Forgotten Holidays That Should Make a Comeback

🕐9 min read

Did you know that the Roman Saturnalia involved a week of mandatory role reversal where slaves became masters, gambling was legalized, and a mock king was elected to preside over debauchery—and that this festival directly influenced our modern Christmas, yet we somehow ended up with Black Friday instead? The ancient world knew how to party with purpose: Saturnalia (December 17–23) was a state-sanctioned inversion of social order, complete with gift-giving, public feasting, and the wearing of colorful “synthesis” clothing (the ancient equivalent of ugly Christmas sweaters). Meanwhile, Victorian England had Mischief Night (November 4), when children soaped windows, unhinged gates, and swapped garden gnomes—before the moral panic of the 1900s turned it into a crime spree. And medieval Europe gave us the Feast of Fools (January 1), where junior clergy mocked the Mass, wore donkey costumes, and elected a “Boy Bishop” to lead absurd processions. These holidays weren’t just fun; they were pressure valves for hierarchical societies, releasing tension through sanctioned chaos. Yet we’ve replaced them with sanitized, commercialized versions that lack their anarchic soul. It’s time to resurrect these forgotten festivals—not as historical reenactments, but as genuinely weird, community-building celebrations that remind us that holidays were once dangerous.

Saturnalia: The Original Christmas (and It Was Wilder)

Let’s start with the elephant in the forum: Saturnalia. Celebrated from December 17 to December 23 (the calendar of Philocalus of 354 AD fixes the dates precisely), this Roman festival honored Saturn, the agricultural god of a mythical golden age. The most shocking detail? Slaves were waited upon by their masters at public banquets. Imagine your boss serving you turkey this year. Emperor Augustus, who wasn’t a fan of chaos, tried to limit Saturnalia to just three days in 11 BC, but the populace ignored him—the festival had already expanded to a full week by the late Republic. Gift-giving was central: cheap wax Candles (cerei) and clay figurines (sigillaria) were exchanged, not unlike our modern obsession with scented candles. Gambling with dice was legalized for the duration (normally forbidden), and the city of Rome erupted in a carnival of cross-dressing, singing in the streets, and the election of a Saturnalicius princeps—a mock king who issued ridiculous commands. The poet Lucian of Samosata, writing in the 2nd century AD, describes a festival where “the whole city is drunk, and no one is serious.” Compare that to your office holiday party. The modern connection? Saturnalia’s ivy wreaths, feasting, and candle-lighting directly fed into Christmas traditions after the Church co-opted the date in the 4th century. But we lost the role reversal. Why not revive it? On December 17, let the youngest child in your family rule the dinner table—they get to decide the menu, the seating, and the conversation topics. It’s historically accurate and terrifyingly fun.

Victorian Mischief Night: The Lost Art of Pranks Without Lawsuits

If you think Halloween is the only night for trickery, you’ve forgotten the glory of Victorian Mischief Night. In the United Kingdom, this fell on November 4—the eve of Guy Fawkes Night—and was a tradition of door-knocking, soaping windows, untying shoelaces, and swapping garden ornaments. In the United States, Mischief Night (also called Devil’s Night) migrated to October 30, especially in industrial cities like Detroit, where by the 1980s it had escalated into arson—an unfortunate corruption of a once-harmless custom. The original Victorian version, documented in the 1850s by folklorist William Hone, was a night of “breaking windows, stealing knockers, and ringing doorbells.” The key detail: it was class-specific. Working-class children targeted the homes of the wealthy, using anonymity and darkness to level the social playing field. The numbers are telling: in 1890s London, police recorded a 300% spike in petty vandalism complaints on November 4. But by the 1920s, moral reformers and the rise of organized youth groups (Boy Scouts, etc.) stamped it out, labeling it “hooliganism.” Today, we have a sanitized version in “Trick or Treat,” but the anarchic spirit is gone. To revive Mischief Night, try a neighborhood “Prank Parade” on November 4: decorate a neighbor’s yard with plastic flamingos, leave a bag of sugar on their doorstep, or write a silly poem in sidewalk chalk. No damage, just delightful disruption. The Victorian children would approve—if they weren’t too busy soaping your windows.

The Feast of Fools: When the Church Let Clowns Run the Mass

Medieval Europe had a holiday so outrageous that the Catholic Church repeatedly tried to ban it—and failed. The Feast of Fools, typically celebrated on January 1 (the Feast of the Circumcision) or January 6 (Epiphany), was a day when junior clergy—deacons, subdeacons, and choirboys—took over the cathedral. They elected a “Boy Bishop” who wore a miter and carried a crozier, and then they proceeded to mock the liturgy. In the 12th century, at the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Paris, records describe a “Donkey Mass” where a real donkey was led into the church, and the congregation brayed responses to the priest. The Council of Basel in 1431 condemned the feast, calling it “a profanation of divine worship,” but it persisted in some French towns until the 16th century. The most surprising detail? The Feast of Fools was not a random rebellion; it was a theologically sanctioned inversion, echoing the Gospel message that “the last shall be first.” The Boy Bishop, for example, was supposed to remind the powerful that humility is a virtue. In practice, it was a day of drinking, cross-dressing, and satire of the clergy. Modern parallels? The “office Christmas party” where the intern gets to boss the CEO for an hour—but without the liturgical donkey. To revive it, host a “Fools’ Feast” on January 1: assign roles by lottery (the youngest person becomes the “Bishop”), serve a meal where the food is served backwards (dessert first), and allow everyone to deliver a one-minute roast of the person to their left. It’s chaos with a purpose, and it’s historically certified.

Terminalia: The Roman Festival of Boundaries (and Neighborly Squabbles)

If you’ve ever argued with a neighbor over a fence line, you’ll appreciate Terminalia, celebrated on February 23 in ancient Rome. This festival honored Terminus, the god of boundaries, and involved a ritual at every property marker—usually a stone or a tree stump. The head of the household would place a garland on the boundary stone, pour a libation of wine, and offer a cake. The neighbors would meet at the shared stone, lay down a sacrifice (a piglet or a lamb, depending on wealth), and then feast together. The most surprising detail? The boundary stones were considered sacred; moving one was a capital offense. The Roman historian Ovid, in his Fasti, describes how the festival was established by King Numa Pompilius (traditionally 715–673 BC) to prevent land disputes—and it worked, at least on that one day. The festival also had a public component: on the Via Portuensis, there was a huge boundary stone between Rome and its territory, where the state held a ceremony. Modern parallels? We have National Good Neighbor Day (September 28 in the US), but it’s toothless. Terminalia was about enforcing boundaries, not just being nice. To revive it, mark your property line on February 23 with a small stone or post, invite your neighbor over for a drink, and formally agree on the boundary. If they bring a piglet, you’re doing it right. If they bring a surveyor, you might need a lawyer.

The Boy Bishop: A Child Ruler for a Day (Medieval Power Inversion)

The Boy Bishop tradition was not a one-off; it was a widespread medieval custom that lasted from the 11th century until the Reformation. On December 6 (the feast of St. Nicholas) or December 28 (Holy Innocents), a choirboy was elected as bishop for the day. He wore full episcopal regalia, preached a sermon (often written by a sympathetic adult), and led a procession through the town. In Salisbury, England, records from 1220 show that the Boy Bishop even had the authority to distribute the offerings collected at Mass—money that usually went to the cathedral. The most surprising detail? The Boy Bishop was sometimes a real bishop in miniature: he could issue “indulgences” (forgiveness of sins) and even perform mock excommunications. The tradition was so popular that it survived the Reformation in some Protestant areas—until Puritan reformers suppressed it in the 17th century. The numbers: in 1541, the Council of Trent officially banned the practice, but it lingered in France until the Revolution. Modern parallels? “Take Your Child to Work Day” is a pale imitation. To revive the Boy Bishop, choose a child (or a junior employee) on December 6 to lead a meeting, make a decision (with veto power), and deliver a short speech. Give them a fake mitre (a cardboard crown works) and let them “excommunicate” someone from the dessert table. It’s a powerful lesson in perspective—and a great excuse for a child to boss adults around.

Hocktide: The Medieval Tax Revolt That Became a Holiday

Hocktide, celebrated on the second Monday and Tuesday after Easter, is one of the strangest English holidays you’ve never heard of. It originated in the 12th century as a commemoration of the English victory over the Danes on April 13, 1002 (the St. Brice’s Day massacre—yes, that’s dark). But by the 1400s, it had transformed into a festival of “binding” and “loosing.” On Monday, the women of the village would “bind” men with ropes and demand a coin for release; on Tuesday, the men did the same to women. The money collected went to the church or to the poor. The most surprising detail? In 1461, the town of Hungerford, Berkshire, formalized Hocktide with a charter that still exists: the “Hocktide Court” elects a “Tithingman” who goes door-to-door collecting “head pennies” and distributing oranges. The numbers: in 1536, the parish of St. Margaret’s in Westminster recorded £3 6s 8d from Hocktide collections—enough to feed 50 people for a week. The Reformation killed most Hocktide celebrations, but Hungerford still celebrates it every year, complete with a “Tutti Pole” (a bouquet of flowers). Modern parallels? Think of it as a medieval version of a charity fun-run, but with rope bondage. To revive Hocktide in your community, organize a “Bind and Loosen” event on the Tuesday after Easter: participants pay a small fee to “capture” a friend, who then must donate to a local charity to be released. It’s a fundraiser with historical flair—and a lot of rope.

Compitalia: The Roman Festival of Crossroads (Where Slaves Ran the Show)

Compitalia, held in early January (the exact date varied, but typically January 3–5), was a festival dedicated to the Lares Compitales—guardian spirits of crossroads. The most surprising detail? The festival was organized entirely by slaves and freedmen, who were normally excluded from public religious life. Each neighborhood (vicus) set up a small shrine at a crossroads, hung with woolen dolls (one for each free person) and balls of wool (one for each slave). The dolls and balls were offerings to the spirits, asking them to protect the living. The slaves then held a feast, with a pig sacrifice, and elected a “master of the festival” from among themselves. The Roman writer Cato the Elder, in his De Agri Cultura (c. 160 BC), gives exact instructions: “Offer a pig to the Lar of the crossroads. Have the slaves make the offering. They may eat the meat.” The numbers: in the 1st century BC, the city of Rome had 265 crossroads shrines, each with its own Compitalia celebration. Emperor Augustus, always one to co-opt popular festivals, merged Compitalia with his own cult, but the slave-run aspect remained until the 4th century. Modern parallels? It’s like a block party where the cleaning staff are the hosts. To revive Compitalia, host a “Crossroads Party” on January 3: invite neighbors to a street corner, hang a doll or a ribbon for each person (as a symbolic offering), and let the youngest or least powerful person in the group lead the toast. It’s a way to honor the invisible people who make our neighborhoods function—and to eat pork.

Conclusion: Three Ways to Revive the Weird

These forgotten holidays share one thing: they inverted social hierarchies,