost stories or games in the dark, people didn’t just pass time—they built memories.

And for all the chaos and hardship of those years, ask anyone who lived through it, and they’ll likely tell you: some of their best nights happened when the lights were off.