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.

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

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Thank you for reading. If you have enjoyed this deity, please feel free to share it with your friends. New deities are published weekly. You can get alerted to new deities via Facebook through the Idol Scribbling Page or on Twitter by following @IdolScribblings . Catch up on the Pantheon so far here.

If you have a suggestion for a deity, you can suggest it by clicking this link. Alternatively, get in touch over on Facebook or Twitter. All due credit will be given.

Hengehog – God of Archaeology

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you have a suggestion for a deity, you can suggest it by clicking this link. Alternatively, get in touch over on Facebook or Twitter. All due credit will be given.

Sloth – God of Staying In

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

Idleatry is the new Idolatry!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you have a suggestion for a deity, you can suggest it by clicking this link. Alternatively, get in touch over on Facebook or Twitter. All due credit will be given.

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.

Mindsetaur – God of Management Buzzwords

March 1, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

At first there was just a scattering of stars in the heavens. Then, one day, someone saw a big picture amongst the stars and joined the dots. This made the shape of a great bull-headed man, and Lo! Mindsetaur was created. Due to his bovid head, Mindsetaur is unable to converse like a normal human, and speaks an obscure jargonese of his own. When he first set foot upon the earth, the clay shattered beneath his feet, for he is a ground-breaking deity. Mindsetaur is always shown wielding a businessman’s umbrella, which conceals a sword-stick to represent his “cutting edge” nature. He is also always depicted with, let us just say, “Low hanging fruit,” (it would seem that in his adolescence, he dropped both balls). Of course, what Mindsetaur is best known for, is his production of titanic quantities of bovine excrement*. The divine spirit of Mindsetaur floats invisibly in the air around all meeting rooms and offices.

Mindsetaur has just one principal, dedicated temple. However, he has a sacred space where he is worshipped in almost every business premises and conference centre world-wide. These are known as “Boredrooms”. These spaces are where their most frequently practiced rite is carried out weekly. For this, a select group of worshippers will assemble in the Boredroom. They summon the divine presence of Mindsetaur by ensuring that at least one consultant and one senior board member will be present for the ceremonies. During the proceedings the spirit of Mindsetaur will possess the minds of those (normally perfectly sane) people present, and within precisely thirty seconds someone will say “stake holder”. The gathered then proceed to speak in tongues for the next three hours. They speak an indecipherable babble of portmanteaus, acronyms and contractions which form a secret language known as “TLA”. The rite ends when this hallowed vocabulary has been exhausted. One of the attendees will mark this moment by jumping up and shouting “BINGO!” This particular rite is called, “This Ritual Could Have Been an Email”.

They also have a couple of notable religious festivals. Annually, at midsummer, groups of Mindsetaur’s worshippers will get utterly inebriated together in a sunlit field, in a religious festival known as “Blue Sky Drinking”. This is a very popular event, with large numbers of the faithful taking the opportunity to drink outside of the box of their suburban home. This is not to be confused with their other annual festival known as the, “Team Building Weekend” (also known as the festival of “Why am I Having to Put Up With These Wankers on a Saturday?”).

The principle temple or “Head Office” of Mindsetaur can be hard to locate. You may need a road map. As you arrive, you will cross a driveway paved with numbers, which will crunch pleasingly as you drive over them. The first thing you may notice is that, outside the front of the temple, there is a small pond filled with really aggressive ducks. The noise they make can be deafening, as they perpetually fight and bicker amongst themselves. I don’t know what’s wound them up, but those ducks are always in a row.

Once inside, you will see the focal point of the temple, a giant statue of Mindsetaur which stands on a large stone plinth. You can see a smooth indentation, where the plinth has been worn smooth by the brush of a million faithful hands. Every worshipper visiting the temple will touch base at some point. In front of this stands a large, oval, highly polished mahogany table surrounded by high backed leather chairs. One chair, at the head of the table, is significantly more imposing than the others. The table bares healthy offerings of water and fruit. These are never touched as the worshippers always bring their own coffee and biscuits. Around the edges of the room stands a row of simple wooden pews, decorated with a mystical carvings known as “bench marks”. During your visit, you may be lucky enough to catch a recital from the famous temple choir. Traditionally, they only have one hymn book between them, so that they are all singing from the same sheet. The temple also houses an observatory with a large scope, which is always focused on the client.

Around the back of the temple stands a grove of Mindsetaur’s sacred apple trees. The fruit from these is sold to raise money for the upkeep of the temple. Although they have other income streams, this is their core business. There is also a small workshop, where a team of priests strive daily to devise something new for vehicles to run around on. It’s not all work though. For recreation, the temple also has a ball park, which stands behind the orchard on an unstable colliery tip. Unfortunately, due to poor slope stability and drainage, the goalposts keep moving. It’s most certainly not a level playing field.

In Mindsetaur’s religious texts, there are several parables told about the allegorical character “Sinner Gee”. The consequences of whose actions, are always greater than the sum of those actions. Reading the full religious text of Mindsetaur is a bit if a turgid slog, as they are published in the form of a long memo. Hardly anyone has read the scripture in full. As a result everyone talks about Sinner Gee, trying to look knowledgeable, but hardly anyone truly understands what Sinner Gee means.

Acolytes of Mindsetaur live their lives doing their best to walk the walk down the critical path to righteousness. Members of his sect who transgress are punished by being left firmly out of the loop. The cult of Mindsetaur is lead by Chief Executive Priest Gwyn Wynne, who has the greatest leverage within the cult. Mindsetaur’s faith has traditionally been male dominated in the past. In the last century, progress has been made towards greater diversity. Older and more conservative members of the sect are still a little confused by non-binary people. Their naturally capitalist natures mean that they expect everyone to have a gender. The whole sect also harbour an irrational fear of Geordies. Should Newcastle-upon-Tyne be mentioned within earshot of a Mindsetaur worshipper, they will mutter “Eff’ why-aye” under their breath as a kind of counter curse. As you might expect, for the worshippers of such a materially oriented deity, devotees fully expect to receive divine favours from Mindsetaur in exchange for their prayers and sacrifices. Each worshipper will monitor their ROI, or “Return on Invocation” very carefully.

*It is little known that Herakles was initially commanded to clear out Mindetaur’s manure midden as one of his twelve labours. The heap of steaming faeces was so monstrous that Herakles took one look at it and said, “Seriously?” Both Eurystheus and Hera conceded, “Fair enough, you can do the Augean stables instead.” Herakles signed with relief and was heard to murmur “Thank F…” as he left for Elis. This episode was never mentioned again nor included in Peisander’s epic poem.

Thank you to Paul O’Neill, who suggested Mindsetaur, from bitter, bitter experience…

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.

Beeros – God of Lowered Standards

February 16, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Beeros is just one of the plethora of deities of the myriad aspects of love. A slightly shady aspect to tell the truth. He is the god of poor relationship decisions taken whilst in your cups. Thought to be the progeny of Justha Wan – God of Impromptu Drinking Sessions, Beeros was born under a table. He is often depicted with a drooping arrow. This suggests that his intoxicated origins may mean he is sometimes affected by projectile dysfunction. The motto of Beeros is “In vino, quisquis!”

Beeros is not just the god of lowered standards in love, but also in culinary discretion. Under his influence worshippers will eat almost anything, believing it tastes like the finest fillet steak. They will only find out that they were actually eating 1980s dog food when they do a white poo tomorrow.

Beeros’s mythology tells of his strange love affair with Princess Psycho. Every night they meet, under the stars and under the influence, as if they have never met before. Each time they fall in love, and Beeros sweeps Psycho away to his great palace where they tumble into bed. Every morning, before the dawn reveals her true appearance and personality, Psycho disappears with the dew, his croissant, his favourite t-shirt and his self respect. Then Beeros’ memory is wiped clean by the ebbing tide of ethanol, and thus the cycle begins again. Though the celestial lovers have repeated this dance every night since the dawn of time, Beeros has never found out what Psycho’s surname is. Many wonder why this foolish behaviour is doomed to repeat itself nightly. The truth is it’s kissmet.

There are possibly more temples of Beeros than of almost any other deity. The largest and hippest temples, are the most popular with the young. They open late into the night and come in a range of flavours, distinguished by the genres of sacred music they like to play. Each one is headed by a team of senior priests known as the Deity Janitors or DJs. The lead DJ will conduct the service from behind an altar made from one nightstand. Whilst there is usually a charge to attend a Temple of Beeros, there is a 40% discount if you attend in skool uniform.

The congregation will gather for worship from about 11pm, once the pubs kick out. In order to attend you must be wearing the distinctive “Porte des Regrets” goggles made from the bottoms of two rosé bottles. These enable the followers of Beeros to not only see the best in everyone they meet, but also in themselves. When wearing this consciousness altering face furniture they will firmly believe that they are genius comedians, sparkling conversationalists, virtuoso singers and graceful dancers. The hopeful faithful will mingle in the temple, where they will attempt the herculean task of softly sweet talking a prospective partner in competition with 110 decibels of DJ. At 1.45am the worshippers of Beeros will perform a strange ritual dance. This involves attempting to subtly dance themselves into the line of site of an uncoupled person and perform a desperate inebriated courtship shuffle. This rite is abruptly ended at 2am by the DJ playing a thrash metal version on Nellie the Elephant. If you haven’t copped off by then, your last hope lies in the queue at the taxi rank.

Some members of the sect wear a magical gem that will mysteriously glow when the wearer stands next to a potential Mr Right (or at least a Mr Right-Now) . This jewel is known as a Peridate Crystal.

Bizarrely, of all the deities of love and fertility, Beeros is statistically proven to be the most effective in respect of number of sprogs spawned. Proving that, until Photoshop came along, alcohol was essential for the survival of mankind. If it wasn’t for Beeros. Many of us would not be here at all. This process of moving rapidly from meeting to parenthood is known as “flirtilisation”. This is not for want of the acolytes of Beeros trying to practice safe sex. All I am going to say is, try practising the guitar after six pints and you’ll realise why their practice is often ineffective.

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.

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.