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).

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.

Prometheus – God of Disappointing Sci-Fi

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

Prometheus formed spontaneously in 1999 with the release of Star Wars
Episode 1. He sits in scathing judgement over an entire genre. He is notorious for stealing Firefly from the DVD collection of the Gods.

Prometheus’ temples are all virtual. Devout worshippers will have a small home shrine. Usually a stained desk baring a powerful gaming PC surrounded by votive candles, polyhedral dice and crumbs. From this stronghold they ride forth like paladins, across the world wide web, to do battle with anyone who dares to hold an opinion. For this reason they are also known as “The Fandom Menace”. The most devout are said to be powerfully magical hermits who deliver remote wrath and judgement upon anyone who “quite liked Jurassic Shark”.

Once a year, followers quit their solitude and assemble in Picardy for a celebration of their culture called the “Com Icon”. The ceremonies, celebration of the arts and general roistering lead many to mistakenly believe that this festival has much in common with the ancient Dyonisia. They are wrong. Once things get going, Com Icon makes a Bacchanalian frenzy look like a Vestal Virgin’s tea party. What happens at Com Icon, stays at Com Icon. It is compulsory to attend dressed as a character from Prometheus’ rich mythology. Followers will spend the weeks approaching the festival perfecting elaborate masquerades to be seen in. The first commandment of Prometheus being “Make it sew”. Whilst there is a wide range of guises one can choose, going as “Nude Iron Man” is seen as a lazy cop out, so don’t turn up Stark Naked. The only other costume that is forbidden is that of a medic from Star Trek. (You’re only allowed to wear that one if you’re the real McCoy.)

The priesthood can be recognised by their vestments, which somehow simultaneously manage to appear futuristic and creatively anachronistic. Their full ceremonial outfit comprises a tartan travel rug, six rolls of tinfoil, an Ikea sheepskin rug, a heavily modified hairdryer, a pair of welding goggles, a whacking great sword and a bucket of glitter. They will sit on panels throughout the festival of Com Icon to answer questions from their congregation. The priesthood has typically been male dominated, however, there is now extensive pressure for gender balance in the sect, and this is starting to have an effect. For example, since 2018 Priestess Whittaker has become famed for her doctrinal wisdom.

The core belief of the religion of Prometheus is that the Geek shall inherit the earth. Throughout life one must prove one’s dedicated fandom and encyclopaedic knowledge of sci-fi by being corscruatingly scathing of all prequels, sequels and spin offs. Virtue is competitive, and one must devastatingly take down every other aficionado who is potentially nerdier than thou, with plot holes and superior sneers. If one successfully lives according to this “Janeway of Righteousness” you will go to a nerd’s paradise called “The Elysium Force Fields” when you die. In this hereafter, one gets to have as many long, uninterrupted conversations with Brent Spiner as one wants. How many other religions’ afterlives can boast unlimited Data?

I am still afflicted by a finger injury, and have decided to take a proper week off from drawing to let it heal properly. In the mean time, to tide you over, here is an early deity, which I drew in 2018, but somehow escaped being posted before. It was suggested by the excellent Will Bailey.

(Before anyone says, “It’s Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons”, I know at least six guys who look exactly like this. Attempt to sue me and I WILL introduce you.)

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

Arpeggios – God of Prog Rock

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

Arpeggios the God of Progressive Rock, is also known by some as Septoctimus. His sacred animals are the Camel and the Snow Goose. His genesis story tells that he was the son of a Nature Goddess and the God of Miners. Which made him a natural miner deity. He got a bad case of arrhythmia, which he caught off the Crimson King. This left him feeling fragile and drove him close to the edge. However, this also made Arpeggios an object of worship for those that stand still and listen intently to the beat of a different drum.

The primary commandment of Arpeggios is,
“The top number of thyne key signature shalt always be a prime number.”
They tend to be somewhat elitist and try to avoid lowly common time at all costs. They believe the 4th of April to be the most unlucky day of the year, and their most sacred day is the 7th of August. Whilst they consider themselves to be a forward looking faith, in reality they are more firmly stuck in the early 1980s than the carpet of a Working Men’s Club in Wigan.

Each service is lead by a group of four or more priests working together in perfect synchronicity and harmony. (There was one occasion however, when one of the priests walked off following his own special way, and then there were three.) The services of Arpeggios are notorious for their protracted sermons, which are usually in excess of 20 minutes long in order to allow time for each priest to do a solo. The worshippers in the congregation will firmly grasp a pint of ale in their hands throughout the proceedings. This is to stop them embarrassing themselves by trying to clap along. However, at the end of the service they will put their glasses on the floor and their hands together to show their appreciation.

The priesthood all dress in sparkly robes, much like kinky wizards. Every priest carries a massive bunch of 24 keys. Not only is this a la mode, these keys are for the temple door which has 24 locks. When a vocalist rings the tubular doorbells and asks for admittance, the priest inside has to use all 24 keys before the singer can come in. (This only applies to the main entrance, in total the temple has 32 doors.) Arpeggios’ priests practice a form of sacred ritual magic. This is unnecessarily complex, and can go disastrously awry if they suffer a lapse in concentration. All the chambers where spells are cast have a large cautionary sign on the wall which reads, “Focus on Your Hocus Pocus!” The rest of the temple is adorned by sacred art, all of it airbrushed.

Like many sects, they have some rituals which appear cruel and barbarous to people from other cultures, such as the Rite of Hammond Organ Tipping, which is practised by some Arpeggionians. Once on it’s back, a poor Hammond cannot right itself. It is heartlessly left there with it’s little pedals waving helplessly in the air. Then the wretched instrument is tormented with daggers to make it scream in interesting ways. There is a more humane movement within the faith to ban this brutal custom, and the recently founded “Society of Arpeggionians for the Protection of Hammond Organs” (SAPHO) is rapidly gaining support. SAPHO advocates the use of synthetic Hammond replacements and runs the Happy Haven for Harrassed Hammonds. This sanctuary has a lovely conservatory for the organs to frolic about in. If you would like to visit the sanctuary, and maybe sponsor a Hammond Organ, you will find it located in the picturesque village of Emerson on the shores of Lake Palmer. Please, please, give all you can to help the organs.

I would like to thank James R Turner @JRTwrites and Kris Hudson-Lee @nomenloony for suggesting Arpeggios.

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

Sloth – God of Staying In

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

Idleatry is the new Idolatry!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dot Matris – Mother of Printers

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

Dot Matris came in to being in 1968, when the very first computer printer experienced it’s first technical fault. Dot Matris is a not so much a “Mother” of printers in the nurturing sense. She’s more a “Mother” in the Samuel L. Jackson sense. Dot Matris is always depicted wearing a distinctive high-waisted “micro line” dress. In her mythology, Dot Matris is married to the handsome mortal Prince Gamut. Together they work to try and foil the evil schemes of the Plotters. She is said to fly across the heavens in her celestial fighter aircraft, known as “The Laser Jet” singing as she goes. Well, I say singing. It’s more of a shrill, rhythmic, buzzing scream.

Dot Matris loathes poor organisation, bad time management and last minute rushes. Therefore, prayers will only be answered when your print job is not time critical. The closer you are to your deadline, the more likely it is that your prayers will fall on deaf ears. Sometime she will further punish you for the hubris of expecting her aid, by spreading a plague of bugs through all your technical devices. It is vital that you only pray to Dot Matris once for each print job. If you pray to her repeatedly, she will get annoyed. Nothing will come out of your printer until after you need it. Then a thousand copies will suddenly spew forth into the air, and you will be powerless to stop them.

The principle temple of Dot Matris is in Epsom in the UK. It is a very recent structure. It has been cleverly 3D printed from concrete, plastic and chocolate. (There is a video on YouTube about how they did it in “Just a day!”). The temple is populated and maintained by her sacred order known as the “Brother Printers”.

This sect is lead by the “Printer Head”. “Brothers” may be of any gender. The current Printer Head is Daisy Wheeler. She is the fifth to hold the title. (The first to hold that title has now been Canonised as St Hewlett of Packard.) The next Printer Head will be divinely chosen by Dot Matris before their birth. The Brothers will know them by the “Lexmark”, which will manifest somewhere upon their body.

The altar at the centre of the temple is designed to dispense the daily offerings of consumables which are made to appease the goddess. Dot Matris is said to eat a hundred reams of the finest quality paper every day. These are lovingly loaded into plastic trays by the Brothers in order to make the feeding easier. She abhors cheap paper, and if offered anything less than 90gsm she will just chew it up and spit it out.

On the top of the altar stand four elegant vessels for the goddess’s beverages. She will be offered, and drink, five gallons of ink every day (a gallon of black, a gallon of magenta, a gallon of cyan, and for some weird reason, two gallons of yellow) . If any one of these reservoirs runs dry, the goddess will shut down and refuse to do anything. The holy ink they must provide for the offering is incredibly rare and precious. It is made from dragon’s milk and mermaid’s toenails. The goddess will only accept the genuine stuff. If given a cheaper substitute she will send you many messages of dire warning. In order to get this holy ink the priesthood have to buy hundreds and hundreds of brand new printers every day and extract the ink from each one. This has turned out to be by far the cheapest way of doing it (around the back of the temple is a landfill pit, overflowing with thousands of forlorn, drained printers.)

If you visit the temple. Do try to coincide your visit with one of their excellent “Jammin'” sessions. These involve an informal group gathering around a blocked printer, and freestyle riffing advice on how to fix it, whilst the owner of the printer tries not to worry about a thing, and believe that every little thing’s gonna be alright. I think it is a lot of fun. When you get to try it, I hope you like Jammin’ too. Refreshments are usually served at these sessions, notably the traditional “Bubblejet Tea”. Before the end of your visit, why not take the opportunity to make a-toner-ment for your sins.

The sacred text of Dot Matris is known as “The Manual”. The scared text gets fainter and fainter as you progress towards the end, but this doesn’t matter. It has never been read, people have only ever glanced at the diagrams.

Thank you to Rhiannon Williams (@Feiryred) , for the brilliant suggestion of Dot Matris. Welcome to the Hive Mind.

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

Scrubbup – Goddess of Infection Control

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mindsetaur – God of Management Buzzwords

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beeros – God of Lowered Standards

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toby Ornottoby – God of Existential Questions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*unit of time

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

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

Apostrophilia – Goddess of Grammar Pedants

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* Dammit

Thank you to Robin Lawrence for suggesting Apostrophilia.

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