On this day in 1355 the first recorded pub brawl in history took place and was known as the St Scholastica Day Riot. But this was no ordinary brawl between a few blokes who’d had a few too many and then got in a fight over someone looking at their pint a bit funny. Oh no. The whole thing started in the Swindlestock Tavern in Oxford and was started by two Oxford students named Walter Spryngeheuse and Roger de Chesterfield. The la-di-da pair complained to their host, John Groidon that his drinks were shit. He took umbrage at this and a war of words broke out, with many of those words being of the four-letter variety; this wasn’t enough for the posh wee shites. They threw their drinks in Mr Croidon’s face and beat him up and probably pissed on him too, much like their natural descendants, the Bullingdon Club would do centuries later.
This is a scene from the battle of Agincourt, which was not quite as bad as the St Scholastica Day Riot
So far, so minor if totally out of order pub brawl, but there was more to come. The good folk of Oxford were not much enamoured by the behaviour of the “bloody students” at Oxford and there was some retaliation: armed retaliation. At this point the mayor thought it was getting a bit loco in the coco so he went to see the Chancellor and have a bit of a word. It was, on the surface a good move, but talking to the chancellor was like talking to a brick wall. “I think you should really have these rebellious upstarts arrested good John.” he said (the Chancellor’s name was John, as was the mayor’s). “Fuck you, you grubby little oik!” was the Chancellor’s response. It’s easy to guess what happened next, but whatever you’re guessing is probably a little short of what actually took place. Take a deep breath, what follows is pure mental.
Two hundred students who thought it was fine to get stocious, throw beer in a tavern keeper’s face, beat him up and piss on him, went into town, beat up the mayor and anyone who got in their way, braying and waving their stupid floppy hair about all the while. And there was more. The riot went on for two days, during which time 63 students and about 30 townsfolk were killed! While it is at least small relief that more students were killed than townsfolk, it was utter nutjobbery that allowed it to happen in the first place. The killing and mayhem was eventually stopped when the wimpy students were routed and the mayor gave in and said “Yeah, those bastards at the university were in the right. They are allowed to do anything they want.” They were and they did. A special charter was created and every year after that on 10th February, the mayor and his
Medieval students were noted for their small stature
councillors had to march bareheaded through the streets and pay a fine(!) to the university of one penny per student killed; this amounted to 5s 3d and was paid every year until 1825, when finally a mayor said “Fuck this for a game of soldiers! They can whistle for it!”
By this time the Bullingdon Club had been formed and its members were the spiritual ancestors of Messrs Spryngeheuse and de Chesterfield, drinking, puking defecating, micturating and beating up the plebs, the possible gays and anyone who they deemed weaker than them. Of course this sort of behaviour only takes place before they go on to run the country and look down their inbred noses at, and legislate against the oiks who get up to the same sort of stuff, but in less expensive clothes. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
Today is the birthday of Glenn Beck, a man for whom the phrase “utter shitclown” may well have been coined. He is famous for his radio and television shows wherein he rants about communists, socialists and progressives, says that Barack Obama is a racist and gets very shouty about anything at all that doesn’t agree with his far right “beliefs”. Born and brought up a Catholic, he converted to Moronism Mormonism later in life. He is loved by the sort of people who share brain cells with their families on a rota system, as well as cynical Neo-Cons who like the fact that he whips up a big ole ferment about increasingly bizarre conspiracy theories, saving them the job of doing it themselves.
Beck may be doing it all for shits, giggles and money, he may be a buffoon with the learning capacity of an educationally challenged
Beck's ability to cry like a baby on cue, marks him out as a probable infantilist
amoeba, or he may be a clever bastard who knows exactly what he’s doing. One thing is certain: even at the age of 47 he looks like a corn-fed baby who is always on the edge of throwing a tantrum. He uses this to good advantage by doing a lot of on-air crying. Fuckwits see this as a sincere outpouring of heartfelt emotion; anyone with half a brain wants to give the big blubbering piece of lard something to cry about. It is also worth noting that in the right light he looks like clown-loving serial killer John Wayne Gacy. Probably.
So, it’s his birthday today, he will probably eat cake before hauling his arse onto television to make vile accusations against some minority group or other. Or maybe he’ll go off to his Mormon Temple, boogie on down with the Osmonds before going out in the moonlight to shoot stray dogs. Whatever. There will be no happy birthday to him here, just a steadily raised middle finger and a sneer of pure and utter derision. Fuck you, Mr Beck, and the raggedy horse you rode in on.*
*No horses were hurt in the making of this comment.
Almaniacal 
