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.

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.

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.

Apostrophilia – Goddess of Grammar Pedants

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* Dammit

Thank you to Robin Lawrence for suggesting Apostrophilia.

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

Hippopotholemess – The Pot Hole Dragon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Æthel Onnit – God of Embarrassing Injuries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peebee – God of Arbitrary Sporting Achievements

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bin Dei – God of Temporal Confusion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hernia – Goddess of Over Exertion

December 1, 2019October 15, 2020 ~ Hannah ~ Leave a comment

Wherever life cruelly tries to make one bear more than one is capable of, Hernia is there. Often she will pop up in your life when you least expect it. However, it is said that if one wants to actively find Hernia, one should look under a lot of heavy rocks. In this way one can “find the Rapture”… …sorry that should be “find the Rupture”.

Her cult is a highly evangelical one. Her followers mesh together into a well run operation to plug Hernia almost constantly. They are somewhat monotheistic, believing that other deities aren’t a patch on Hernia. Sadly, her followers are sometimes known for being a bit xenophobic. In fact adverse reactions to foreign bodies are common.

The upper echelons of Hernia’s priesthood can be recognised by the way they always move with restraint. This is why every light bulb in her temple hangs blown but un-replaced. A common saying amongst them is “It is better to curse the darkness than curse in pain.” They are a very law abiding religion. It’s members live in fear of having to do a stretch.

The temple is generally in a worrying structural condition overall. There are many unsightly bulges in the walls. A visitor can receive hospitality there though, as round the back there is a hostelry known as the Lum Bar.

If you attend a rite at the Temple of Hernia, be warned. You won’t be receiving a sacrament or making a libation. Instead, at the key point of the ritual, the congregation queue up with their trousers round their ankles to stand before the High Priest, turn their head and cough. The current High Priest of Hernia is Father Buster Gutt. Being the High Priest of Hernia is considered to be a high risk job, as so many previous incumbents have been strangulated. Father Gutt is certainly often obstructed by the political schisms amongst his church.

If you ever turn up to find the temple closed, this is because the priesthood are celebrating the festival of Hiatus Hernia. During this time they take a break from all other priestly duties to play on their slip-and-slide and quaff flagons of Gaviscon.

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.

Haemorrhoid – God of Sitting Down Very Gently

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

Haemorrhoid is a god of the nether world and of things you can’t kiss better. No one is sure what he stands for, but he stands none the less. He was cursed to never, ever sit down comfortably again by one of the winter goddesses for daring to sit on her cold stone throne. Haemorrhoid is said to have two sacred animals. One is a mythical giant lizard known as the Megasaurarse, and an obstreperous donkey who is a real pain in the ass.

If you attend a ritual, you will find that the standing areas of the temple fill up first. Arrive too late and you’ll find it’s sitting room only. When the priest in the Temple of Haemorrhoid says “Let us be seated” to the congregation, what follows is a drawn out ballet of gentle pliés to the accompaniment of a chorus of muted groans. This is despite the fact that every pew is generously cushioned. At the end of every service the congregation leap to their feet and give the priest a standing ovation. Up on the high altar a small bunch of sacred grapes rests on an inflatable donut-shaped cushion. In fact the decor of the entire temple has a “grapey” theme.

Haemorrhoid is worshipped by almost everyone at some point in their lives, with the exception of perfect arseholes. Giles is the most popular given name for Haemorrhoidian boys, and they often grow up to become farmers. Emma is the most popular girls name. Infants are inducted into the faith by being baptised in the “Chalfont”.

Astrology is very important to Haemorrhoidians. Their predictions and calendar are based around the movements of Uranus. It is considered to be the most significant of the planets to observe because Uranus is so large and gassy. They watch the skies especially carefully for the significant and rare phenomena when a mysterious red streak appears in the sky near the planet. This event is known as Uranus Bleeding. Their astrologers and seers have predicted that the world will eventually end with a giant assteroid impact.

You are advised never to provoke a priest or priestess of Haemorrhoid. The constant standing, itching and general discomfort turns them into very short tempered bad asses. They have been known to fly into states of red misted fury known as a “Haemorrhoid Rage”.

You may be surprised to learn that the priestesses of Haemorrhoid run a chain of “Gentleman’s Clubs”, the proceeds of which support their church. Here, for a generous tip, they will perform an unusual form of erotic entertainment known as the Pro Laps Dance.

Worshippers of Haemorrhoid gather annually at the summer solstice. On this occasion a specially brewed beer called a Pilesner is consumed. At the climax of the ceremony the priests stand together to watch the sun rise and greet the red eye of the dawn with the cry “Arise Oh Anusol!”

Thank you to Janet Hudson for suggesting Haemorrhoid.

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.