Toby Ornottoby – God of Existential Questions

February 9, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

In 399 BCE Socrates was charged with creating new deities and forced to commit suicide. Throughout the ensuing ages, many academics from a wide range of fields have strenuously attempted to defend his memory against this ludicrous accusation. They were wrong. Socrates was absolutely guilty as charged. For, as he first questioned everything from the cosmos to the self, he unwittingly brought Toby Ornottoby into being. However, his cult took another six thousand years to really get going though, because existence has to precede essence, and that took a while.

Toby-Ornottoby’s followers spend their entire lives questioning whether the object of their worship really exists, as they have never actually physically perceived him. There is one faction who believe that Toby-Ornottoby is, in fact, dead. They don’t have that many followers though. They are a very nietzsche sect.

The culture of Toby Ornottoby has a rich folklore associated with it. Perhaps the most feared of their mythical monsters are the Whywolves. Whywolves are evil undead shape shifting beasts which usually appear to be a normal pet dog. At the full moon when they turn into a human five year old who torments to you insanity by relentlessly questioning EVERYTHING.

Their legends also tell that, upon his death, the shade of Jean Paul Satre was collected by Toby Ornottoby himself and appointed lord of the infernal underworld. The reward of his philosophical hubris is that henceforth, for other people, hell was Jean Paul Satre. Proving that Toby Ornottoby has a firm grasp of the concept of irony.

When you first arrive at Toby Ornottoby’s temple, the first thing you will see is a welcoming sign board with a helpful map of the premises. Your location is indicated by a large arrow and the words “Why are you here?” Beyond the sign, the temple itself is a giant dome, the architect designed it to appropriately express pointlessness. Why not dine at the temple canteen during your visit? Here you can really drink in the Experience. (Remember, it is only real Experience if it comes from the Experienne region of France. Otherwise it’s just sparkling observation). This canteen is famous for serving dubious waffles which have acquired the nickname “Eggo Death”. (Most people only eat them when they have really let go of their self.)

Toby Ornottoby’s temple also houses an extensive library of erotic fiction. These are all extremely kinky books. The plot of these dirty tomes tends to be quite predictable. Usually the dominant ties up the submissive and forces them to listen to a discussion on the pointless absurdity of the universe until they both achieve a crisis. You may have come across some of the better known titles, such as, “Lady Chatterley’s Lecture”, “The Second* Sex” and “Fifty Shades of Goddot”. Their most celebrated author is Søren Kinkegaard. Decorating the library are several notable works of sacred sculpture, including the famous statue of “The Existentialist Dread Pirate Roberts”. This has the words “Don’t bother wishing” inscribed across its plinth.

If something ails you, why not pop into the temple sanatorium for treatment. For healing, members of Toby Ornottoby’s faith rely on a combination of homeopathy and aromatherapy. This unique form of medicine uses ineffectual concentrations of existential oils. The most common patients they treat are people complaining about Nausea. The next most common are people who have been traumatised by transcendental idealism, and Kant even. Why not round off your visit to Toby Ornottoby’s temple by popping for a look at the marine life in their rather rubbish Sea Park? I’m afraid it has no porpoise.

*unit of time

Thank you to Robin Lawrence for suggesting Toby Ornottoby. (Additional thanks to Kate Durrant for helping me with the Latin.)

Idol Scribblings Volume Two
Coming out 30th November 2020

Even more deities for every eventuality with a foreword by Gary Brannan of the Technical Difficulties ( TechDiff.co.uk )
Pre order before November 14th 2020 for a special early-bird discount and to get your name included in the book as a patron.

Pre order here https://idolscribblings.blog/the-book

Idol Scribblings Volume One

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

Order your copy here
https://idolscribblings.blog/the-book/

NEW!
IDOL SCRIBBLINGS COMMISSIONS

What do you get the person who has everything? Turn them into a God!

I can turn your friend, relative or even you pet into a humorous Idol Scribblings cartoon. They make a perfect gift!

Click this link to contact me for more information about how to deify your loved ones like a Roman Emperor of old!

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.

Gloop – Goddess of Questionable Beauty Products

February 2, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

In ancient time the Goddess Gloop would lurk beneath the still surface of woodland pools. She lay in wait for beautiful youths to pause and gaze at their image upon the water as they passed. Gloop would raise her own face to where their reflection should be and maliciously mouth the words, “I could look better”. This encounter would drive those who saw her to a frenzied pursuit of aesthetic perfection and everlasting juvenescence. Throughout history she has driven the normally sane to extreme actions, such as painting their faces with white lead, taking arsenic pills to make their hair lustrous or dabbing the deadly Belladonna into their eyes. The dark irony is that (like many envious deities) she makes foolish mortals desperately desire what they already have, and then destroy the object in their pursuit to attain it. It may be this is a celestial caution against vanity and hubris, or it may be that this particular goddess is just a jealous cow.

The sect of Gloop run her temple, where they offer a wide range of beauty treatments and formulate a plethora of potions and lotions. These are sold to the faithful at prices which reflect the devotion of the acolyte, rather than the cost of the ingredients. The priesthood of Gloop must have no formal therapeutic or medical training. In fact anyone who has studied science after the age of 16 is barred from joining the sect of Gloop. (Only technically, because they have never had to enforce the rule in reality due to a complete lack of applications.) In order to give themselves credibility, the priests and priestesses bore lots of holes into the soles of their shoes. This allows them to legitimately describe themselves as “Holy Heelers”. They also eschew underwire bras and sunblock, making the older members of the priesthood recognisable by their scorched complexions, saggy boobs and decorative melanomas. The high priestess of Gloop is Miss Fanny Chandler, who is assisted in her duties by her deputy Miss Jade Eigg.

Gloop has millions of minor temples around the world, all regulated and supplied by her principle temple, located in the heart of scenic Gwynedd. As you enter this temple you will walk between two gushing springs. The first, which you will pass on your right, is the Fountain of Youth. (The other is the Fountain of Musical Youth, which you will pass to the left hand side.) Only the High Priestess (who must maintain a glowing image at all times) is permitted to take the waters of the actual Fountain of Youth. The sect of Gloop never allow its waters to be used for the beautification of the masses. They are far too permanently effective. They would make one sale per person, and that would be it. Instead, they use the waters of the Fountain of Yoof, which are only mildly effective and require constant reapplication, ensuring a healthy sales forecast. The Fountain of Yoof is located at the bottom of the temple garden, about two meters below the latrines. The temple gardens also house numerous thriving hives. Visitors to the temple will often gently catch a passing bee and tenderly cup it in their hand for a moment. Doing this is thought to make one’s baby-blues more sparkly and alluring, because beauty is in the eye of the bee holder. (Though most outsiders think they are just trying to get deliberately stung for some reason). The gardens are also home to Gloop’s herd of sacred cows, known as the “Deet Oxen”. Their milk is used in several of the temple’s treatments for its purgative qualities.

The interior of the temple is lit by thousands of luxury candles which, for some reason, give the sanctuary a distinctly Piscean aroma. At the centre sits a large altar, formed to look like an ornate vanity unit, complete with a large guilt mirror above. The accoutrements and unguents of the beauty ritual are displayed upon it. (Also a phial of nails, which is thought to be there due to an ancient spelling error, but it has now become traditional.) There are no clocks in the temple, because time is a crap beautician. Leading from the main nave are multiple offshoot chapels where specialist rituals are performed. Such as the Tabernacle of Tweezers, the Sanctum of Seaweed Wraps, the Chancel of Colonic Irrigation and the Apse of Anal Bleaching. Lastly, there are the workshops, where the priesthood secretly blend their hallowed balms and elixirs. These famously include teas and foods made from a rare and only mildly toxic fungus. Most people who try them find these fungi to be foul tasting at first, but I am told if you give them time, they’ll grow on you.

The goddess is said to reproduce by laying distinctive mottled green eggs. Her priests sell these for extortionate prices, with the promise that they will enhance one’s sexual wellbeing if inserted into your minkey-moo. However, this is a devilishly cunning ploy to turn the credulous into hapless hosts that incubate her spawn. The faith of Gloop does seem to be somewhat obsessed with the well-being of the hoo-hahs of their female congregation, and will go to great lengths to encourage everyone to have a buff muff. They often pressure devotees to take part in regular rituals which involve steam cleaning the pink frilly curtains. This is to ensure a ready supply of suitable surrogates.

Gloop’s sacred text is called, “The 10 Beauty Secrets Cosmetic Surgeons Don’t Want You To Know”. In order to read this scripture, one must first undergo a gruelling ritual of clicking on approximately one hundred online adverts whilst being force fed cookies. Though I have never been through the ritual myself, I have it on good authority that the prosaic enlightenment the text contained was really not worth the effort.

As they wish to preserve a graceful, unblemished, swan-like neck, followers of Gloop live in abject fear of vampires. To this end they usually wear a “Vampire Repellent Spray” which is somehow scented with gemstones. Maybe the vampires can smell rubies, onyx and tourmaline with superhuman undead olfactory perception. However, this is the only Gloop product for which there is significant evidence that it is effective. In the last 12 years there have been no confirmed vampire attacks on the followers of Gloop.

Gloop herself is especially comely, even for a deity. The secret of her beauty is said to be that she sleeps every night on a gargantuan pile of cash.

Please note: All deities are fictional, and any resemblance to actresses who are divorced from reality or members of Coldplay is purely co-incidental.

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.

Apostrophilia – Goddess of Grammar Pedants

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

Whilst there may be fractionally older deities of language, Apostrophilia is the first deity of languages that made sense. Languages that one could use for more than negotiating the sale of your grain and goats. Language that one could use to express the kaleidoscope of human experience. In folklore Apostrophilia is credited with the invention of many useful devices. The most significant of these being the comma, which she is said to have forged from the mythical metal Grammarium in the fires of Mount Weasel. The comma instantly made the world a more civilised place. Way back in pre-history, before the inception of that tiny curvy dot, early humans loved hunting their children and family. Afterwards they loved hunting, their children and family. Which was much less icky.

Although her roots extend back into the ancient middle-east, Apostrophilia first rose to become a significant deity in Ancient Rome. (Sadly, only in a society in which slavery was endemic could and privileged few afford the time to really conjugate). The priesthood of Apostrophilia began to become organised, and to set the rules of language in stone. Literally. Helpful mnemonics are carved into the masonry all over her temples. Such as the slightly creepy, “Of things you’ve done the verbs will tell, like gaze and twitch and stroke and swell.”

When you visit Apostrophilia’s temple, there is a little ritual you must undergo in order to enter. One must knock twice, and a priest within will ask “Who’s there”. You must give the response “To”. This allows the priest the gratification of completely ruining the punchline by responding “To whom?” Thus satisfied, they will grant you admission. The owls that roost in the temple tower have overheard this ritual so many times that they all now hoot “Twit to whom”.

Once inside you can meet the temple panther known as “Claws” and the backup deputy panther called “Subordinate Claws”. When “Claws” passes away, “Subordinate Claws” will ascend to his post. Not, however, before a minute’s silence is held. There is always a pause at the end of a “Claws”.

Beneath the temple, extending in a hundred mile loop beneath the earth, is the Large Infinitive Collider or LIC. In one direction, a verb is accelerated to a pace approaching the speed of light. In the opposite direction the word “to” is impelled to a similar pace. The aim is to make them collide, splitting the infinitive, in hopes of discovering the Higgs-Adverb. It is hoped that the discovery of this “Goddess Particle” will explain why mankind keeps attempting to boldly go where no man has gone before.

Even deeper below the temple, beneath the LIC, lies the dreaded Gaol of Apostrophilia. Only the most dangerous life serving prisoners are incarcerated here. Such as those who cannot comprehend the affects or effects of their actions. They have been convicted following intense questioning during an orgy. A practice known as an “interabang”. The prison’s security is renowned. Prisoners never, ever get out. This is because you cannot end a sentence with a preposition.

All religions have at least one old dogmatic rule, that doesn’t really work in the modern age, and is only sporadically adhered to. The faith of Apostrophilia has hundreds of these. Possibly the most famous is that old chestnut “I before E except after C.” Spelling rules like this never really work because humans are gregarious and feisty. Therefore, many languages adopt weird foreign words from the sovereign tongues of their neighbours. So it is impossible to apply any kind of scientific method to it. Nonetheless, extremist Apostrophiliacs (known as “Grammar Nazis”) loathe atheists, and have declared their souls forfeit*!

Priests of Apostrophilia always serve in pairs. This is why they are known as Co-Rectors. They tend to be academic types who go pale and faint if taken out of the library and placed in the great outdoors. They are well known for being wan with nature. Their duties include officiating at rituals and running a pastoral proofreading service for their parishioners. This is done to ensure high linguistic standards are maintained. The service is extremely popular, and long queues usually form. Fortunately, if you are known to already have a good standard of literacy (and therefore your copy will be quite quick to check), you will be allowed to use the “Ten errors or FEWER lane”. They also run a counselling service where they will console a troubled mind by gently murmuring “There, their, they’re”, or reward personal progress by exclaiming, “Well, done? Well-done. Well done!”

As aficionados of literature, followers of Apostrophilia often stage classic plays in the temple hall. They once produced Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” with hilarious consequences. The ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present and Christmas Future got their cues confused and walked on stage at the same moment! It was the most tense situation ever.

Most faiths have standardised ceremonies for life’s rites of passage. Births, weddings, burials and so forth. Apostrophiliacs are considered extremely progressive as they have a metaphorical rebirth ritual to celebrate gender reassignment. The transgender person is considered to have commenced the new phase in their life when, at the height of the ceremony, the Co-Rectors declare, “I now pronouns you (They/He/She)”, and the congregation applaud in joyful celebration. In stark contrast, Apostrophiliac marriage rituals come under heavy derision from critics of the faith. Each prospective partner must apply to the other in writing, including a CV and covering letter. These will be thoroughly proof read by the opposite partner’s family and the officiating Co-Rectors. Permission to wed will only be granted if both applications are flawlessly composed. There are dark whispers that this is a subtle and pernicious attempt to practice eugenics. It certainly makes it more difficult for the illiterate to breed.

All are welcome to join the faith of Apostrophilia. Except greengrocer’s and their really possessive vegetable’s.

* Dammit

Thank you to Robin Lawrence for suggesting Apostrophilia.

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.

Hippopotholemess – The Pot Hole Dragon

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

Hippopotholemess sits in the ambiguous territory between bestial deity and mythical beast. In the celestial pecking order they rank somewhere between Gods and Gremlins.

Many historians will try to tell you that the Romans never really made it into Scotland. They are not quite correct. The Romans made one ill-fated attempt to build a road across Scotland. They selected a typically straight route from east to west coast. During the construction, some poor hapless civil engineer disturbed the rest of a great primordial snake lying dormant beneath the green glen floor. Hippopotholemess awoke, and thrashed in ire. Destroying the engineer, the foundations of the road and the Legio IX Hispania. The writhing also gouged out great cavities in the earth which were filled by the ample rains to form a line of lochs. Then the great dragon sank beneath the waters and vowed eternal vengeance on all road makers everywhere.

When all was still once more, the terrified locals crept out to survey the destruction. Lost for words, they could only exclaim “Och! Mess!” Over time this became corrupted to the present day Loch Ness. Loch Ness is, in truth, the largest, longest, deepest and oldest pot hole of all, and Hippopotholemess is today known by a corruption of their original nick name “Messy”.

In pursuit of their vendetta against road builders, Hippopotholemess began to reproduce asexually. Dividing again and again to produce trillions of identical clones. Each one journeyed out to find its own spot under a busy carriageway somewhere. Here they burrow around and around as they grow and divide, until the road surface above collapses. Then the Hippopotholemess are released to move on to another spot. With the right climate conditions exponential reproduction could occur. Soon all the Ancient Britons were left with was some dangerous stretches of road surface between the abyssal deeps. Some think that the Romans left Britain as a result of rebellion and the actions of Constantine III. In fact they just couldn’t keep up with the repairs. As the occupation receded, the scourge of Hippopotholemess spread into mainland Europe and beyond.

Hippopotholemess is still very much with us today. Perhaps more so than ever. Whilst most sects associated with a deity praise, laud and promote their god, the only official cult associated with Hippopotholemess seeks to either bind or destroy them. The priest hood of the “Via Imperium Propellente” are very important priests. They watch over the highways and seek to thwart Hippopotholemess at every turn of their coils. They may be the only directly government funded religious order. Sadly, they number too few and are woefully ill equipped with just a rusty shovel and a bucket of tepid asphalt between them. The sigil of the Via Imperium Propellente is a black silhouette of a man opening an umbrella on a white back ground, framed by a red triangle. They always erect a sign baring this sacred sigil when they are out and about in the community undertaking their holy works. The priesthood can be recognised by their fluorescent orange weatherproof robes and cranial protection birettas.

A ritual to neutralise a Hippopotholemess goes as follows;
– On arrival at the site where a Hippopotholemess has been discovered, the first priest to arrive will bless the earth by scattering many blessed orange and white plastic cones all around the area.
– Then he or she will erect metal signs baring ancient spells to bind the wyrm. These are written in mysterious arcane tongues, such as “When thee reed lyte shineth, tarry herre”, “Clausit Viam” and “Die Version”.
– The senior priest will then arrive to ignite the sacred lamps at the north and south sides of the circle. Each of these lamps contains a red candle, an amber candle and a green candle. The lamps contain an automatic shutter mechanism to reveal the colours in turn. (This mechanism usually breaks down – so no change there then).
– Next the protective inner circle is cast to bind Hippopotholemess. This is done by erecting yellow plastic barriers which are specially designed to fall down at the first breath of wind.
– At the climax of the rite all the priests present will form a circle, leaning on the barriers. They will watch one lone priest attempt to dig out and destroy the serpent within. There various methods employed, but the most common is to give the beast a neuralgia with a numinous pneumatic drill before digging it out and drowning it with bitumen.
– The hole is then filled and lightly patted down with the rusty shovel.
– When the priests finally depart, they always leave behind a few stray signs and cones. This is so that when the tarmac blows out again a week later, you can reassure yourself that you were not imagining the whole thing. The priests really were there.

A visitation by the Via Imperium Propellente can never be predicted reliably. You might logically assume that they would target the worst Hippopotholemess infested streets first. However, somehow it always seems to be the streets with the houses in the highest tax band. Even though the terrace lined streets are literally holier than the tree lined avenues. Another reason to be slightly suspicious of this cult, is that they also run a chain of auto body shops called “Wreck Amended Repairers”. They may, in fact, have a vested interest in never completely vanquishing Hippopotholemess. On the plus side, they have produced an online guide to help pedestrians avoid pot holes in pavements. It’s called Trip Advisor.

In remote areas which the Via Imperium Propellente never get to, people have had to learn to love their long standing gaping chasms, and have even found creative uses for them. For example, there is a marvellous new Wetlands Reserve, right in the middle of the fast lane of the A630. Bitterns have even been sighted in the reed-beds on the pot hole shores. In Whipsnade, a particularly deep pothole has been pressed into service as a giraffe habitat. A pot hole which opened up on Her Majesty’s private golf course at the Balmoral Estate has been turned into a private gin palace called “The Hole in One”. Meanwhile, in Tunisia, an particularly spectacular ancient pot hole was preserved as a tourist attraction after it was used as the filming location for the Great Pit of Carkoon in Return of the Jedi.

There are whispers of a lost, water filled, “Schrödinger’s Pothole”. This apparent puddle is simultaneously two inches and four hundred meters deep. You cannot know until you drive through it.

There are some informal and superstitious attempts to appease Hippopotholemess by the lay population. Such as a distinctive weaving folk driving style, thought to guard against vehicular damage (but not against getting pulled for a breath test). A common act of sacrifice to Hippopotholemess is to pour a pint of beer over a road surface whilst consuming one for yourself. This is the origin of the old saying, “An ale please Landlord, and one more for the road!”

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.

Æthel Onnit – God of Embarrassing Injuries

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

Æthel Onnit’s domain is all injuries that rob you of your dignity, that you obtained through idiocy and that you have to fabricate a less humiliating story for. Though shown here as his Ancient Britannic avatar, Æthel Onnit is almost universal in pantheons around the globe. This leads us to deduce two things. Firstly that this god must have extremely early roots, and secondly that people are pillocks the world over. He is thought to have originated around the time that humanity became sufficiently technologically developed to experience boredom for the first time, as this was when folks first started to do inadvisable things for shits and giggles.

Shortly after the invention of beer in Mesopotamia around 7400 years ago, Æthel was joined by Pafo the Goddess of Drunken Injuries. She would have become his consort, but sadly, ever since their their respective Stag and Hen nights, she’s had her pelvis in traction, he’s got a burn on his Jonathan Thomas, and they have unable to consummate the union.

Whilst popular amongst the terminally adventurous, the inexperienced and the unskilled, Æthel Onnit holds a special place in the hearts of the sexually intrepid. Thankfully most medics qualified in trauma care are also fully licenced members of Æthel Onnit’s priesthood. They are specially trained to tactfully accept your story about falling out of bed onto a Russian Doll. They will not ask if you sleep on a trapeze or how you managed to fall onto a dollop of Jiggy-Glide at the same time as the doll*. They will also not tell a soul. They are doubly bound to secrecy as they have taken both the Hippocratic and the Hippocretin oaths. These paragons of discretion are led by the High Priest, Red Astaire.

Despite the extremely adult aspects of Æthel Onnit, there is also a more innocent place in this faith for the younger members of the congregation. Especially the kids with their heads stuck through railings, dried peas up their noses, and their tongues frozen to lamp posts. Æthel Onnitans have an old saying, “When the little children suffer, they shall come unto me”.

Most of us will only offer prayers to Æthel Onnit a handful of times during our lives. Usually following occasional lapses in our (normally good) judgement. However, as there always, there exist a few dedicated fanatics, who sacrifice the structural integrity of their skeletal system again and again in his name. One of the earliest of these was the mythical hero Malum Kenivilus. He is idolised for trying to jump 20 plaustrum with a chariot to impress the plebeians, but telling the healers afterwards that he slipped whilst trying to fix the temple weathervane.

Æthel Onnit does not have any dedicated temples as such. His worshippers usually visit Accident and Emergency Departments and Minor Injuries Units during times of crisis to offer up their prayers and bargains for relief from their self-inflicted suffering. Please spare a thought for the wonderful, but overstretched, priesthood and try to worship outside the peak times of “Frantic Fetishist Fornication Friday”, “Dilletante DIY Saturday” and “I think I’m Tony Hawk Sunday”.

Scholars of the cult of Æthel Onnit dedicate their lives to researching the best falsehoods and fictions for a multitude of mischiefs. Their aim is to eventually create a comprehensive glossary of fabrications that the faithful can use when in need. After many thousand years of study, they have concluded that a slightly embarrassing story is the best way to convincingly distract attention from an excruciatingly embarrassing truth. “I threw my back out whilst turning around to get the toilet roll off the back of the cistern” is a good one. You can have that.

Despite the focus on the foolish, Æthel Onnit also watches over those whose treatment for illness or injury must involve the suspension of normal standards of modesty. Basically, anything bum related. It is thought to be for this reason that Æthel’s sacred animal is the baboon.

*Thankfully medics were able to successfully remove the Russian Doll.
Eight times.
And each time was a little easier than the last.

Thank you to Rebecca Stothard for suggesting Æthel Onnit, following what we shall henceforth only refer to as “the hot water bottle incident”. I would like to thank Rebecca for still speaking to me.

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.

Peebee – God of Arbitrary Sporting Achievements

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

Peebee, an extremely ancient deity, was the son of Lucasade – Goddess of Divine Energy and Impetus – God of Getting Off Your Arse. The myth goes that one day he was chased by an angry momma she-bear. Peebee decided that this had been a bit of a close call, and that he should probably practice for this kind of eventuality. After all, even if he could not outrun the she-bear, all he needed to be able to do was run a little faster than the person next to him. Peebee’s consort is Facup, the goddess of award silverware. She is sometimes unkindly regarded as a trophy wife.

Peebee is worshipped by amateur athletes who relentlessly chase the ever moving finishing line of self-improvement. The underlying philosophy of the faith is that the greatest opponent one will ever face, one’s ultimate nemesis, is oneself. To them the virtuous life is achieved when one does not strive to best another, but to best the person that you were yesterday. Pursuit of this goal means that followers of Peebee experience the joys of victory and the agony of de feet. This is also a fantastic religion to join if you want to meet people. Especially paramedics.

Although acolytes may undertake their devotions at any time, formal communal worship of Pee Bee usually takes place on either a Saturday or Sunday morning. The congregation will congregate in a local park, and the priesthood will undertake the role of marshals to guide their flock through the ritual and the course. They will jog your memory if you get lost. Once the ceremonial starting pistol is fired, the assembled worshippers will attempt to run through the act of worship in the shortest time possible. The faster one can complete the ritual, the holier one is. This worship takes place weekly regardless of the conditions. The one person who still turns up to worship Peebee on a day when the weather is a torrential tempest is declared to be the current “Raining Champion”.

If you attend a rite of Peebee you will notice that the faithful divide themselves into four distinct sects.

The Park Runners are the most dedicated and fundamentalist of these factions. They worship Peebee daily and ensure that they meet all their targets. It is thought that the phrase “to exercise religiously” originated with them. Park Runners can be recognised by their smart running gear and the expression on their faces which suggests they may be enjoying this a bit too much (compared to everyone else’s expression of mild agony). Before each rite, members of this sect will anoint themselves will the sacred unguent known as Vasaline, and during the rite itself they will fast, consuming only specially formulated energy gels*.

Members of the Park Runner sect tend to be vociferous evangelists. They spread the word and their own achievements loudly and constantly (whether anyone cares or not). If you happen to know one, they will probably be constantly trying to indoctrinate you. The leader of this sect is Guru Strava, who constantly monitors every member’s every move. He is assisted in this by his faithful deputy Endomondo. Park Runners do not count an achievement unless it has been observed and acknowledged by Strava. Hence their mantra of “Strava or it didn’t happen”. When attending the communal rite, the Park Runners will form a dense phalanx at the front known as the “Joggernaught” formation (this is to mow down any stray dog walkers and small children and clear the path or righteousness). When people see a Park Runner jog by they think, “Look at that fine athlete!”

The second, more liberal, sect tend to only worship at the communal weekend ritual. They are much less invested, and only really attend the rituals as pre-emptive penance for the massive fry up they are about to eat. Dressed in old tracksuit bottoms, ten year old trainers and faded band t-shirts, this sect are known as The Pork Runners. There is a degree of tension between the two sects. Mainly because the Park Runners will keep making zoom-zoom race car noises as they run past them. When people see a Pork Runner plod past they think, “Aww. Good for them.”

The third are the Silent Runners who worship without music or conversation. In order to remind them of their non-verbal vows, they wear the distinctive “running gag”. They undertake their rituals at night on a course that runs through the serial killer district for the increased heart rate and extra cario-burn. This sect are universally celibate. They are chaste everywhere.

The final group are an extreme cult called the Marathonians. They can be recognised by the papers they have pinned to their shirts which bear identifying numbers. They additionally worship the Ancient Greek warrior Pheidippides as a phophet of Peebee. Little did Pheidippides know, as he proclaimed “Nike!” and expired following his 26 mile dash, that two thousand five hundred and ten years later a multitude of devotees would be re-enacting his heroic act dressed as a bananas.

All these denominations are united under the benign guidance of the High Priest Miles Stone.

Unlike many religions, the faith of Peebee enthusiastically adopts modern technological developments. These have ranged from the latest hi-tech 18 tog goose down lined running shoes with genuine shark tooth spikes, to the Fitorinox Smart Watch (features stopwatch, MP3, GPS, pulse oximeter, en suite bathroom, cork screw and hoof pick). There is even a research wing of the church which are engaged in developing new running technology. Sadly, the team working on developing go-faster stripes that actually make you go faster have been going nowhere fast for years. (Yet somehow they continue receiving funding from Adidas.) There is also a, much more successful, software and social media development team. As a result of their work the church sends out constant support and encouragement to the faithful through a range of handy smart phone applications. They fully acknowledge that their followers sometimes need more than just the spiritual rewards. Even if it is just a virtual medal. In reality, the main benefit to health and fitness of using these gadgets is the added weight you will carry.

Worshippers of Peebee believe that if they can only master some kind of formula or routine for the perfectly healthy life, not only immortality but eternal youth are theoretically possible. It is just that no one has got it quite right yet. When an acolyte of Peebee dies the undertaker will ritually anoint the remains with Body Glide to ensure the funeral runs smoothly.

Whilst incredibly popular, and continuing to grow, the faith of Peebee is unlikely to ever achieve total domination. The priesthood often bemoan that if only running felt great whilst you’re doing it and terrible afterwards. Then it might be as popular as drinking and sex.

*There is a dark rumour that these are actually formulated from sugar, wallpaper paste and cold horse semen.

Thank you to Richard Jackson for suggesting Peebee, and to Rebecca Stothard, Dave Redford and David J E Fuhr for additional punnage.

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.

Bin Dei – God of Temporal Confusion

December 29, 2019October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Bin Dei is the God of those befuddled days between whichever great midwinter festival you celebrate and New Year’s Eve. The time of the chronic background hangover, when you are full to bursting with chocolate and fine fromage and haven’t got a clue what day it is. He is the deity who renders the words “weekday” and “weekend” meaningless. He is said to have originated in ancient Rome sometime between Dies Natalis Solis Invicti and Kalends.

Although there are regional variations, for many the great annual festival of Bin Dei or “Crimbo Limbo” commences on December the 27^th. During this period followers will consume only turkey curry, satsumas and cheese. Normal routines and rules of self-restraint are suspended, and a great deal of alcohol is often consumed. Throughout the period they will also harbour a nagging background anxiety about whether this was one of the days when they were meant to be at work. His festival ends at dawn on January 2^nd with a shrill alarm and a horrible reality shock.

Bin Dei is glad to take your unwanted items and receive them as precious offerings. Offerings are usually collected weekly by a team of Collections Priests. However, only the correct kinds of offerings will be accepted on each collection day, and even then they must be presented at the kerbside in the correctly coloured “Offering Bin”. Confusingly, the colours of the offering bins and what kind of offerings should be placed within them vary wildly by area. For example, your black lidded bin full of tin cans and glass will be gladly accepted in Rotherham, but would be rejected out of hand just a few miles away in Barnsley! Regardless of which part of the world you live in. The lid of the offering bin must close fully.

The sacred text or “Offering Collection Schedule” of Bin Dei is delivered to every household annually. However, by some malevolent magic, it always somehow vanishes before it becomes current. Even if you bloody well nailed it to the kitchen noticeboard. Fortunately, a Lay Brother of Bin Dei resides on almost every residential street in the country. They alone know on which day the offerings should be left out, which kinds of offerings should be made, and in which colour bin. Their principal sacred duty is to put their offering out early, so that everyone else can copy them.

The current High Priestess of Bin Dei is Miss Collette Shun. Her principal role is to handle complaints about the services that the priesthood deliver. Her standard response is tell callers to leave their offering out for an additional collection (which never happens) and she files their call in the paper recycling centre. In her eyes, sinners who miss leaving out their offering to Bin Dei at the correct time must do their proper penance by making a pilgrimage to “The Tip”. This is not, usually a pleasant experience and those who undergo this ritual cleansing often feel pretty down in the dumps about it. Followers of Bin Dei believe that they must complete this arduous journey or else in the afterlife they will be eternally suffocated under old wrapping paper, cardboard boxes, wine bottles, old turkey carcasses and left over sprouts. (Although, there is a rumour that one can wriggle out of this by making a small thoughtful gift (or even just a thank you card) to your noble team of Collections Priests in the run up to Bin Dei’s festival each year. This small gesture will mean you are a lot less likely to return home later in the year to find that your entire offering has been rejected due to a single stray piece of plastic in the glass bin – which has obviously been put there by a passer-by as you don’t use K-Y Jelly).

The temple of Bin Dei has huge imposing gates, through which a fleet of hundreds of offering collections trucks roll daily. Inside, the main buildings are carpeted with a thick layer of brown pine needles, walnut shells and satsuma peel. There a numerous temple cats who run around the place chasing discarded Ferrero Rocher wrappers. All the clocks within the temple have either stopped, or have no hands. All the calendars in the temple are for next year, this year’s calendars having been accidentally prematurely discarded.

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.

Glor-or-or-oror-oor-or-or-or-or-oror-ooor-or-or-or-oror-oria – Goddess of Over Achieving Carol Singers

December 24, 2019October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Glor-or-or-oror-oor-or-or-or-or-oror-ooor-or-or-or-oror-oria (let’s just call her Gloria for short) is the Goddess of all those people out there who love the festive time of year and love to sing. Especially those who actually poses some genuine singing ability, and therefore stick out like a wise man on Jeremy Kyle’s sofa amongst their fellow carollers. Though, I should make it clear, ability is not necessarily required to follow Gloria. Enthusiasm, however, is essential.

Gloria herself presents an imposing figure with huge….erm…lungs. She has a magnificent operatic soprano voice which, like bagpipes, is best enjoyed at a safe distance. Her impressive vocal projection is capable of warning any three ships that may happen to come sailing in away from any treacherous rocks hidden by fog. She often gives the impression that this avatar is merely a seasonal gig, and that she might spend the rest of the year ferrying the souls of warriors from the battlefield to the afterlife*. Her followers believe that whenever they gather to sign yuletide songs, if they raise the roof high enough, Gloria herself will descend from the heavens and join in.

Followers of Gloria strictly confine their acts of worship to the month of December. Singing the songs of Gloria outside of this time is only permitted by the inner circle of the priesthood within specially defined rehearsal spaces. In fact the only way one can spot a follower of Gloria during the rest of the year is if they attend a birthday party. They will be the one adding a harmony on the last line of “Happy Birthday to You”.

The true and proper words of the songs of Gloria are set down in her sacred text, The Uxbridge Book of Carols. Deviations from these verified scriptures is anathema to them. There is said to be a forbidden “Dark Text”, which contains heretical versions of Gloria’s hymns. These are rumoured include references to the transportation preferences of eastern monarchs, shepherds’ laundry night and Batman’s body odour affliction. This iconoclastic tome is known as “100 Carols for Pariahs”. If you are caught with a copy about your person, you will be ritually ostracised. This is done by the priesthood singing the “Being Sent to Coventry Carol” , before turning their parker clad backs on you.

Gloria’s temples are quaint Dickensian cottages surrounded by holly bushes and intertwined with ivy. The warm flicker of firelight glows through the mullioned windows, and the roof if always coated with a light dusting of snow.

Unusually, worship does not take place inside the temple building itself. The congregation will gather outside the temple door at twilight in their boots and bobble hats to sing the goddess’s praises with great gusto. Sometimes they will stand in a crowd around the porch, at others they will arrange themselves in single file (this is known as the sweet carol line). The flock carry the community spirit with them (in a hip flask). Only once a rousing rendition has been recited will the priesthood throw open the temple doors and invite the worshippers inside for a shared celebrative feast of wassail, mulled wine, mince pies, figgy pudding and special psychoactive substance laced Ding-Dongs which will get you merrily high. The doors are only opened once the priesthood judge that the congregation’s performance has been satisfactory. Sometimes wayward congregations have been known to get cold and impatient and begin belting out “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” with its passive aggressive demands that the clergy bring the refreshments out to them instead (and they won’t go until they get some).

Noviciates for the priesthood of Gloria are chosen and initiated into the noviciate at a very tender age. The senior priests attend every possible school nativity play and carol service, searching for any child who, when it comes to singing, gives zero fucks and belts out Silent Night like a Prima Donna. Despite the fact that the rest of their classmates are murmuring into their hymn books as they quietly die of embarrassment. (Incidentally, followers of Gloria have a special name for those heathen dissidents who whisper or merely lip-sync along to carols. The call them the “NÖel Cowards” dear boy.)

Christian based religions may be more familiar with this goddess as the pre-congregation Saint Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.

Whatever form you venerate her in, ultimately Gloria’s is a religion of joyful celebration, overcoming your inhibitions, joining in and bringing diverse people together in four part harmony. In that spirit, Gods rest you merry one and all!

With lots of love from Idol Scribblings. Xxx

*Well I suppose everyone needs a hobby.

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.

Pyromess and Frisbee – Gods of Property Boundaries

December 15, 2019October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Some say that these two may be amongst the first of the gods. For as soon as there was more than one deity, then there must be a boundary between their dominions. It is said that where they drew the line, a mighty supernatural hedge of 100 meter high leylandeii sprang up. It remains there to this day throwing shade between the divine neighbours. They are also the gods of horizons and long running Australian soap operas. Maybe they could be the best of friends or even lovers in other circumstances, but they just can’t find any common ground.

Frisbee is a Goddess of Nature, and likes nothing better than to dry her washing and cavort au natural amongst the flowers in her garden. Just beyond the border Pyromess likes to use his garden to raise his sacred fire and choking smokes. His garden also houses a pet lion, kept purely to discourage Frisbee from popping over to get her celestial sphere back. In revenge, Frisbee purchased a large cock to wake him up in the mornings. In retaliation Pyromess kept racing pigeons (but gave it up when the pigeons kept winning). Then Frisbee started to refuse to trim her garden and developed a wildly overgrown bush which straggles onto Pyromess’s side. The climax of hostilities came when Frisbee stormed around complain about her underwear going missing from the washing line. She was so terrible in her ire that Pyromess almost pooped her pants. To be fair, Frisbee usually tries to discus things reasonably, Pyromess always tries to inflame the situation. They are both musical deities. Pyromess plays drums and Frisbee is a virtuoso on the bagpipes.

Temples of Pyromess and Frisbee are always built abutting one another, yet separated by a thin noise-transmitting wall. Inter-sects relationships between the clergies are permitted, but must be conducted through a single small hole in the party wall, made for this purpose. This ancient tradition is deeply revered, and before embarking on a conversation, one must first kiss the hole out of respect. As the divide between the temples is a Party Wall, it is furnished with a full PA, lights, a cocktail bar and a smoke machine. Sacred sounds are very important to both religions, and they often listen to each other’s music all night.

The Temple of Pyromess houses large, continually burning holy pyres on which green brambles, polystyrene packing and damp leaves are constantly piled. The Temple of Pyromess is always situated upwind of the Temple of Frisbee. Every Saturday morning his priests rehearse their chainsaw ensemble at 7am, which is worth seeing (if not hearing). In the Temple of Frisbee, the clergy all practice naturism at all times. Some Priests of Pyromess are angered by this, some are on the fence.

When visiting either temple it is customary to make an offering of a cup of sugar. If you attend their annual dual festival of “Hedgecutting”, you should bring an offering of Nescafe Gold Blend. This beverage is traditionally scarified to the deities on this day every year in the hopes that one day they will stop arguing and get it on. For the last two hours of the festival, the temples are subject to a ritual power cut with the same aim in mind. Perhaps it is best that they never procreate. They would probably spawn a hundred gobby offspring, with foul mouths and loud toys.

The ethos of both the faiths is to “Love thy enemy as much as thy neighbour, for they art probably the same person.”

Thank you to Dave Redford for suggesting Pyromess and Frisbee.

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.

Beelzebuble – God of Commercial Christmas Music

December 8, 2019October 18, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Beelzebublé is the ancient deity of festive music. He was born in a Holly Wood, the son of the Dryad of a Norway Spruce tree and Dansette the God of Pop Music. He is made entirely from saccharine and sleigh bells and subsists on mistletoe and wine. He is loathed by all workers in the retail sector, but his mellifluous tones, twinkling eyes and benign countenance make it a high probability that he is your grandmother’s favourite deity.

Beelzebublé’s divine province is all commercial seasonal music. Throughout the millennia he has represented the sounds of many different festivals. These have all tended to occur in that drear but somehow magical mid-winter month. In the last millennia (and especially since the twentieth century) he has focused mainly on Christmas related music. Whilst his music is usually deeply traditional sometimes, to try and freshen things up a bit, Beelzebublé will team up with another artiste. The guest artist will loudly recite rhythmic poetry during the bridge of the song inciting listeners to “Slap Yo Glitz Up”. This distinct genre is known as “Wrap Music”.

The Temple of Beelzebublé is located on the Slade Roade in Birmingham, right next to Spaghetti Junction. Its grounds preserve a remnant of magical ancient forest known as “Roy Wood”. Constructed from gingerbread, the temple has a single high tower which soars above its roof. Each year on December the first, the high priest Noddy Holder will ascend the tower and yell out “IT’S CHRIIIIIIIIIIISTMAAAAAAAS!” to call the faithful to prayer. It’s not all fun and games for the high priest though. Above his ceremonial snow covered throne hangs a long and wickedly sharp blade, suspended from a single slender thread of lametta. This is the Sword of Whamocles. If so much as the first bar of the song “Last Christmas” is heard in the temple, the tenuous tinsel thread will snap.

In the centre of the Temple of Beelzebublé hangs their most holy relic, The Golden Fleece Navidad. This sparkling pelt is said to be from a sheep that lived in a random stable in the middle east somewhen between 6BCE and 4BCE. This golden sheep was said to have broken out and wondered the streets of the town one day singing out season’s bleatings to everyone it met. Astounded by this miraculous musical ovine, the townspeople promptly sacrificed it. Because that’s just what you did in those days. Its fleece was later “liberated” and installed in the temple by the mythical hero Jason of Erinsboros. It is displayed draped over a Nordmans Fir and guarded by a Tinsle Snake with huge bauble eyes. This sparkly serpentine guardian cannot sleep. It is too excited because Santa is coming.

In the tiny Cornish village of Porth Noel, Beelzebublé has a workshop filled with song writing elves. During the Christmas hit heydays of the 70’s and 80’s they used to be esteemed, well cared for and cherished. As a result they would regularly turn out a genuinely catchy, uplifting and original festive hit song.

In the last decade the relentless drive of run-away capitalism has meant that these elves have seen their working hour’s increase, their sherry benefits evaporate and their pensions quietly siphoned away. It’s plum duff being an elf these days. These dreadful conditions have extinguished the last sparks of creativity from their souls. They are reduced to laboriously churning out album after album filled entirely with arrangements of festive covers which aren’t quite as good as the original. These albums always include one predictable paint-by-numbers attempt at a new seasonal opus. Thrown in to make it look like they tried. Budgets are squeezed so tight that they have pawned most of their instruments and now they have to rely on samples from the 1970s. Please, please spare a thought for these pitiful wretches this season when you are buying your Nan a copy of “The Christmas Present”.

There are three sub-groups of elves who receive special treatment. The first is comprised of mutant elves who have super-elf gifts and so are chosen for the elite team. Their task is to write or arrange the song that will be released by that year’s X Factor winner. Due to their elevated status, these X-Elfs are deeply unpopular with the rest of the elven populous, who have scathingly nicknamed them “The Sycos”. The second sub division are the elves who edit down songs into a convenient soundbite for the John Lewis advert. They are known as the Jingle Elves. The third are the Union elves who are being punished for the incident when they raged against the mainstream music machine. They have been yoked with the Sisyphean task of finding an inoffensive two syllable rhyme for “Maggot” which doesn’t sound stupid. These poor souls are in constant Poguetory.

Beelzebublé lives in constant fear that his reign as number one may be ended at any moment by a heart-warming community choir or by some bloke singing about sausage rolls for charity. However, the years when Beelzebublé does not do well are few, and in those years we are usually living in a mad world.

Beelzebublé had nothing whatsoever to do with “All I Want For Christmas is You”. He may be a little bit evil, but he’s not a total monster.

Thank you to Sarah Shepton for the idea for the Sword of Whamocles.

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.