How can you tell if a husband loves his wife? In the month of October in the year of 2023, the answer seems to be: he got her a “boo basket”. Popularised via a TikTok hashtag with almost 400m views, a boo basket is a collection of Halloween treats stored inside an oversized hamper. There are sweets and chocolate in there, naturally, but there are also mugs, candles, teddy bears and ornaments themed around the spooky season. “This is what to get your wife in a boo basket, and yes, you do want to get her a boo basket,” says a creator in a video with 2m views. “Girls, send this to your husband.” Another video with almost 16m views is captioned: “If your boyfriend hasn’t made you a boo basket yet he doesn’t love you.”
Whatever the Halloween Scrooges (boo-ges?) might say, Halloween didn’t originate as a cynical, commercialised American import. Europeans have been celebrating Halloween as we know it since the middle ages and trick or treating is itself medieval (especially if your neighbour gives you a box of raisins). It’s not that we don’t have a long tradition of spooky celebrations here in the UK – it’s just that we once used to carve faces on turnips, but now have Marks & Spencer selling us £20 glass pumpkins. This year, Halloween spending in the UK is expected to surpass £1bn for the first time. Two decades ago, we only spent £12m.
I for one have welcomed the rise of cobwebs and inflatable witches splayed outside my neighbours’ houses; we all need more joy when the clocks go back and the cold closes in. But “boo baskets” (which, yes, have made it to the UK) and their like have given me pause. The fact that a TikTok trend can inspire people to buy 10 to 15 pieces of worthless clutter gives me the creeps. B&M is selling Halloween hand wash dispensers and body mists, while Home Bargains is offering cactuses in ceramic pumpkins and tall, spider-shaped snack dishes that couldn’t possibly fit in anyone’s cupboard. Making an individual choice to buy a couple of these bits is one thing, but normalising buying the lot is another thing entirely.
Meanwhile, the American tradition of “pumpkin picking” has taken over the UK, but because we don’t actually have field after field of pumpkin patches, the gourds are often simply scattered on the ground – and people pay as much as £24 per kid to pick them up.
Listen, if a pumpkin-shaped candle makes you happy, I can think of no reason you shouldn’t buy it (or make your boyfriend buy it for you). But at the same time, we mustn’t mistake marketing pressure for personal choice. In 2010, the BBC reported that supermarkets had spent the early noughties “massively increasing” their range of Halloween goods – fancy dress proprietor Emma Angel theorised that vampire media such as True Blood and Twilight had led to more adults buying into the season. In 2013, Asda began collaborating with popular British YouTubers who promoted its Halloween range; the supermarket even sponsored Halloween parties for these influencers. By the end of the decade, the US’s National Retail Federation concluded that social media had led to near-record Halloween spending – and the internet allowed us Britons to see into American homes, forever changing our idea of just how many treats the season needs.
Shops don’t simply give us what we want – they make us want it. New products don’t appear out of thin air like ghosts; companies spend millions on elaborate creations, bolting bits together like Dr Frankenstein. Then they pay influencers to make you think you need things that you’ll ultimately throw in the bin.
Some people have already started speaking out about the pressure to buy into the boo – “Parents have got enough stuff to worry about,” said Newcastle-based TikToker Mandy Charlton in a September TikTok. A common defence is that if something makes you happy, why shouldn’t you do it? I wonder, though, what boo baskets and a picture of yourself pumpkin picking really provide beyond social media bragging rights.
Boo baskets aren’t just shared between spouses – parents film themselves stuffing tumblers, plastic necklaces, and pyjamas into buckets for their kids. I remember how embarrassed I used to feel as a child when peers asked me what I got for Christmas and I’d mutter about a couple of things while they rattled off endless toys and games. Should “What did you get for Halloween?” really become a question that anybody asks?
Amelia Tait is a freelance features writer
