How many times have you muttered something like this behind your boss’s back?
Some day, I’m going to tell you what I really think of you, you hedge-born, sawed-off jackass.”
If you lived back in the (medieval) day, you looked forward to the Feast of Fools, which rolled around every January 1. This was your chance to shine — it was a brief social revolution in which power, dignity and impunity were temporarily handed to lackeys, monks, and others on society’s lower rungs. Slaves became masters – see the “boss revenge” connection?
Bottom rung on top.
It was no-holds-barred. For one glorious day, you could say or do anything to your master (or anyone else) that you liked — and the nastier or more mocking, the better. Everyone accepted it as part of the game, even priests and bishops, who understood that this was all supposed to be in good fun.
The Church was fair game. Burlesque masses, obscene songs, dice in the pews (gambling was normally illegal) and sausages and cakes on the altar turned sacred spaces into chaotic playgrounds. Not even the most pious bishop escaped gleeful lampooning.
Originally, the Feast had been a solemn—if playful—liturgical celebration It was thought to have begun in France, religious musical scores and biblical texts. Over time, however, it grew increasingly rowdy, especially in the streets outside the church. By the 14th and 15th centuries, church authorities were complaining that priests and clerks were donning masks, dancing in the choir dressed as women or minstrels, singing irreverent songs and shamelessly chasing people through the church – basically acting like a pack of five-year-olds hopped on espresso.
While these excesses were likely somewhat exaggerated by scandalized critics, they caused growing alarm among ecclesiastical leaders. Condemnation followed. The Feast of Fools was officially banned by the Council of Basel in 1435, the Pragmatic Sanction of Charles VII of France in 1438 and a letter from the University of Paris’s theology faculty in 1445.
But before those stuffy old bastards took the fun out of everything, it wasn’t all about priests and nuns throwing caution (and dignity) to the four winds. Everyone participated.
For example, you could …
- Steal a pair of your master’s poulaines (possibly the most impractical shoe ever invented – the toes resembled string beans). Put them on and mince around the tilt yard – if you can. Let your wrist go limp and bat your eyelids. Then sidle up to Drago, the burly blacksmith and simper loudly, “Well, hell-O, Drogo, you handsome ‘ole thing, you! I feel so pretty today but we both know I’m only half the woman my master is!” Take two steps forward, get your feet tangled up in that ridiculous footwear and fall flat on your ass. The crowd will laugh just as hard as your master’s wife did when he wore them to the joust two weeks ago.
Here are some other things you might do at the Feast:
- Sit at the head of your master’s table and make HIM bring you the wine. Then smack the back of his head when he brings you the wrong vintage.
- Indulge in some cross-dressing, or wear holy vestments turned inside-out (yes, the priests were aware of this practice – and a lot of them practiced)!
- Don a nun’s habit and wimple and dance suggestively in front of the ugliest one in town, brandishing naughty trinkets and shouting, “I get more than you do!”
- Wear silly or obscene masks. (Let’s face it: you can get away with a LOT more if no one knows who the hell you are.)
And don’t forget to drink like a fish, pass out behind a tapestry (please don’t barf on it) and eat yourself into a stupor while gyrating sinuously on the dance floor and singing out of tune at th top of your voice. (Just don’t forget to tip the band – they remember things like this.)
Having said all that, the beauty part of all this silliness is …
No punishment for ANY of it! (I swear on this flute of champagne I’m holding.)
Dig it:
- No execution. (You get to keep your bowels and your John Thomas.)
- You don’t get tossed into the town cesspit.
- In the stocks? Time served! No more getting smacked in the puss with rotten veggies!
- And no one gets spanked for anything — unless they ask nicely (and even then, it’s only with a slightly damp carrot. No harm, no foul.)
But all raucous things must come to an end. The following day, battling no sleep, killer hangovers and mumbling questions like, “What’s your name again?” as you fall out of bed, it was back to cleaning privies, bowing and scraping to your master and wearing your own damn clothes (and shoes, thank the gods).
So tonight on New Year’s Eve 2025, remember: if you best friend tells everybody tomorrow morning about all the really stupid things you did tonight after too much tippling and face-planting, console yourself with the thought that you were just carrying on a time-honored medieval tradition (and someone, somewhere, probably got smacked with a slightly damp carrot).
I wish for all my readers – a 2026 that’s WAY better than f#cking 2025. Happy New Year!
Now go misbehave. Raise a glass for me.
And smack your boss with a soggy carrot.
*”Gesælige niwe gear” is Anglo Saxon for “Happy New Year”, not “Hold my beer”.
What do YOU think?