Hannah is the author and artist behind the Idol Scribblings cartoons.
Hannah is also the lead vocalist, percussionist and songwriter with the folk band Ethryll.
She lives in Yorkshire, UK. For more visit https://idolscribblings.blog/about-the-author/
Hello to my lovely readers and irreverent spiritual questers. As you know, several weeks ago, I let you all know that I was having an operation and would be away from cartooning for a little while. The operation went well, but during the proceedings they picked up on a secondary problem, which requires further surgery. This is happening at the end of this month. Please don’t worry. It’s nothing too serious, but I will once again be laid up for a while, and unable to sit comfortably to draw.
In between the two operations, I have had so much to catch up on in my work, home and family life. Add to this needing to get things get done so I can recuperate afterwards without having to impose on my lovely spouse and family too much for assistance (other than keeping me amused). The upshot of this has been no time left for drawing or writing.
You will be glad to know that my sense of humor is still exhibiting vital signs. I am planning to take a replica canopic jar with me to surgery so they can plop the offending bit of me in there to take away with me. I will be taking a jackal-headed “Duamutef” canopic jar. Sort of like an Ancient Egyptian doggy-bottle. When I told my surgeon about this, they asked me if it was going to be for my pyramid. I replied that I only had a little mastaba, and they said that kind of thing wasn’t recommended for the next four weeks.
I promise that Idol Scribblings and Second Bestiary are not over yet. I am noting down lots of ideas (including some fabulous ideas from the hive mind) to work on when I am recovered. I will post on Twitter (@IdolScribblings) and Facebook to let you know how I am getting on. The cartoons will be back as soon as I am able. Until then, take care of yourselves and one another my wonderful readers, and remember to only use your powers for good.
Beeverley is, despite her venerable visage, one of the youngest deities in this pantheon. In 2017, when Kingston-Upon-Hull became the City of Culture, the citizens decided that they really should have a patron deity. From amongst their number, they chose the beloved philanthropist and Hull paragon of virtue, “The Bee Lady” for deification. (Beeverley may have be the first person in history to promoted from Bishop to Goddess). Her cult became hugely popular almost overnight. Probably because the people of the East Riding are always keen to grasp any opportunity to do things a little bit differently to everyone else, and religion is no exception. A documentary film was made based on her amazing story but, sadly, few people have seen it in cinemas because it was not a feature presentation.
Since becoming a Goddess, Beeverley has borne a daughter. It was clear that this babe was also divine because, when she was born, three wise men came from the East Riding on camels. This golden child was named Patty Butty and she became the Goddess of Regional Delicacies. You can find Patty’s temple down Battery Road.
The way of Beeverley is a contemplative and reflective path. It’s followers practice the art of Venn Meditation, where they cogitate upon the question of whether they are in the East Riding, East Yorkshire or Humberside, and what the overlap between these might be. Despite years of deliberation, they are yet to reach a consensus on the answer to this great question. Some of her followers who have more shamanic leanings expand their minds by consuming the potent powder known as “Chip Spice”. This is said to help them achieve a fluid mental sub-state known as “The Deep”. All meditation is usually practiced in the elegant gardens which surround Beeverley’s temple. These “Venn Gardens” are known for the aesthetic patterns of intersecting circles which are raked into its gravel paths. Worshippers of Beeverley can be recognised by their intricately patterned Gansey Jumpers, which they wear to keep themselves warm against the North Sea breezes, or to use as ID.
The Temple of Beeverley is located in the Land of Green Ginger and is designed to look like a giant version of a KCOM cream phone box. It houses their sacred chalice, a 1960’s Hornsea Pottery Heirloom Pattern “Autumn Brown” soup bowl. The custodians of the temple are Beeverley’s High Priest and Priestess, a couple called Bert and Agnes Hall. Their main job is to enforce the smoking ban inside the temple. The rules are very clear. Worshippers must go outside if they want to give someone a smug, superior, side-eye. Anyone who creates a disturbance in the temple by Larkin’ around, will be ejected by the temple guards. These guards all have the first name “Wilber” and are collectively known as the “Wilber Force”.
Devout worshippers of Beeverley avoid the demonic lair that is Spiders Nightclub, where even the purest hearted beeliever can become enmeshed in a web of sin, or permanently stuck to the floor. The legend is that if you spend too long in there you’ll turn into a Goole. However, if you’re not overly concerned with the state of your mortal soul, it’s actually a fun night out. Possibly a little bit too much fun. If you’re offered a blowie by an attractive stranger in the club toilets, go for it. In the East Riding, it’s impolite to spurn head.
Sadly, the religion of Beeverley is not entirely peaceful. For decades they have been at war with the North Riding over the disputed territory of Filey. In recent years an uneasy ceasefire has held. Both parties having decided to just wait until it is inevitable consumed by sea, rendering the issue moot.
One of Beeverley’s key deity duties is to watch over the thousands of travellers who cross the majestic span of the Humber Bridge every day. If there’s snerr blerking the rerd, she makes a fern curl t’let everyone nerr. When it comes to protecting those who cross the Humber, nothing is too much Hessel for Beeverley. The members of cult of Beeverley are also active for the benefit of the community. Every year they organise a festival to commemorate the anniversary of the Siege of Hull and the start of English Civil War. Next year in 2022, to celebrate the 380th jubilee, they are proposing that Kingston-Upon-Hull be temporarily renamed Not-Any-More-It’s-Not-Upon-Hull.
Worshippers of Beeverley believe that, when they die, their souls go to Bridlington. So, to facilitate the process, they usually move there a few years before the event. It is said to be a mostly tranquil afterlife, blighted only by flocks of voracious zombie gulls known as the “Undead Bods”. They occupy a space in the folklore which, in other cultures, is normally reserved for The Furies. Fortunately, these demonic birds mostly focus their attention on the wretched shade of t’Antalus. Who, for his heinous crimes in life*, is hereafter cursed to hold a burning hot cone of chips in his hands, but never gets to eat one.
* He moved to Lincolnshire and quite liked it.
Happy Yorkshire Day Everyone! I hope you are all enjoying your puddings and parkin. Jean Bishop, the OG Bee Lady fundraises for Age UK Hull. If you are thinking of making a charitable donation today, why not put it their way? They especially need funds right now to help older people affected by C-19. Details of how to donate are on their website at https://www.ageuk.org.uk/hull/
Thank you for reading. If you have enjoyed this deity, please feel free to share it with your friends. New deities are published weekly. You can get alerted to new deities via Facebook through the Idol Scribbling Page or on Twitter by following @IdolScribblings . Catch up on the Pantheon so far here.
If you have a suggestion for a deity, you can suggest it by clicking this link. Alternatively, get in touch over on Facebook or Twitter. All due credit will be given.
Soccerates, the god of football, has origins deep in the mists of time. Originally his rites of worship were violent melees between two rival villages as a kind of pseudo battle which resulted in a marginally lower body count than all out warfare. Over the years these savage, barbaric rituals gradually evolved into the beautiful game that is loved all over the world today. For example, not many people know that in medieval times, prior to pig’s bladders being used, early footballs were made from inflated cockerel scrotums. This practice was quickly abandoned because it resulted in a lot of fowl balls.
The core followers of Soccerates are devout fans who turn out every week, rain or shine, hell or high water, defeat or glory to praise the god and loyally cheer on third division Forest Wonderers United. Each wearing a coloured shirt to display their affiliation to their chosen sub-sect or “team”. Every Saturday afternoon from August to May, they stalwartly perch on precarious stands made from old scaffolding poles and milk crates with only a dubious pie for sustenance and comfort. They endure by raising their voices together in song. The cult of Soccerates is famous for its beautiful hymns such as the haunting barcarolle, “Stercora Estis et Noscitis” by Offenside*.
The priests of Soccerates are known as “Pundits”. The key requirements for becoming a pundit are; a reasonably successful football playing career, a general lack of optimism and the ability to wear a bad suit and keep your knees at least six feet apart at all times whilst manspreading the good word. They play almost no role in the actual running of the religion; their job is to discuss everything that has gone wrong with football since they stopped playing. The cult is also renowned for its miraculous faith healers, known as the “Physios”. A player can flop like a sack of wet cement, and the Physios are seemingly able to raise them from the dead with the Sacred Wet Sponge.
The great high temple of Soccerates is located in Wembley. This is where the faithful gather on the most holy occasions to raise their voices as they watch their team Kane the opposition into submission. Visitors always enter the temple by the south gate. Here you can see the sacred beasts of Soccerates, three lions that are called leopards that are actually lions. At the centre of the temple lies the “hallowed turf”, which is diligently re-hallowed every week without fail by a fully qualified turf hallower. High above this veldt, the Pundits sit in their suspended glass box, which creates the illusion that they are on the Sky.
Once every two years the ranks of Soccerates faithful swell exponentially in number when an international football tournament takes place. Most of these occasional worshippers are simply enjoying the fun, the sense of occasion and the festive atmosphere (a bit like folks who go to church once a year at Christmas). However, there are a few of these part-time worshippers who seem to feel that, at these times, they need to compensate for their intermittent dedication with excessive public displays of devotion. They form a heretical cult known as “Ingerlaanders”.
Ingerlaanders are typically people who aren’t bothered about being involved in European affairs when it comes to the serious work of cooperating as an international community, but don’t want to be left out at playtime. They often seem to be confused about whether this is all about sport or international tensions. It is the Ingerlaanders who sometimes rudely confuse unfortunate Germany fans by singing “Two World Wars and One World Cup” at them. If a full-time true devotee of Soccerates witnesses this kind of appalling abuse, they will be enraged and give the Ingerlaander a red card (which is no small matter, there will be penalties). If ever they are not there to step in, fortunately, every German knows that the correct response to this is, “Actually, Germany has won four World Cups”.
An Ingerlaander is easily recognised by their red and white face paint, £45 football shirt and general state of inebriation. The leader of the Ingerlaanders, Mr George Crosse, has festooned his home with so many England flags that, from a distance, it looks like the whole house has been draped in a gingham tablecloth. When the wind and rain get up, the snapping of wet pennants sounds like a free-for-all towel fight in a locker room. You may spot George as he drives to the pub to watch the match in his official car, which is ornamented ambassador-style with even more little flags. During the match and ritual imbibing of many pints of ale, the landlord will quietly hide his car keys, so that George has to put his Best foot forward as he wends his merry way home.
*A genius who was, sadly, never really understood.
With thanks to Kate Durrant for, once again, getting me out of the “stercus” with my Latin translations.
Announcement
In about a week’s time I will be going into hospital for an operation. It shouldn’t be anything to worry about, but I am going to be laid up for a bit afterwards. Unfortunately, I am unlikely to be laid in a position that is comfortable for drawing. Therefore, after today, I will be taking the rest of July off from cartooning. My plan, all being well, is to be back for the traditional Idol Scribblings Yorkshire Day special on August 1st. I look forward to seeing you all again then. Wish me luck!
Idol Scribblings Volume Two OUT NOW!
Even more deities for every eventuality with a foreword by Gary Brannan of the Technical Difficulties ( TechDiff.co.uk )
Thank you for reading. If you have enjoyed this deity, please feel free to share it with your friends. New deities are published weekly. You can get alerted to new deities via Facebook through the Idol Scribbling Page or on Twitter by following @IdolScribblings . Catch up on the Pantheon so far here.
If you have a suggestion for a deity, you can suggest it by clicking this link. Alternatively, get in touch over on Facebook or Twitter. All due credit will be given.
Of all the mysteries of the cosmos, perhaps the most baffling is: When power is almost exclusively held by minging middle-aged white guys, how the hell does it still manage to be an aphrodisiac‽
Membership of the cult of Hatt Mancock is restricted those who hold the highest positions in government. The philosophy of this sect is, “If we make the rules, we don’t have to follow them.” They are renowned for their rampant hypocrisy. Its members are fond of imposing strict moral judgements on everyone else*. Whist other religions may appeal to their deity on a variety of subjects, every prayer to Hatt Mancock is, in essence, the same. “Please don’t let me get caught.” Who can forget their moving psalm, “Yay though I snog my aide in the shadow of a hat stand, shall I fear not Paparazzi, for though art with me, and with my rod in my staff I’m going to get busy.”
The temple of Hatt Mancock is housed in a collection of hidden rooms in Whitehall, known as the Profumo Suite. If you wish to enter, you must first gain permission from Cecil Parkinson, the keeper of the Keyes. Inside you will find the altar, an majestic, mahogany ministerial desk. If you look closely, you will see the faint imprint of buttocks on its highly polished surface. If, during your visit, you hear that the “Party Whip” is being brought out, don’t panic. It’s just a novelty one with fluffy tassels and a glittery handle.
The priests of Hatt Mancock are known as “Ministers”, and they are divided into ranks such as Junior Ministers and Under Secretaries. Ministers can be recognised by their ill-fitting suits, rosettes, and spread-legged power-pose stances. The Ministers work closely (much closer than two meters) with “Aides” who assist them. Apparently, an important aspect of the role of an Aide is sleeping with your Secretary (this is why they are always lay-members of the church). This has led to the creation of posts with titles like, “Secretary Under the Under Secretary”. Ministers can recruit new Aides, either from amongst their old university pals, or by using the discrete “MPHarmony” dating website and app. The Ministers are led by the “Minister Primus”, who holds the privilege of committing sexual impropriety without consequences. In fact, whenever the Minister Primus finds they are a little strapped for cash due to all their child support payments, they will get divorced and marry yet another wealthy mistress, a practice known as, “Cash & Carrie”.
In order to become a Minister of Hatt Mancock, one must first be a member of their youth organisation, the Bullshittingdon Club. In their distinctive uniform of navy tailcoats, these noble young bast… …ions of the faith, led by their “Flout Master”, will earn badges in skills such as Awkward Groping, Dirty Research Trip Planning, and “Badger Watching”. Just in case they are ever caught in flagrante delicto during their future Ministerial careers, the neophytes are also taught to weave elaborate excuses such as, “My Aide and I were near the coat stand when we heard a strange noise. She went to investigate when a host of biting ants flooded out of the coats, (attracted by a forgotten complimentary hotel biscuit in one of the pockets). They swarmed all over her, particularly the in area of the buttocks and some of them even entering her mouth. Naturally, I attempted to brush them off. As she had been repeatedly bitten around the lips, in an attempt to administer first aid, I tried to suck out the poison.” Or the simpler, “I was eating out to help out.”
It is a hard life being a Minister of Hatt Mancock. Excellent time management skills are essential so that you can simultaneously bugger up the response to a national crisis, award your mates juicy contracts, have a family and still have a bit on the side. Maintaining a work / double-life balance is so important.
From time to time, not even the protection of the god is enough to defend one of his Ministers from the public outcry over their transgressions. Many of those who are exposed are the mortal victims of the long running feud between Hatt Mancock and Paparazzi the God of Sleaze (whose followers like to hang around in the bushes outside Hatt Mancock’s temples with telephoto lenses or make friends with the security team who watch the CCTV). However, sometimes they are simply betrayed by the old-fashioned lipstick on the collar and lingering scent of her hand sanitiser. Once such a story hits the headlines, the Minister affected will initially attempt to maintain his position, but inevitably finds that his hip is giving out, so he can’t do it without a truss (and Liz has said she’s not touching that).
Next follows one of the most famous rituals of Hatt Mancock, “The Sack Race”. This is a rather different version from the old school sports day favourite. In this rite the disgraced Minister must rush Number 10 Downing Street to tender their resignation (for £37 billion, to a company run by their sibling’s spouse) before public pressure forces the Minister Primus to dismiss them (despite having previously declared the matter closed). So, ironically, betraying their family usually leads to a Minister spending a lot more time with them. It’s not forever though, the prize for winning the Sack Race is that you get to have another go at being a Minister again once the dust has settled.
* Who can forget their “Back to Basics” campaign in the 1990s? No one was quite sure at the time what these “basics” were, but we have since found out they probably included pegging.
Idol Scribblings Volume Two OUT NOW!
Even more deities for every eventuality with a foreword by Gary Brannan of the Technical Difficulties ( TechDiff.co.uk )
Thank you for reading. If you have enjoyed this deity, please feel free to share it with your friends. New deities are published weekly. You can get alerted to new deities via Facebook through the Idol Scribbling Page or on Twitter by following @IdolScribblings . Catch up on the Pantheon so far here.
If you have a suggestion for a deity, you can suggest it by clicking this link. Alternatively, get in touch over on Facebook or Twitter. All due credit will be given.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a modern woman, in possession of her own fortune, must be in want of a bit of good old-fashioned passion. Helen Harlotry is the goddess of all those who have an irrational longing to experience the lifestyle and passion of the Regency Era. A condition known to psychologists as “Austalgia”. She is a famed divine beauty, known for her pert opinions and fine eyes. She is a virginal goddess, as yet unwed. One prospective celestial consort declared that she was, “tolerable I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.” Helen Halrotry is the eldest of the sixty-nine sister goddesses of romantic fiction. (You may have heard of her slightly more mainstream sister, the erotic and racy Melisande Boon – The Goddess of the Ripped Bodice.)
Most people expect the temple of Helen Harlotry to be located in one of the renowned Regency towns, such as Bath, Buxton or Brighton. In fact, it is happily situated in a park in Mansfield. This hallowed hall has a graceful neoclassical white stone façade adorned with a cornucopia of columns, built in the style of the architect John Nash. Atop the roof sits a small cupola which houses the temple bell. When rung, this bell goes, “Bingley-bingley-bingley.” The temple has two doors. Above one it says, “Entrance”, above the other it says, “Other way Mr Collins.” Once you are inside, you will find over a hundred elegantly furnished sitting rooms where worshippers can partake of the holy afternoon-tea ritual or receive gentleman callers whilst suitably chaperoned. Past these salons, at the heart of the temple, is a capacious, chandeliered ball room. Helen Harlotrians like to hold big balls. If you also tour the arbours and bowers of the grounds, you may be lucky enough to spot their 224-year-old pet tortoise, Mary Shelley. No one is sure whether this sacred ancient beast really is that old, or if they just keep reanimating her.
Whilst within the temple, followers of Helen Harlotry must adhere to strict rules of dress and etiquette to ensure an authentic early 19th century ambiance is preserved. Ladies must wear elegant empire line robes and carry a parasol, dance card and fan at all times. Gentlemen must adhere to a minimum side-burn length and meet a mandatory breech-tightness requirement. There is a secret, heretical sub-sect known as the Bridgertonians who like to bend or even outright defy these laws. For example, by sneaking classical arrangements of modern pop songs into the Temple String Quartet’s repertoire. They are lead by the mischievous Lady Danbury, who considers this to be riotously funny. Devotees of Helen Harlotry take great pride in their authenticity and many nurse a violent prejudice against the Bridgertonians. In return the Bridgertonians consider the orthodox members of the faith to be rather “High in the instep.” To avoid persecution from these less light-hearted folks*, Bridgertonians identify one another by secret signs and symbols. Such as the covert wearing of synthetic fabrics or hiding bee motifs in their costume designs. You may wonder why these iconoclasts run the risk of being scorned and ostracised. Apparently, it is all worth it just to watch Regé-Jean Page slowly lick a spoon.
Should you wish to join the cult of Helen Harlotry, you must either be a single man in possession of a good fortune and in want of a wife, or an impoverished yet accomplished maiden with little but her charms to recommend her. Gentlemen who are prepared to give consequence to ladies who are slighted by other men are particularly welcome. The initiation ritual for gentlemen involves stripping off down to their shirtsleeves and going for a dip in the lake, whilst the female members of the sect stroll along the lake shore and loudly exclaim, “Mr Darcy!” when he emerges. The initiation rite is different for female neophytes. They must go for a walk, get thoroughly soaked in an unexpected thunderstorm, and almost die of the apparently inevitable fever.
The worshippers of Helen Harlotry are keen on ball games. That is, games played at balls. The most popular of these is known as “Lady Catherine’s Condescension”. The game is played to music. Players must take a turn around the room and use persuasion to dash the wood into the nether field. It is improper for ladies to partner the same gentleman for more than two turns (unless they have “an understanding”). If, during the game, virtue is lost by a female player, it is irretrievable. By contrast, gentleman players are allowed one opportunity to restore their reputation and continue play. Players who commit multiple fouls (known as indiscretions) are exposed as the worst of libertines and sent off (usually to fight Napoleon). The game ends when everyone is married.
No one is precisely sure why this period of history evokes such passion and nostalgia. Maybe it is because it is one of the few eras when high fashion looks not only stylish, but also wearable and vaguely comfortable. However, not even the most devout followers of Helen Harlotry want to live full-time in Regency mode. The general consensus is that, whilst era is nice to visit in spirit, you wouldn’t want to live there. Even if you were minted. After all, no matter how much money you have, you can’t buy penicillin if it hasn’t been discovered yet. Once their religious devotions are complete, they are happy to be able to return to their 21st century rights and freedoms, but with a refreshed appreciation of their modern privilege and a prayer for their sisters around the world who are yet to achieve emancipation.
*Helen Harlotrians are not totally humourless. They have a version of the Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman joke which begins, “Jane Austen, Maria Edgeworth and Susan Edmonstone Ferrier walked into the Pump Room at Bath…”
Idol Scribblings Volume Two OUT NOW!
Even more deities for every eventuality with a foreword by Gary Brannan of the Technical Difficulties ( TechDiff.co.uk )
Thank you for reading. If you have enjoyed this deity, please feel free to share it with your friends. New deities are published weekly. You can get alerted to new deities via Facebook through the Idol Scribbling Page or on Twitter by following @IdolScribblings . Catch up on the Pantheon so far here.
If you have a suggestion for a deity, you can suggest it by clicking this link. Alternatively, get in touch over on Facebook or Twitter. All due credit will be given.
The Ginnow is a fish out of tonic. This martini-tiny fish can be found living in the vermouths of rivers. People often confuse the Ginnow with the Cocktail Stickleback.
(Note: I am having a little trouble getting this image to work for the RedBubble merchandise. I can’t seem to get the transparency of the glass to look right when it is put on other colour backgrounds. I will keep working on it and will let you know when they become available.)
Wogana La la la Olé is the only deity who knows what hellish future lies ahead. They’ve seen the rehearsals.
Wogana is the latest addition to the Irish pantheon of gods. They rode into the Otherworld during the second half of the twentieth century on their celestial steed, a lovely horse. The primary aim of the faith of Wogana is to bring peace to the world by making music, not war. It is to the constant amazement of the sceptics out there that Woganaism has been considerably more successful in this aim than the League of Nations ever was*. However, this may all unravel if Cyprus ever award Turkey douze points.
The international nature of this sect may be the reason why Wogananians are, on average, better at geography than US citizens. On hearing that their flight has a lay-over in Moldova, many Americans will wonder, “Where’s that?”. Whereas a follower of Wogana will think, “Hey Mamma!”. Due to the huge range of languages spoken by the acolytes of Wogana, it has become necessary to devise a universal sacred language to enable the community to understand one another. For example, Eurovispiranto for, “Good morning! How are you today?” is, “Boom-bang-a-bang! Hippety-pump-pump ay-ay-ay?”
The great festival of Wogana takes place annually in mid-May and lasts for a week. It is held in a different country each year and is televised to enable followers across the globe to participate. Small groups (up to six) of the faithful will often gather in private homes to celebrate together. However, only the most devout will watch the entire week’s coverage of the festival. Most will only tune in for the climactic final rite on the Saturday night. As with many faiths, alcoholic libation pays a key role in the proceedings. At the start of the final night ritual the High Priest will ceremonially crack open a bottle of Baileys and consume the whole lot over the course of the evening. Except for the first glass, which is placed before the statue of Wogana so that the deity can be there in spirit. The high priest will then lead the congregation in the first prayer of the evening, which begins, “Oh Lordi…”.
Following the opening prayers, a representative from each Wogananian country will take turns to make an offering of a song to Wogana. An uninitiated person watching the proceedings might conclude that there is considerable confusion over what will please this deity. Some offer catchy hooks and pyrotechnics, some bring hoards of metal shredding Vikings or teams of moshing babushkas, whilst others present a wailing lady with a man wearing a horse’s head, sat on a stepladder. The correct answer, of course, is that what pleases Wogana above all things is diversity, spectacle and a lot of glitter. The more utterly bonkers the better. These representatives give their all performing to please Wogana and their followers (or at the very least elicit a sardonic witticism from the High Priest). They also compete for the honour of hosting the following year’s festival. Whilst winning isn’t everything, and it truly is the taking part that counts, every performer at the rite lives in dread of displeasing Wogana and having their souls fed to the demon “Nulpoints”. Singers who suspect this fate may be in store for them often turn Blue and quickly Scooch out of there. Wogana being counted amongst the gods of Eire may be the reason why Ireland has seen such success in the contest over the years. They have hosted the great festival so many times that they Michael Flatley refuse to host it again any time soon.
The current high priest of Wogana is one Mr Norton (affectionately known as “Pray ’em Norton”). Whilst he is renowned as a preacher of great wit and wisdom in his own right, he will also very occasionally act as an oracle of Wogana, channeling the wry Bon Mot of the deity themselves.
It may also interest you to know that Wogananians measure their historical periods a little differently to the rest of us. For example the years from 2010 to 2015, remembered for their iridescent foil fashions and youthful exuberance, are known as “The Jedwardian Era” (it was the best of times, it was the Wurst of times). This era takes its name from the mythical twin sons of Wogana. Edstor and Jollox.
May all the followers of Wogana La La La Olé have a wonderful time celebrating tonight. Let Wogana’s love shine a light in every corner of your dreams.
*Sadly nothing is perfect. Israel seems to have missed that mission statement memo.
Idol Scribblings Volume Two OUT NOW!
Even more deities for every eventuality with a foreword by Gary Brannan of the Technical Difficulties ( TechDiff.co.uk )
Thank you for reading. If you have enjoyed this deity, please feel free to share it with your friends. New deities are published weekly. You can get alerted to new deities via Facebook through the Idol Scribbling Page or on Twitter by following @IdolScribblings . Catch up on the Pantheon so far here.
If you have a suggestion for a deity, you can suggest it by clicking this link. Alternatively, get in touch over on Facebook or Twitter. All due credit will be given.
Hello you bunch of beautiful reprobates. As I originally promised to be back with a new Idol Scribblings deity this week, and that is now not happening, I though I ought to tell you all why.
We had a lot of thunderstorms around our parts this week. During one of these storms we ended up with an extra cat. They came in through our cat flap to take shelter, and haven’t left since! Instead of drawing my cartoons I have been trying to track down his humans and acting as referee between him and out two existing cats. So far, to no avail. If we can’t find his humans, and he settles down a bit with our girls, he may well end up becoming a member of the family. He certainly seems to want to be with us. (In addition to this feline drama, work has been really busy this week as the UK prepares for the next stage of lockdown easing.)
Our Mystery Cat VisitorMaking himself at home until we can find his home.
The Darthworm was formerly known as Annelid Skywriggler. They are thought to be responsible for the existence of those pesky hyperspace wormholes. This species hibernates through the winter, re-emerging every spring on May the Fourth.
Thanks to Bill Johnston for suggesting the Darthworm, and a happy “May the Fourth Be With You” to all my readers.
Idol Scribblings 