Helen Harlotry – Goddess of Regency Romance

June 6, 2021June 6, 2021 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a modern woman, in possession of her own fortune, must be in want of a bit of good old-fashioned passion. Helen Harlotry is the goddess of all those who have an irrational longing to experience the lifestyle and passion of the Regency Era. A condition known to psychologists as “Austalgia”. She is a famed divine beauty, known for her pert opinions and fine eyes. She is a virginal goddess, as yet unwed. One prospective celestial consort declared that she was, “tolerable I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.” Helen Halrotry is the eldest of the sixty-nine sister goddesses of romantic fiction. (You may have heard of her slightly more mainstream sister, the erotic and racy Melisande Boon – The Goddess of the Ripped Bodice.)

Most people expect the temple of Helen Harlotry to be located in one of the renowned Regency towns, such as Bath, Buxton or Brighton. In fact, it is happily situated in a park in Mansfield. This hallowed hall has a graceful neoclassical white stone façade adorned with a cornucopia of columns, built in the style of the architect John Nash. Atop the roof sits a small cupola which houses the temple bell. When rung, this bell goes, “Bingley-bingley-bingley.” The temple has two doors. Above one it says, “Entrance”, above the other it says, “Other way Mr Collins.” Once you are inside, you will find over a hundred elegantly furnished sitting rooms where worshippers can partake of the holy afternoon-tea ritual or receive gentleman callers whilst suitably chaperoned. Past these salons, at the heart of the temple, is a capacious, chandeliered ball room. Helen Harlotrians like to hold big balls. If you also tour the arbours and bowers of the grounds, you may be lucky enough to spot their 224-year-old pet tortoise, Mary Shelley. No one is sure whether this sacred ancient beast really is that old, or if they just keep reanimating her.

Whilst within the temple, followers of Helen Harlotry must adhere to strict rules of dress and etiquette to ensure an authentic early 19th century ambiance is preserved. Ladies must wear elegant empire line robes and carry a parasol, dance card and fan at all times. Gentlemen must adhere to a minimum side-burn length and meet a mandatory breech-tightness requirement. There is a secret, heretical sub-sect known as the Bridgertonians who like to bend or even outright defy these laws. For example, by sneaking classical arrangements of modern pop songs into the Temple String Quartet’s repertoire. They are lead by the mischievous Lady Danbury, who considers this to be riotously funny. Devotees of Helen Harlotry take great pride in their authenticity and many nurse a violent prejudice against the Bridgertonians. In return the Bridgertonians consider the orthodox members of the faith to be rather “High in the instep.” To avoid persecution from these less light-hearted folks*, Bridgertonians identify one another by secret signs and symbols. Such as the covert wearing of synthetic fabrics or hiding bee motifs in their costume designs. You may wonder why these iconoclasts run the risk of being scorned and ostracised. Apparently, it is all worth it just to watch Regé-Jean Page slowly lick a spoon.

Should you wish to join the cult of Helen Harlotry, you must either be a single man in possession of a good fortune and in want of a wife, or an impoverished yet accomplished maiden with little but her charms to recommend her. Gentlemen who are prepared to give consequence to ladies who are slighted by other men are particularly welcome. The initiation ritual for gentlemen involves stripping off down to their shirtsleeves and going for a dip in the lake, whilst the female members of the sect stroll along the lake shore and loudly exclaim, “Mr Darcy!” when he emerges. The initiation rite is different for female neophytes. They must go for a walk, get thoroughly soaked in an unexpected thunderstorm, and almost die of the apparently inevitable fever.

The worshippers of Helen Harlotry are keen on ball games. That is, games played at balls. The most popular of these is known as “Lady Catherine’s Condescension”. The game is played to music. Players must take a turn around the room and use persuasion to dash the wood into the nether field. It is improper for ladies to partner the same gentleman for more than two turns (unless they have “an understanding”). If, during the game, virtue is lost by a female player, it is irretrievable. By contrast, gentleman players are allowed one opportunity to restore their reputation and continue play. Players who commit multiple fouls (known as indiscretions) are exposed as the worst of libertines and sent off (usually to fight Napoleon). The game ends when everyone is married.

No one is precisely sure why this period of history evokes such passion and nostalgia. Maybe it is because it is one of the few eras when high fashion looks not only stylish, but also wearable and vaguely comfortable. However, not even the most devout followers of Helen Harlotry want to live full-time in Regency mode. The general consensus is that, whilst era is nice to visit in spirit, you wouldn’t want to live there. Even if you were minted. After all, no matter how much money you have, you can’t buy penicillin if it hasn’t been discovered yet. Once their religious devotions are complete, they are happy to be able to return to their 21st century rights and freedoms, but with a refreshed appreciation of their modern privilege and a prayer for their sisters around the world who are yet to achieve emancipation.

*Helen Harlotrians are not totally humourless. They have a version of the Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman joke which begins, “Jane Austen, Maria Edgeworth and Susan Edmonstone Ferrier walked into the Pump Room at Bath…”

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Wigan – God of Pi and Pie

March 14, 2021 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Wigan, the deity of Pie and Pi, is without pier amongst the gods. He, and his divine consort Ashet exist in a pattypantheon of their own. Beloved by mathematicians, bakers and gourmets alike, who see him as the sauce of all goodness (mint sauce to be precise). He is the only god who has managed to calculate the circumference, surface area and volume of the celestial spheres. His followers have no time for other religions, they believe that only their god is pukka. They believe that Wigan created the first man from pastry dough, and then crafted the first woman from one of the man’s kidneys. Later in the tale, the woman is tempted to eat the Apple Pie of Knowledge by a serpent. This is known as the Snake and Kidney theory of creation.

The cult of Wigan is divided into two sects. The high church for the upper crust, and the low church (affectionately known as Greggs) for everyone else. What all followers of Wigan agree on is their violent opposition to anyone calling some stew with a little puff pastry hat a “pie”. According to them, this dish should more correctly be called an “Anathema”. They also strive to reject and thwart the upstart false idol “Tau” at every turn. (Tau thinks he’s twice as good as the God of Pi).

The priesthood of Wigan are renowned for their great pie-ety. A neophyte must study baking and mathematics for many years before being accepted into this circle. Their final assessment hinges on writing a scholarly paper about pies with sweet fillings, known as a “dessertation”. Many lay folk think that someone must be irrational to want to train as a priest of Wigan. In truth, they are just really turned on by geometry or, as the Wiganites describe, it “pisexual”. The priesthood are led by a triumvirate, currently these leaders are Sir Cumference (also known as Number 3), Ms Di Ameter (Number 1) and Mr Ray Deus (Number 4). They are the three significant figures of the faith. Other important figures in the cult are Pontius Pielot (whose job it is to make sure worshippers wash their hands before breaking a crust together), Magnum Pi (who is their head of temple security or “crustodian”), the Pied Piper (head of music) and Crustifex Maximus (the chef de cuisine). In their quest to push the boundaries of human knowledge, the priesthood of Wigan divided the circumference of the moon by its diameter, and the circumference of the earth by its diameter. They were disappointed to discover that there was absolutely no difference between Earth Pi and Moon Pi.

Circus clowns are considered to be paladins of the faith, and a custard pie fight is a holy war. Many famous painters have been inspired to depict the devastation that ensues. So at least it puts t’art on t’walls.

The temple of Wigan is similar in shape to the Royal Albert Hall. Unlike the Albert Hall, an elegant ceramic chimney pot rises from the centre of its roof which is styled to look like a singing bird. When the priests are baking, the smoke of their ovens rises from its upstretched beak. The architecture is decorated throughout with little fleur de lys motifs. As you enter you will see a sign by the door that says, “No Pies Are Left in This Temple Overnight”. Once inside you will see that the interior is dominated by a large statue of Wigan which urinates hot, rich gravy. This holy work of art is known as the “Mannequin Pi”. In front of this fountain stands the altar. A two legged stone table, with one leg straight and the other elegantly curved. If you plan to visit the temple, be advised that all worshippers are required to leave an offering on the altar in a small disposable foil tray. You are also strongly advised to wear a wipe clean hat as the temple is also home to Wigan’s flock of four and twenty sacred blackbirds.

The great festival of Wigan is celebrated on the 14^th of March every year. This involves a rite where many pies are brought forth to be shared by the congregation. Before they are eaten, the officiating priest chops 1 and 1/3 of the pies into square chunks (in other words, 4/3 Pie are cubed). This is all done to the accompaniment of a choir singing the holy number (a performance which never ends). The ritual ends with the priest declaring, “Rejoice! Crust is risen! Go in mushy peas.”

Happy Pi Day everyone!

Idol Scribblings Volume One

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

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Chilly Sanders – God of the Nesh

January 31, 2021January 31, 2021 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Everyone knows at least one person who is always complaining that they feel cold. These folk are known as, “The Nesh*”. Chilly Sanders is the god who watches over these perpetually parky people. You don’t have to be cool to worship him, but it helps. If, whilst on the beach on a scorching summers day, you spy someone bundled up in a duffle coat and tartan travel rug, they are very likely to be a disciple of Chilly Sanders. If you were to say, “Winter is Coming” to his acolytes they would look at you askance. For them, winter is already here. Despite their sensitivity to the slightest chill, you will still find his followers out and about at all the big events. They like to feel the freeze and do it anyway.

Chilly Sanders’ mythology is said to originate all the way back in the last ice age, which his sacred texts refer to as “The Age of Shivery”. He is said to be the progeny of the Arthrites the God of Aches and Stiffness and Zephbrrrr the Goddess of Cold Drafts. Sadly, his parents’ relationship did not last long following Chilly’s conception. The deal breaker was that Zephbrrrr kept putting her cold feet on Arthrites whilst they were in bed. Statues of Chilly Sanders always show him to be (like Theseus) hypolispos, or “buttockless”. This is said to symbolically represent the fact that he is always freezing his arse off.

The temple of Chilly Sanders is in Burrrrrrrlington, Vermont. When a non-believer enters the temple of Chilly Sanders their face will instantly melt. This is not due to any Indiana Jones style ancient curse. It is simply because the temple is always maintained at a toasty 38^oC by the gargantuan five jet Robinson-Willey gas fire, in which burns their sacred eternal flame. On entering the temple, each worshipper is greeted by the priests with a rousing chorus of, “Put the wood in the hole! Were you born in a barn?” The worshipper will then hang their cap on one of the impressive temple hat pegs. The priesthood can be recognised by the sacred giant knitted mittens which they must wear at all times. The church undertakes lots of good works in the community. These include supplying hot meals daily to the vulnerable. They fund this endeavour by manufacturing much sought after t-shirts bearing the image of the god.

Whilst worshippers of Chilly Sanders may be of any age. However, the majority of the flock are either of the venerable persuasion or hail from warmer climes. The only people excluded from the faith are teenagers who whinge about being cold but won’t put a sweater on. People from Newcastle-upon-Tyne are technically welcome to join. It’s just that none of them ever have.

Members of the faith who are still of working age are afflicted by a terrible curse which follows them throughout their careers. In any office where they are employed, they will always somehow end up sat at the desk next to someone who is menopausal. The most common cause of premature death amongst Sanderians is touching the thermostat.

The faith of Chilly Sanders has many famous philosophical proverbs. Perhaps the best known is, “Cast ne’er a clout. Period.”

* Nesh = A norther dialect word meaning someone who is susceptible to feeling cold. There is no other synonym for this word in English! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nesh

Idol Scribblings Volume One

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

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Solobrate – Goddess of Lockdown Birthdays

January 17, 2021 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Solobrate is the celestial guardian of anyone celebrating their birthday under quarantine conditions. Her followers are sensible, ordinary folk who make small personal sacrifices for the protection of their loved ones and community. This may sound dour, but in fact the faith encourages it’s worshippers to enjoy their special day in any way they safely can. Solobratians have a saying, “Don’t go out. Go all out!” Naturally, this deity has no temples or shrines. Her faithful never gather together. The rite to praise her is always practiced alone (or with your bubble) and at home.

In order to carry out the Solobrate Birthday Ritual you will need a little forward planning. You are going to need to purchase some fizzy wine for the libation. Make sure you order this to be delivered well in advance as a frivolous last minute trip to the shops could get you proseccocuted. Be sure to select a good vintage, aged to perfection, like yourself. Many people decorate the sacred space for the rite with balloons, cards and flowers sent by long distance loved ones. (However, if you are lucky enough to be locked down with a significant other, you may want to suggest that instead of spending their breath blowing balloons, they blow you instead.)

On the day of your birthday, don the fluffy ceremonial robe and seat yourself comfortably in your favourite spot with the “Sceptre of Ultimate Power” (a.k.a. The Remote Control) grasped firmly in your hand. Alternatively, one can wear one’s Birthday Suit (this is probably the only year since the age of three that you are going to be able to get away with it). Some of the most devout followers will paint their faces for the ritual using a special deep cleansing paint made of Dead Sea Mud and kumquat extract*. Next it is time to order your favourite take-away and feast like a really peckish Roman. Make sure your food order is over £20 to ensure you receive the free poppadoms or prawn crackers. You can use these unsolicited sundries as an offering to the goddess. The feast should conclude with a luscious cake consumed entirely to oneself. This cake is sanctified by lighting the sacred flame of Solobrate atop it for a few moments whilst singing “Happy Birthday to Me”. (Traditionalists will bake and eat a cake shaped like a clock for their birthday. I am told this is a fun and time consuming activity.) Now open the wine you ordered earlier and toast yourself until you could melt cheese on your forehead. At this stage of the proceedings, many worshippers get a little emotional. Missing absent friends and loved ones. Remember, it’s okay to not to be okay. This is your ritual and you can cry if you want to. The ritual concludes when you pass out in a satiated soggy heap.

This year, don’t worry about whether getting older makes you wiser. If you have the sense to stay at home for your pandemic birthday, you are already very, very wise.

*Rinse off with clean, fresh water after 15 minutes. Then apply moisturiser .

Solobrate is dedicated to everyone who has and will have a lockdown birthday. Especially my wonderful Mum, proof reader and all round saint, Teresa. Happy Birthday, love to you all and stay safe. Xxx

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Ouboboross – God of Painting Joyfully

October 24, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

The divine demi-beast Ouboboross is worshipped as a symbol of the eternal endurance of art and the joy it brings to humanity. He did not intend to swallow his own tail. However, he decided that this had not been a mistake, just a happy little accident, and he stuck with it. (Although some jealous minor deities accused him of doing it to try and make his ars longa). He is a deity of enormous power. He has the ability to move trees, rivers and even mountains with the stroke of a pallet knife. He also has the power to magically transform human errors into beautiful flocks of birds or lazy waterfalls. Ouroboross is also famed for ability to miraculously cure insomnia. His low sultry voice is said to be capable of lulling a caffeinated two year old to a restful slumber.

Followers of Ouboboross believe that there is an artist hidden at the bottom of every single one of us, and that the secret to doing anything is believing that you can do it (although practice helps). They also believe that Ouboboross is a guiding hand in the evolution of the universe. According to them, it is he who ensures that each of the little things are individuals – all of them special in their own way. The underlying philosophy of the Ouroborossian way of life is to do something every day that will make you happy. For most this involves painting, because every day is a good day when you paint. However, some of them simply like to beat the brush. Upon death, Ouboborossians believe that their souls will released from their mortal shells to become as free as clouds and they will just lay around in the sky all day long.

The cult of Ouboboross may be the most loving, welcoming and inclusive of all religions. Accessible to all. Even the colour blind can join and learn to create majestic snow scenes. The flock are a happy bunch, they may paint an umber bridge, but they’ll never take umbridge. Because the sect brings together like-minded people, devotees often meet the love of their life through the church. The traditional Ouboborossian chat-up line goes, “Is that a squirrel in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”

The temple of Ouboboross is built up in a happy little tree which stands alone. (There used to be crooked tree next to it, but they sent that one to Washington). When you arrive at the temple, it is customary to talk to the tree and make friends with it, (there is nothing wrong with having a tree as a friend). Once inside you will be able to marvel at the main gallery, which is hung with thousands of almighty paintings. Visitors to the tree temple are invited to go out on a limb, because that’s where the fruit is.

A ritual to honour Ouboboross always lasts for half an hour. Worshippers will congregate dressed in old shirts and clutching their brushes to paint along with one of Ouboboross’ 403 sacred video recordings. The service ends with the congregation chanting the prayer, “So from all of us here, happy painting and Ouboboross bless, my friend.” There are said to be other rites. Strange sensuous rites, held in the temple’s inner studio sanctuary. Acolyte armature artists will anoint themselves with linseed oil and make love to a sacred canvas. It is said to be a highly liberating experience, many of the faithful have found freedom on the canvas. If you get invited to observe one of these rituals, remember, there’s no pressure. Just relax and watch it happen.

If you have been converted to the way of Ouboboross, you can show your devotion by purchasing Ouboboross t-shirts, garments and gifts through my RedBubble Shop.

**For Ouboboross tailored for light garments and items, click here** https://www.redbubble.com/shop/ap/60718828

**For Ouboboross tailored for dark garments, click here** https://www.redbubble.com/shop/ap/60719336

Idol Scribblings Volume Two
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Even more deities for every eventuality with a foreword by Gary Brannan of the Technical Difficulties ( TechDiff.co.uk )
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Dom Estos – God of Leaving the Toilet Clean and Usable

September 13, 2020October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Dom Estos is essentially the god of being considerate to those who have to follow you into the stalls of life. He is also known as “The Toilet Attendant of the Gods”. His mythology begins during the Aphedronomachy*. This unfortunate incident started when some bad meat was burned in sacrifice to the Gods. Poor Zeus was loose and Hera never felt queerer. Following this harrowing battle of the bowels, the King and Queen of the Gods decided that there should be a deity responsible for ensuring that the divine derrieres always had a clean throne to sit on.

Dom Estos, who had been a humble naiad of the water closet, was selected for promotion. Hephaestus dutifully forged two weapons to aid him in his duties. Unfortunately for the Olympians, who expected to avoid domestic labour, Dom Estos achieved his aim by ensuring every deity cleaned up after themselves. Any God or Goddess leaving havoc in their wake was threatened with “The Toilet Brush of the Gods”. Particularly stubborn celestial entities were chastised with the dreaded “Plunger of the Gods”.

Followers of Dom Estos are known for their pithy sayings which sum up their philosophies. These include, “Take nothing but your relief. Leave nothing but a warm seat”, “Stand close to thy faith, for thy sword be shorter than thou knowest,” and “To give thanks, scrub your Armitage Shanks”. They believe that, if they live a considerate and hygienic life, they will go to the blessed Elsan Fields in the afterlife.

Any privy, crapper, garderobe or dunny is automatically a sacred space of Dom Estos. However, there are also a few dedicated shrines around the world. In the UK this is located in a scented glade near Looe on the south coast. (Readers in the USA can find their nearest temple in Flushing Meadows, NY.) These shrines are functional yet beautiful buildings, entirely clad in porcelain tiles inside and out and decorated with bubbling fountains. The grounds are dotted with sunny yellow marigolds which wave gently in the breeze. (To be clear. The gloves, not the flowers.) These sanctuaries also usually have a café. Thankfully, housed in a separate building. However, they do not serve coke floaters, chocolate logs, Mississippi mudslides or anything with sprinkles.

Devout worshippers making a pilgrimage to a sanctuary of Dom Estos will, upon arrival, make a small offering, typically a urinal cake, a bar of sanctified scented soap, a triple ply quilted sacred scroll or a phial of blessed bleach. Then the worshipper is free to spend some time at the temple in quiet, solitary meditation, seated on an elegant porcelain throne. The visit concludes with a through ritual cleansing of both the throne and the hands, and the lighting of a sacred scented candle (or at very least, a match). Those who prefer to stand as they meditate, must also complete the rite of “The Lowering of the Seat”. (Failure to carry out this ritual will lead to the pilgrim being pursued by an angry, wet arsed priestess with a bruised coccyx.)

Priests of Dom Estos are well known for their community outreach work as toilet attendants. They primarily prevent gents from splashing their stream everywhere by lurking by the sinks and making all but the most desperate piss shy. There are also sacred music collectives dedicated to Dom Estos. Amongst the best know of these are the Bloo Man Group and the Cisterns of Mercy. The clergy are led by a High Priest who holds the title of the Pope Pourri. He is supported and advised by a Privy Council.

Whilst being primarily concerned with lavatorial facilities, Dom Estos also covers campsites, beauty spots and beaches. His arch nemesis is the demon Pooperscooper. Who, according to folklore, comes in the night to decorate the trees with bags full of dog shit. His divine consort is Princess Charmin, Goddess of Knitted Dollies with a Toilet Roll Under their Skirt. Hi sacred animal is the Toilet Duck. A mischievous creature known for attacking the unclean from behind. Such an ambush is to be feared. That fowl beast can really get under your rim.

*Lit. “Latrine War”

This deity was suggested by Kay Barnes. Thank you for a great idea and for your continued support for Idol Scribblings. Welcome to the Idol Scribblings Hive Mind!

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Amazonia – Goddess of Excessive Packaging

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amazonia was suggested by Kieron Philips.

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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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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.

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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.

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