Twometer – Goddess of Social Distancing

June 7, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Until 2020 Twometer was a minor deity of car park height barriers and low bridges. Before the Covid-19 pandemic, only the people of Finland had considered her aspect as a deity of social distancing. You can read the full story of her origins in the book of “Hygenesis”.

Twometer is always depicted wearing a gargantuan crinoline gown with a four-meter diameter. The bold yellow and back colours of her dress serve as a warning not to get too close. That voluminous skirt is hemmed with 5000V electric fence ribbon. If this proves to be an insufficient deterrent, she also carries a six-foot barge pole with a spear tip that you do not want her to be able to touch you with. Anyone managing to evade electrocution and impalement then comes into range of her deadly hairdo. This incorporates elements of elaborate braiding and the medieval chain mace. This style of unique coiffure is known as the “Pompadon’t”

Worshippers of Twometer mainly worship at home, but very occasionally it is absolutely essential to go out to the temple. These temples have a strict occupancy limit. At busy times they enact a “one in – one out policy”. (There is priority praying for keyworkers between 8am and 9am daily.) One can see the patiently waiting faithful lined up outside, safely spaced apart by the handy guide makers painted on the pavement. Everyone politely abides by this system (even the temple cats). When it is their turn to enter the temple, each worshipper will ritually sanitise their hands as they pass through the vaulted vestibule. A priest will also check their temperature, that they are wearing the mandatory face mask correctly. Anyone heard to have that distinctive dry cough known as the “Fur Cough” will be asked to leave immediately and self isolate.

Once inside a temple of Twometer, one must move around the building in a set pattern, following the guide arrows on the floor. It is a dreadful sin to go the wrong way or try to hurry others ahead of you. An attempt to push past another worshipper will earn you a sharp rebuke along the lines of, “Your hurry to get to the sacramental wine section is not more important than everyone else’s health,” or the earthier, “Do you want to stay six feet away or be six feet under Pal?”

The seating area of the temple has rows of pews, positioned much as they would be in any church or temple. However, most of these seats are blocked from use by stern signs and yellow tape, to ensure no one can be so rude as to sit directly next to anyone else. Prominent signs displayed in the temple read, “Please leave room between you for her Holy Spirit”.

It’s not all prayer and solitary contemplation being a worshipper of Twometer. Computer gaming is an especially popular pastime. The favourite game of most Twometerians is the retro classic “Personal Space Invaders”. The temples usually have spacious grounds which are marked out with a “picnic grid”. Worshippers can use an available square to catch a little sun or dine alfresco whilst being assured of sufficient elbowroom. (This is provided, of course that they take their rubbish home with them. Litterbuggers will be excommunicated.) For those that like something a bit more active, Zorbing is one of the few permitted social sports. Music lovers are catered for too, Twometer has many popular hymns including, “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” and “From a Distance”. However, all music is performed solo, or by a series of musicians taking it in turn to sing via video-link*.

One of the rules of the faith of Twometer is the observance of family planning. No one is allowed a family unit of more than 6. If they exceed this, they will be forbidden to leave the house together. Children in Twometerian families are often home-schooled for at least a portion of their education, and the sect provides a handy list of recommended reading and forbidden texts. The Famous Five books are fine, Secret Seven books are considered unholy.

Incidentally, Twometer has a sister called “Yoo”. In the past (when Twometer wasn’t watching over bent roof racks and dented double-deckers) they occasionally operated together as Goddesses of Removals People and Predictable Slapstick Children’s Entertainers. Their double act “Twometer – Yoo” hope to be back to their old light-hearted shenanigans when all this is over.

* These “pass the brush” recording of popular songs are the only known example in the universe of a whole being less than the sum of its parts.

The Goddess of Social Distancing has been suggested by just about every member of the Hive Mind (in some form or other) over the last 8 weeks. So, this one is for all of you.

Idol Scribblings Volume Two
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Idol Scribblings Volume One

A collection of 52 deities, ancient and modern, for all occations from Idol Scribblings. Produced in 2019-2020.

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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.

Hughjanus – The “Do As I Say, Not As I Do” Demon

May 25, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ 1 Comment

Hughjanus is an evil entity who hovers on the shoulders of those in positions of power and whispers, “…but it’s okay if you do it. You’re special.” He is also said to ride forth across the land spreading disease and pestilence wherever he goes.

It is said by some that Hughjanus son of Werentme, the God of Denial. Werentme will not confirm the paternity, but Hughjanus was spotted staying at his celestial barn conversion the other week.

Hughjanus has two faces, mounted back to back. His head is constantly spinning around Exorcist-style, so that each visage can try to defend and excuse the behaviour of the other in turn. The first face appears bluff and jovial, luring you in, the reverse has a sinister countenance and is known as, “The Glower Behind the Throne.” Statues of Hughjanus usually only depict the head, as the rest of his body is all arse.

Hughjanus loathed by most, and is only worshipped by those whom he as managed to lure into his thrall. Once you are under the spell, it is harder to get out of his sect that is is to get out of the mafia. Hughjanus looks upon all his acolytes as expendable herd beasts, unless they are momentarily useful. He does not consider mortals to be capable of true emotion. Any problem of his is more urgent than your problem, and grief he feels is more profound than your suffering. He will not hesitate to demand the sacrifice of one or even hundreds of lives for his gain or convenience.

Thanks you to @Canocola of Twitter for helping to create and name Hughjanus.

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.

Amazonia – Goddess of Excessive Packaging

May 24, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Amazonia is the goddess of excessive and ridiculous packaging. She is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, sealed in a blister pack, swathed in bubble wrap, nestled in wotsits, and encased in a cardboard box. (Despite this outward appearance of robustness, like the rest of us, she’s still slightly broken inside.) Amazonia was not born or purposely created. Back in the dawn of time, a primordial proto-deity accidentally cut himself in an intimate area whilst trying to open a parcel of ambrosia with a sickle. His blood and seed was splattered across the polystyrene deluge that spilled forth. Amazonia rose spontaneously from this sea of packing peanuts and sailed to the shore in a clam-shell case.

Amazonia tried to take a consort, after she fell in love with the one eyed giant Polytheneus. Sadly, after eight hours of unsuccessfully trying to get one another’s kit off, they decided to wrap things up. Amazonia is now resigned to the fact that Nobody can get in her knickers. For company, Amazonia now goes everywhere with her sacred animal, a Marmoset monkey, better known as the Amazonian Primate. She also has a flock “Shipping Label Birds”, which she keeps in her celestial Avery.

Amazonia’s temples are constructed entirely from cardboard and resemble a child’s box fort gone mad. Either side of the entrance are two signs, one which says, “Fragile” and the other “Ԁ∩ ʎ∀M SIH⊥” The temples are always at least five sizes bigger than they need to be for their congregation. The cavernous voids of these sanctuaries ring with the voices of the priests performing the chants of their sacred “Wrap Music”. At one end of the otherwise empty space stands a small altar looking a bit lost and forlorn. Here, regular offerings are made to the goddess. The most popular, traditional, every-day offering is a shrink-wrapped orange. On special holy days more elaborate sacrifices are made, such as a gnat’s spaff of premium brand perfume in a 10lb lead crystal phial, or a memory stick in a steel shipping container. To raise funds for the upkeep of the temple (which requires major structural work after every shower of rain) the priesthood run a famously reliable courier service. You may have seen their adverts, “Lecter Logistics – We Always De-Liver!” The principle temple of Amazonia is located in the Lake District town of Kendal. The goddess is very popular here as the people of Kendal like to keep everything in mint condition.

The priesthood of Amazonia all wear robes constructed entirely from packaging materials and all have surprisingly long fingernails. The design of their garb varies greatly depending on which subsect the cleric belongs to. The more traditional and austere coteries wear cassocks made from brown paper and string. The more modern denominations opt for contemporary materials. Perhaps the most shocking are the controversial “Sisters of the Blister” with their semi rigid plastic vestments which are completely transparent! The high priestess wears an ancient sacred tie-wrap girdle, said to have once been worn by the goddess herself. Other mythic girdles have conferred invincibility on their wearers, in this case it is the girdle itself which is invincible. It has bent scissors, broken swords and even worn down angle grinders.

When a new initiate joins the sect of Amazonia, they undergo a special form of baptism. They will stand adjacent to the officiating priest, who will stab the little plastic straw violently into a juice box, liberally anointing the neophyte with Um Bongo. Following this ritual dousing, the neophyte will receive their own copy of Amazonia’s sacred text. This tome is sheathed in one hundred layers of interlaced sacred wrappings, sometimes known as “The Gordian Package”. The neophyte progresses to full acolyte level when they finally open it. There is a (possibly apocryphal) tale that Alexander the Great attempted to join the cult of Amazonia. Impatient to progress within the hierarchy of the faith, he immediately attacked his Gordian parcel with his legendary yellow sword “Stanley”, scoring a deep gouge into the codex inside. This caused great anger and upset amongst the senior priests, but in the end, no one was brave enough to tell Alexander that it didn’t count.

At the conclusion of their lives, worthy Amazonians are honoured by having their bodies subjected to an unusual form of mummification. The aim being that they will be safely delivered into the afterlife. After being carefully prepared and embalmed, the deceased is enshrouded in layer after layer of thin PVC film bandages and then heated with a hair dryer. The orders of service for Amazonian funerals are always printed on perforated card, allowing mourners to shed a tear across the dotted line.

Amazonia was suggested by Kieron Philips.

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.

Howzat – God of Cricket

May 10, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Howzat the god of cricket is the son of Tan – the god of leather and a dryad of the willow tree. He watches over all players and afficionados of the “Gentleperson’s Game”. Whether the athletes of great nations are clashing upon hallowed turf, or six children are playing in a concrete car park with a wicket drawn in chalk on the wall, Howzat will shine his blessings upon them and all will know true joy until bad light stops play (or their Mum calls them in for dinner). Many pantheons around the world have their own avatar of this God of Cricket. For example, in India, this same deity is known as Tendulkar. Howzat’s sacred animal, the Cricket Bat. A flying mammal that can echo locate a the ball using the sound made by rubbing the ridged pads on its legs together. Howzat is staked through mythology by his arch nemesis, the demonic “Golden Duck”.

A temple of Howzat is also known as a “Pavilion”. These vary greatly in grandeur, from tumble down tabernacles serving the needs of humble village elevens, to the elegant half-timbered palaces of long-established sides. Each Pavilion sits at the edge of their immaculately manicured temple grounds, overlooking the field of worship.

The cult of Howzat is known for its lengthy rites where two teams of eleven worshippers will perform the sacred bat and ball dance. These may last anything from a summer afternoon up to a full five days. Given the duration of services, it is not expected that the congregation will give their rapt attention to the proceedings for the entire time. It is perfectly acceptable to occasionally dip into a novel, or perhaps have a little nap under a newspaper. (This may be why the faith of Howzat is more popular than most of the other faiths of the world combined.) They are a very civilised sect, and regular breaks are taken for lunch and tea to ensure bodily comfort. During these respites, a feast of succulent cucumber sandwiches, fruity scones and fine teas is shared by the congregation. The bravest worshippers will eat the warm prawn cocktail sandwiches on offer in the hope that this will help them get the runs.

In addition to their main rites, before every visit to the lavatory Howzatians will say a short prayer called the W.C. Grace. This prayer varies but is always along the lines of, “Oh Howzat, please may I get my gloves, pads, trousers and box off before my bladder doth burst!”

Worshippers of Howzat aim to live for as long as possible, and a great celebration is made of anyone achieving a century. Once a follower of Howzat does pass beyond the boundary to the great commentary box in the sky, their remains will be cremated and interred in a surprisingly tiny urn. If you attend a traditional Howzatian funeral, do not be surprised if the proceedings start with great dignity but descend into an unseemly dispute over the ashes.

The priesthood of Howzat are also known as “The Umpires”. They can be recognised by their crisp white robes and Panama hats. They serve as the arbitrators and judges of the church. Despite (or perhaps because of) their exalted position, the Umpires are sometimes the targets of angry invective. Because of this abuse they have become unionised and are known for frequently engaging in industrial action to protest for better treatment. When they strike, they refuse to lift a finger. Each new campaign causes the other members of the faith to tut, roll their eyes and remark, “The Umpire strike’s back.” The Umpires uphold the 42 Laws of Cricket. If you are wondering why the laws number 42, this is because cricket is the meaning of life, the universe and everything. You can read these Laws and other para-balls of the faith in their sacred text, the Book of Wisden.

It can be difficult being romantically involved with a follower of Howzat, but underneath they are usually a good catch. Try to avoid going nightclubbing with them, as they sometimes unwisely decide to attack a bouncer. You may need to advise your date on best time to leave the ball, and I recommend that you get a taxi home, just in case the object of your affections is hit and run driver. Howzatians can become a bit obsessive in their devotion to the god, to the point where they may neglect the physical side of your relationship. There are, however, a few tried and tested tactics that may work to get their attention. For example, you might want to try a stroke through the covers, a beautiful tickle down the long leg, or even a full toss. If all else fails, bring in a third man (only permissible when conditions are primed for swinging).

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.

Quarantina – Goddess of Lockdowns

May 3, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Quarantina is the deity of thriving in enforced isolation. Lockdown isn’t a competition, but if it was, she’d be winning it. Until this year she had been a minor deity, worshipped mainly by returning astronauts. However, in the last few months millions of people have begun tentatively exploring the way of Quarantina. She was originally the only daughter of Misogynese the king of Iona. An oracle prophesied to the king that one of his grandchildren would kill him (I think that’s the go-to stock prophecy they use when an oracle can’t think of anything to say). So, predictably, the king shut young Quarantina away to prevent her ever taking a lover. Removed from the world, Quarantina used the time to hone herself into a formidably wise and skilled woman. Her accomplishments grew until they rivalled those of the gods, who raised her deity-hood so that she would stop showing them up. This freed her from her father’s imprisonment. Once she had the chance, she bore many children; a tribe known as “The Quaranteens”. Many years later, the eldest of the Quaranteens attempted a reconciliation with his grandfather. They made peace and shook hands. Sadly, they forgot to wash them first.

Quarantina’s divine superpower is being able to perform multiple tasks simultaneously despite a hail of distractions and a background hum of dread anxiety. Working online for an eight-hour day whilst delivering six hours of high school level teaching, feeding a family of five, arbitrating a nuclear sibling war and composing her first symphony is a cinch for her! Even when Anaglypta and Artex next door start relaying their floorboards with Penetr8ingBeatzFM turned up to eleven on the radio. She can do all this stood on one leg, and she sticks a broom up her arse to sweep the floor whilst’s she’s at it. Her freshly spring-cleaned, redecorated and decluttered temple can be found in the creepily idyllic small town known as “Stepford”. An immaculate garden surrounds the temple to create a picket fence perfect scene. The windows of the temple are decorated with beautifully drawn rainbows. Passers-by have a tendency to be quite overwhelmed by these nauseating levels of perfection and, despite the delicious baking smells that constantly waft through the air, the street outside the temple is decorated with little piles of vomit.

Followers of Quarantina will try to emulate the goddess’s self-discipline. The lifestyle of a fully committed Quarantinian is gruelling. They must ritually cleanse themselves, brush their hair and put on a bra EVERY DAMN DAY. Quarantina’s devotees also appeal to her for divine assistance in their self-improvement projects. There are different traditional offerings they must make to Quarantina when requesting her aid with various endeavours. If one is attempting to learn a new language one is supposed to pour a libation of half a pint of homemade kombucha before her altar. For help with mastering a musical instrument, present the goddess with a bowl of frothy sourdough starter. If one is trying to finally write “that novel you know is inside you somewhere”, ritually cremate a banana loaf and waft the smoke towards the heavens whist chanting, “Ohshitohshitohshit” in time to beeping of your smoke alarm. The one miracle that Quarantina seems to be unable to perform, is a successful home haircut. No matter how many offerings you place at her altar, you WILL make your children look like the offspring of an 80’s footballer and a homicidal clown. Quarantina is powerless to assist because of her nemesis “Girl Swirled” the home haircut demon.

Due to the relatively recent popularity of this cult, Quarantina only has a small group of priests and priestesses. Their main role is the creation of informative online videos and podcasts about how to improve your lockdown life by following the way of Quarantina. They initially attract new followers with interesting articles and recipes, then subtly introduce the religious aspect. If you have recently read an article about rearing your own chickens, the chances are that this was Quarantina cluck-bait. They also manage the online league tables of competitive quarantining. Who has gone the longest without leaving the house? Who has sewed the most headbands for the NHS? Who has sewed the most sartorially elegant face masks? Whose child has been accepted to Oxbridge early thanks to four weeks of their tuition? Who has clapped the loudest at the Thursday night thanksgiving ritual? Following the way of Quarantina can be exhausting. To preserve one’s sanity it pays to remember that she is an ideal idol, and such perfection cannot be achieved by us mere mortals. If you don’t love Quarantina, you can at least love to hate her.

Thank you to Liz Laycock @longrat for suggesting Quarantina.

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.

Prometheus – God of Disappointing Sci-Fi

April 26, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Prometheus formed spontaneously in 1999 with the release of Star Wars
Episode 1. He sits in scathing judgement over an entire genre. He is notorious for stealing Firefly from the DVD collection of the Gods.

Prometheus’ temples are all virtual. Devout worshippers will have a small home shrine. Usually a stained desk baring a powerful gaming PC surrounded by votive candles, polyhedral dice and crumbs. From this stronghold they ride forth like paladins, across the world wide web, to do battle with anyone who dares to hold an opinion. For this reason they are also known as “The Fandom Menace”. The most devout are said to be powerfully magical hermits who deliver remote wrath and judgement upon anyone who “quite liked Jurassic Shark”.

Once a year, followers quit their solitude and assemble in Picardy for a celebration of their culture called the “Com Icon”. The ceremonies, celebration of the arts and general roistering lead many to mistakenly believe that this festival has much in common with the ancient Dyonisia. They are wrong. Once things get going, Com Icon makes a Bacchanalian frenzy look like a Vestal Virgin’s tea party. What happens at Com Icon, stays at Com Icon. It is compulsory to attend dressed as a character from Prometheus’ rich mythology. Followers will spend the weeks approaching the festival perfecting elaborate masquerades to be seen in. The first commandment of Prometheus being “Make it sew”. Whilst there is a wide range of guises one can choose, going as “Nude Iron Man” is seen as a lazy cop out, so don’t turn up Stark Naked. The only other costume that is forbidden is that of a medic from Star Trek. (You’re only allowed to wear that one if you’re the real McCoy.)

The priesthood can be recognised by their vestments, which somehow simultaneously manage to appear futuristic and creatively anachronistic. Their full ceremonial outfit comprises a tartan travel rug, six rolls of tinfoil, an Ikea sheepskin rug, a heavily modified hairdryer, a pair of welding goggles, a whacking great sword and a bucket of glitter. They will sit on panels throughout the festival of Com Icon to answer questions from their congregation. The priesthood has typically been male dominated, however, there is now extensive pressure for gender balance in the sect, and this is starting to have an effect. For example, since 2018 Priestess Whittaker has become famed for her doctrinal wisdom.

The core belief of the religion of Prometheus is that the Geek shall inherit the earth. Throughout life one must prove one’s dedicated fandom and encyclopaedic knowledge of sci-fi by being corscruatingly scathing of all prequels, sequels and spin offs. Virtue is competitive, and one must devastatingly take down every other aficionado who is potentially nerdier than thou, with plot holes and superior sneers. If one successfully lives according to this “Janeway of Righteousness” you will go to a nerd’s paradise called “The Elysium Force Fields” when you die. In this hereafter, one gets to have as many long, uninterrupted conversations with Brent Spiner as one wants. How many other religions’ afterlives can boast unlimited Data?

I am still afflicted by a finger injury, and have decided to take a proper week off from drawing to let it heal properly. In the mean time, to tide you over, here is an early deity, which I drew in 2018, but somehow escaped being posted before. It was suggested by the excellent Will Bailey.

(Before anyone says, “It’s Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons”, I know at least six guys who look exactly like this. Attempt to sue me and I WILL introduce you.)

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.

Aunt Agone – Goddess of Bad Advice

April 19, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

The gods in general have a very strange attitude towards prophecy. They grant the gift to some, but then get a bit vengeful if the seer divulges any major spoilers. Most prophets circumvent this wrath by speaking in maddeningly vague riddles and metaphors. Leaving the gods able to smugly say, “I told you so”, and mankind screaming back at the heavens, “BUT NOT IN A WAY ANYONE COULD UNDERSTAND UNTIL AFTER THE EVENT YOU METAPHYSICAL ASSHATS!”

Aunt Agone cunningly avoids this philosophical conundrum by only giving bad advice through her oracle. If one does the exact opposite of what she says, it will usually all turn out fine. This enables the seer to use direct language in their proclamations without being smitten from on high. There is no pithier oracle. It turns out that obviously bad advice is more helpful than good advice given badly. Some of her oracle’s most famous are:

Give your bother a proper send off, your uncle will come round in time. (1300 BCE)

Buy Betamax! (May 1975 CE)

Book this year’s summer holiday well in advance. (January 2020 CE)

Yes, it is possible to make someone love you. (Pretty much every damn day since the dawn of time)

The temple of Aunt Agone is built above the sacred cavern where the oracle sits. The sanctuary above is supported by a forest of mighty columns. This goddess has many, many columns. The temple also houses a squat orange holy stone known as the Oompaloompaphalos. Carved into the stonework at the temple entrance are the four famous unhelpful advisory clichés. “Just be yourself,” “Don’t overdo it,” “Money isn’t everything,” and “Err…?”

The fee to consult the oracle is tuppence. This is excellent value, as you can be sure you will always get the goddess’s two pence worth. When a worshipper seeks to consult the oracle of Aunt Agone, they will write their question on a sheet of papyrus, always beginning with the salutation, “Dear Aunt Agone, …” You are advised to make your question as torrid and embarrassing as possible to significantly increase your chance of receiving a response. Occasionally, the stream of enquires wanes to a trickle for a time, then the priestesses will fabricate a few juicy questions to help the prophetess stay in practice. The only subject you are forbidden to ask the oracle for guidance on is cookery. If you want sage advice, ask a chef.

The papyri bearing the queries are collected by the priestesses and presented to the oracle. The oracle herself mystically receives the ignorance of the Goddess in her cave whilst inhaling the “Vapours of Desperation*” which emanate from a massive crack. She enters a shamanic state induced by this psychoactive steam and the music of the priestesses, who play an ensemble of miniature violins. The Oracle will dictate the responses, which are then posted on the temple columns weekly. The supplicants then cluster around. Avidly scanning the columns for their answer, and having a good nosy at everyone else’s. There always seem to be more worshippers reading the columns than have asked questions. I am not sure whether this is because they seek general guidance for potential future situations, or maybe it’s because it’s even better than a soap opera.

The oracle is selected from amongst the priestess (who themselves have been chosen from amongst the general populace for their impressive magazine racks). The chosen oracle will be priestess who is growing old the most disgracefully, as one can only give bad advice once one stops being a good example. Once in-augur-ated, she can be recognised by the symbolic pair o’ Docs that she wears at all times. The oracle also leads the cult of Aunt Agone in their long running religious war against the worshippers of Retrograde the god of newspaper astrology and exam remarking. Her followers believe Aunt Agone should have the monopoly on bad advice and that this rival sect is infringing on their theological territory. They regularly carry out raids where they steal a few inches off one another’s columns.

At the end of your visit, as you leave the temple, a priestess will offer the comforting blessing, “Go then if you must, but remember, no matter how foolish your deeds, those who love you will love you still.”

*I am told it smells like farts.

This week’s cartoon is not coloured as I have a minor finger injury (from a vicious shopping bag handle) which is limiting how long I can draw for. Hopefully it will be better in a few days. Feel free to print out the picture and colour her in yourself! Tweet me @IdolScribblings to show off your colouring in.

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.

Arpeggios – God of Prog Rock

April 12, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Arpeggios the God of Progressive Rock, is also known by some as Septoctimus. His sacred animals are the Camel and the Snow Goose. His genesis story tells that he was the son of a Nature Goddess and the God of Miners. Which made him a natural miner deity. He got a bad case of arrhythmia, which he caught off the Crimson King. This left him feeling fragile and drove him close to the edge. However, this also made Arpeggios an object of worship for those that stand still and listen intently to the beat of a different drum.

The primary commandment of Arpeggios is,
“The top number of thyne key signature shalt always be a prime number.”
They tend to be somewhat elitist and try to avoid lowly common time at all costs. They believe the 4th of April to be the most unlucky day of the year, and their most sacred day is the 7th of August. Whilst they consider themselves to be a forward looking faith, in reality they are more firmly stuck in the early 1980s than the carpet of a Working Men’s Club in Wigan.

Each service is lead by a group of four or more priests working together in perfect synchronicity and harmony. (There was one occasion however, when one of the priests walked off following his own special way, and then there were three.) The services of Arpeggios are notorious for their protracted sermons, which are usually in excess of 20 minutes long in order to allow time for each priest to do a solo. The worshippers in the congregation will firmly grasp a pint of ale in their hands throughout the proceedings. This is to stop them embarrassing themselves by trying to clap along. However, at the end of the service they will put their glasses on the floor and their hands together to show their appreciation.

The priesthood all dress in sparkly robes, much like kinky wizards. Every priest carries a massive bunch of 24 keys. Not only is this a la mode, these keys are for the temple door which has 24 locks. When a vocalist rings the tubular doorbells and asks for admittance, the priest inside has to use all 24 keys before the singer can come in. (This only applies to the main entrance, in total the temple has 32 doors.) Arpeggios’ priests practice a form of sacred ritual magic. This is unnecessarily complex, and can go disastrously awry if they suffer a lapse in concentration. All the chambers where spells are cast have a large cautionary sign on the wall which reads, “Focus on Your Hocus Pocus!” The rest of the temple is adorned by sacred art, all of it airbrushed.

Like many sects, they have some rituals which appear cruel and barbarous to people from other cultures, such as the Rite of Hammond Organ Tipping, which is practised by some Arpeggionians. Once on it’s back, a poor Hammond cannot right itself. It is heartlessly left there with it’s little pedals waving helplessly in the air. Then the wretched instrument is tormented with daggers to make it scream in interesting ways. There is a more humane movement within the faith to ban this brutal custom, and the recently founded “Society of Arpeggionians for the Protection of Hammond Organs” (SAPHO) is rapidly gaining support. SAPHO advocates the use of synthetic Hammond replacements and runs the Happy Haven for Harrassed Hammonds. This sanctuary has a lovely conservatory for the organs to frolic about in. If you would like to visit the sanctuary, and maybe sponsor a Hammond Organ, you will find it located in the picturesque village of Emerson on the shores of Lake Palmer. Please, please, give all you can to help the organs.

I would like to thank James R Turner @JRTwrites and Kris Hudson-Lee @nomenloony for suggesting Arpeggios.

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.

Hengehog – God of Archaeology

April 5, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Hengehog began existence as a terrifying mythical beast that haunted stone circles and ate hapless druids. Since the beginnings of the archaeological movement in the 1820’s he began to be worshipped as a deity by that intrepid band of muddy knee’d history hunters.

Hengehog is usually worshipped out in the field. Before a rite, an advance team of priests will check the archives, take aerial photographs and divine mystical electromagnetic conductivity readings to select a suitably interesting field to gather in. As they arrive, each worshipper is allotted a “square” to worship in. You must never enter someone’s square without their consent. If you do, they may baulk. During the ritual they will kneel and bow low in their trench, and worship with brushes and tiny trowels. Unless no one else is watching. Then they stand back and worship with a back-hoe loader. (Whatever methods they employ, this is a ground-breaking faith). Most dream of uncovering some amazing religious artefact during the ritual, but most would just be happy to find the set of keys that they lost at last year’s ceremony. The rite may last several weeks, regardless of weather conditions, biting insects and curious sheep. Each evening, the worshippers will gather back at their camp and make a libation to Hengehog. Raising high a leather tankard full of their traditional brew called “Lidar”. (Remember, if it doesn’t come from the Lida region of Belarus, it’s just Geo Fizz). The last of the series of rites they will carry out returns the field to way it looked before. This final ceremony is called the “Fill Hard In”.

Despite their alfresco worship, the cult of Hengehog does have temples. These hallowed halls are where the sacred relics discovered during their rituals are studied, lovingly preserved and displayed. These artefacts are so jealously guarded, that their protection has become an obsession. This obsession has reached a level where the curator-priests are terrified of losing their marbles (or at least someone else’s marbles that they were just holding on to, to keep them safe, honest).

The priesthood wear the traditional dress of steel toe cap wellies, moleskin trousers and colourful hand knitted jumpers. The senior priests will also sport a distinctive hat, supposedly for making them easily identifiable by their flock whilst out in the field (actually an attempt to look a bit like Indiana Jones). Being a priest of Hengehog is a fairly cushy gig. It’s one of the few careers where it’s okay to be caught knapping on the job. They all hope to become High Priest someday, as this is a superposition.

You may be surprised to learn the cult of Hengehog is a test pit of vice and a trench of filth. Everyone seems to have their eye on someone else’s post hole. They are driven by their sarsensuality, to the point where they really will date anything. They become dolmental. Utterly unhenged. When two Henghogians dig each other’s features, they will become tumulescent with excitement and hurry to enjoy cairnal knowledge of one another. (The forensic archaeologist sub-sect are a little more discerning, they are constantly in search of MILFS. Mummies I’d Like Funding to Study.)

Hengehogians are pretty direct about courtship. The most common Hengehogian chat up lines are, “Have you got a megalith in your moleskins or are you just pleased to see me?” and “Are you an archaeozoologist? ’cause I’m a bit of an animal and I’ve got a bone in my pants that I’d like you to date.” If you ask a Hengehogian to send you a nude pic, they will helpfully include a 2 meter ranging pole in shot for scale. Hengehogians will often have open relationships as they like to date other peoples. Sadly, they are not very attractive to people outside of the faith, because they smell of ancient grease and their hands have a tendency to Rome. Hengehogians are also known for being quite sweary. To the point where they don’t so much use full stops as f- stops. The gritty nature of their culture may well be the effect of decades of excavating thousands of votive penises, or perhaps it’s the utter filth they read on the walls of Herculaneum as impressionable neophytes.

It is extremely entertaining to watch any follower of Hengehog eat moussaka, trifle or indeed any layered food. If you invite a Hengehogian to dinner, why not make them feel especially welcome by serving a lasagne with a few pottery shards and coins hidden in between the layers. (Note: they will bring their own eating tools in a leather roll and their own tankard.)

The faith of Hengehog has no holy book. They did once discover a sacred ancient tablet called the “Con-Text”, but tragically, the Con-Text has been lost.

I would like to thank Carrie-May Mealor, @flintdibble and @stevetoase for being a source of inspiration for Hengehog (in some cases unwittingly). Also to Kieron Philips for pointing out a that a typo would make a great deity. My apologies if you haven’t laughed at any of these jokes. That’s because they’re pre prehysterical.

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.

Sloth – God of Staying In

March 29, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Idleatry is the new Idolatry!

Sloth is a deadly sin to some, but is a pandemic stemming virtue to the rest of us. Under normal circumstances, Sloth is the deity of folks who have just had a really long week at work. He is casually worshipped by most of us at some point in our lives. Usually on Fridays nights, with a take away and a box set. However, at certain times in history, Sloth has taken on a much more vital role.

In those unusual times the most virtuous course of action really is inaction. To sit on your cartouche and wait for all this to blow over. The path to righteousness is the one you do not walk down.

Sloth themself will never manifest in person. They have never left “Stayincyde”, their celestial crib. In fact, they rarely leave the celestial sofa. In modern times Sloth occasionally communicates with their followers via baffling online videos. The latest involves sitting in the bath and performing a song where any semblance of a consistent key signature is imaginary. Sloth was particularly important to the famous ancient tribes, the Amazons, the Ocado and the Justeats. These tribes would bring many offerings, attempting to keep Sloth happy by supplying everything they really needed. Mainly gin and loo roll.

A devout follower of Sloth will take a vow of self-isolation. After this point they will only leave their abode for essential supplies, essential work and care duties, or for a brief daily exercise within 2 km (considered optional). When they do leave their house, they must stay at least two metres from others at all times. On their return they immediately conduct a ritual cleansing with sanctified sanitising soap and warm water. Worshippers will wear the ceremonial fluffy bath robe at all times whilst under their vow. In their hand they will clasp that most holy and potent of religious artefacts, The Telly Remote. A worshipper of Sloth will flick through all 999 television channels like a Catholic prays their way around the rosary.

On taking their vow of isolation, many followers will simultaneously take a vow of creative productivity. However, as experienced worshippers will tell you, commitment to this secondary pledge rarely survives the “Onanistic Phase”. Nearly all neophytes experience this. With no one to play with, one starts to play with oneself. One sub-sect joyfully embrace and celebrate this period of self love. They are known as the Happy Fappies.

The most devoted worshippers of Sloth have a somewhat haphazard approach to personal grooming. All routine body hair depilation is abandoned. Head hair may go unbrushed for several days, but then be plaited eight different ways in an afternoon. Home haircuts are usually only ever attempted once.

Sloth has a secret penchant for Ska music. This may be because they have the head of a Two Toned Sloth. This is why worshipping Sloth for too long can lead to Madness. His followers have adapted several popular Ska hits as hymns. Including, Ghost Town, Our House and (Talking to) The Mirror in My Bathroom.

Some evidence has been uncovered that the famous William Mompesson, vicar of the self isolating plague village of Eyam, got in a bit of bother with his bishops. Although it is not clear whether this was about the secret altar to Sloth hidden in his cellar, or over that scandalous business with Mrs Home.

Sloth’s nemesis is another bestial deity called the Slow Boris. A primate headed god, with a distinctive dry cough, that is incapable of responding in a timely manner in a crisis.

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.