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).

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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.

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.

Loadin’ Skypefather – God of Video Calls

March 22, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

He has hovered around in the background for a few years as a very minor deity. Now current events have thrust Loadin’ Skypefather into the theological limelight. He looks set to be a major player in the modern international pantheon for some time to come. A boon to mankind, helping us to reduce direct social contact. This year even Santa Claus is thinking of using a Virtual Presents Device.

Loadin’ Skypefather is the god of virtual communication that enables you to stay connected with your family and colleagues. This is considered by many to be a marvel of the modern age, and by others to be a real step back in human development. The critics argue that video calling destroys 90% the fun of working from home. As it forces you to brush your hair and be properly dressed (at least from the waist up). The first time non-believers see themselves on screen, they realise why Hollywood spends millions on hair, make up and lighting. What few people know is that, unless you have offered the correct prayers to the Skypefather, your webcam will be infested with a psychic filter that makes your face look like a smashed thumb and any breathing near the microphone sound like an punctured accordion being played by a two year old.

Loadin’ Skypefather has no designated temples or meeting places. Instead each worshipper will have a small shrine in their own home. This takes the form of a dedicated clean and tidy area amid the usual chaos. This provides a socially acceptable backdrop for video calls that won’t invite judgement on their living arrangements. This space is used for dialling into Video Conference Prayer Meetings, which is this sect’s preferred modem of worship.

There is an awkward initial stage to every prayer meeting, when only two worshippers have joined the call and are waiting for everyone else to join. They will invariably be the two members of the group who know each other least well, and they will be forced to make excruciatingly awkward small-talk until the others dial in. The prayer meeting formally begins with each worshipper reciting the traditional greeting, “Can everybody see me?” as they dial in. Next, the weather in each worshipper’s location will be discussed. One person will then interrupt by joining the meeting late. At which point, the congregation will chorus “Who just joined?” and the whole start of the ritual must be repeated.

One worshipper will be designated to take notes of the prayer meeting. They do this in the traditional manner, by typing with lump hammers on a keyboard full of crisps. When the first worshipper to leave signs off at the end of the meeting, the whole congregation will chorus, “Byeeeeeeee!” so loudly that everyone’s speakers distort.

Should you chose to join one of their virtual meetings, you should be aware that there are certain sins that, if committed, will get you booted off the call. These sins include; eating or drinking without muting your microphone, looking at your own image on the screen rather than the camera, sitting under the air conditioner and being the only one to get a word in edgewise. Sinners will be punished by Loadin’ Skypefather making them question absolutely everything about themselves. Particularly, “Do I really sound like that?”

A few of the Skypefather’s early adopters have now ascended to full priesthood. You may be forgiven for thinking they have taken a vow of silence. In truth, they have just accidentally left their mute function on. The high priest Monty Zoomer once tried to videocall the Skypefather himself, in the hope of receiving some words of wisdom. Unfortunately, all he said was, “Oh hello. I’ll get your mother.” before vanishing off screen.

Loadin’ Skypefather has a divine nemesis, the demon Feedbacchus. Feebacchus is a mythical prankster who lives in the ethernet and makes the audio drop out on the ——— words in every ——–. He also enjoys tormenting the righteous followers of Skypefather by whistling loudly in their ears until their brains explode. Although this sounds scary, he is not really a major threat, as Feebacchus can be defeated simply by turning him down.

The young are somehow mystically drawn to the majesty of Loadin’ Skypefather. When someone makes an important video call, any small children in the house will be lured into the field of view to see what’s going on. Animals are similarly entranced. Cats, particularly, will be overcome with an urge to flop down between the caller and the camera and start performing some anal grooming.

In addition to the virtual prayer meetings, Loadin’ Skypefather worshippers will engage in a ritual known as “Video Calling the Parents”, which is practised at least once a week. This ritual begins with an obligatory preliminary ordinary phone call, to provide tech support. This will often take longer than the actual rite itself. It is traditional for the parents of Loadin’ Skypefather’s followers to carefully write down the entire video call invitation link in their address book, so they can use it again next time. This whole shebang may all sound like a lot of hassle, but it’s worth it just to see ~~their faces light up~~ right up their noses.

May Loadin’ Skypefather watch over you, as you remotely watch over your loved ones.

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.

Scrubbup – Goddess of Infection Control

March 8, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

There are many deities of healing, but Scrubbup beats them all, as the prevention is always better than the cure. Whist she mostly takes the form of a human female, she is all bear below the elbows. Of all the deities, Scrubbup is considered to be humanity’s first and best line of defence against disease. Many people are surprised to learn that Scrubbup is a deity of the modern age, coming into being sometime in the mid 1840’s. About the time that people started to realise that, if you don’t wash your hands after using the bathroom, you and your friends may as well greet each other by sticking your hands down each other’s pants. The early pioneers of her sect, who first started to preach the word of Scrubbup were disbelieved, derided, stigmatised, and even martyred. Physicians were supposed to cure disease, surely they could not be spreading it! Some of these early radicals have since been elevated to sainthood or “saintised”. Such as Saint Ignaz Semmelweis, Saint Florence of Nightingale, Saint Dora of Walsall and Saint John Snow (who knew a surprising amount, but it took him ages to get anyone to listen).

The faith of Scrubbup is still going strong today. The standards of purity laid down by her church have been adopted into medical practice all over the world. You will struggle today to find a medical professional who is not a devotee. Their motto is “Spread the word, not the pathogen!” In order to help the layperson understand the mind bogging numbers of bacterial that can occupy a common object, they have developed a unit of bacteria known as the “Metric Toilet Seat”. As in, “Did you know your mobile phone carries three Metric Toilet Seats worth of bacteria?” Today this sect is highly active and organises and funds both a research and an educational mission. The education mission go forth into the community, teaching the doctrine that good hygiene is the key to life everlasting, or at least life lasting a lot longer than it would otherwise. They sometimes hold awareness rallies, but unfortunately, as most of the attendees are doctors, no one can read their placards. The research arm mainly remain within the temple, where they devotedly spend hours and hours staring into microscopes, watching aerobic bacteria do their cardio.

When you visit a temple of Scrubbup, the first thing you will notice is that, where the holy water dish would be in a Catholic church, there is instead a holy alcohol hand sanitiser dispenser. The priesthood and congregation will frequently use this, giving the impression that they are constantly hatching a dastardly plan. Above the entrance door itself is a sign which says “Mind the Strep”. Inside, instead of communal pews, there are individual seats, placed at least a meter apart. The focal point of the temple is a special hand washing font, with those long arm taps, where the High Priestess, known as Auntie Viral, demonstrates correct hand washing technique. As she does this, the congregation sing hymns to accompany her. This helps her time the correct duration of her demonstration. These hymns all last exactly 20 seconds, and include include twice “Happy Birthday to You Times Two”, “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”, and for the Goths, four times through “Hey Now, Hey Now Now, Sing this Corona to Me”.

The priesthood can be recognised by the austere robes or “Scrubs” that they wear. (The US girl group TLC were excommunicated for failure to conform to the dress code.) These vestments include distinctive blue ceremonial face masks. There is an apocryphal tale that, once, some priests of Scrubbup went to pick up supplies of the face masks from Superdrug, but they had run out. The sales assistant suggested they try Boots. They almost suffocated.

Sadly, most people in the street give little thought to the wisdom of Scrubbup until there is some kind of epidemic scare situation. Then they often misinterpret the sensible guidance wildly. This is why, when advised to stay at home, they will proceed in a mass rabble to Sainsbury’s and up buy heaps of Knorr, Bovril and Oxo. This panic response is known as “stockpiling”. Inexplicably, people also get an urge to buy up all the toilet paper in sight, like a squirrel that ate a senna pod. One school of thought is that, if people are going to have to put their heads between their legs and kiss their arses goodbye, they want it to taste okay.

Scrubbup does not only have a role in medicine. Her beneficence is essential to space exploration. Sacred sterilisation and decontamination rites are carried out over any space vessel or probe to make sure that MARS missions do not become an MRSA missions.

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.

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.)

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.