Remember those boring holiday slide-shows from the 1970s?

"And this is us opening the Eastern quarter. And this is us opening the Southern Quarter. And... oh, look! There’s Mrs You-Know-Who! Died since then, poor dear. Dogging Accident. Shame.

Then What’s-His-Name read one of his pomes and everyone had a seizure. Fortunately Old-Fatty was on hand to shout one of his pomes at us, which was nice."

Blue Peter Paganism.

I’ve long held the view that the claims from some quarters to be reconstructing extinct pagan religions are a joke, but recent blogs elsewhere on shoe-box shrines and the public exposition of private, home-made rituals have led me to a startling conclusion regarding the true origins of the “reconstructed” paganisms. I wouldn’t be surprised if the "reconstructionists" start burying time capsules any time soon.

Contradiction (or; BBC Pagan admits to Epistemological Void at Heart of Paganism Shock).

"I have found, in the past, that most of the traditions represented here seen to have few specifics that can be used as a basis for discussion."

Pentaculiar.

Has anyone ever noticed how after a while dogs start to look like their owners?

Der.

Anyone who’s spent a little time reading the BBC pagan board will be familiar with the grandiose claims of one particular woman. She implies expertise in more areas of religion and magic than Ali Bongo teaching R.E., but she’s now pretending to be an expert in everything from electromagnetism through geology to climatology as she rips entire hunks of text from Wikipedia without making quotation clear or offering credit.

Just when you thought the BBC crew couldn’t get any more sad. It's not the first time she's done it and it won't be the last. The Brain she isn’t. Pinky? Definitely.

“But I don’t want to cross the road!”

There’s something about this photograph which speaks to the folly at the heart of paganism.

It might be the full-arm Gummi gloves and the bondage harnesses. Chair... or sling?

Tits.

I’ve read some nice rants on the subject of Unverified Personal Gnosis lately so I thought I would have a bit of a gnash and a foam myself.

UPG is intended to be a move away from what is seen to be woo-woo. The idea is to shear what would at one time have been called prophecy and revelation away from personal status. What actually happens is that the corpus of heathenry, for example, becomes nothing more than a scrapbook of factoids rather than any coherent and directional doctrine. There aren’t any prophets in heathenry, no small cohort of people who are picked on by gods, just bloggers. Heathens have become god-twitchers, and they get together for a jar and jaw about their latest piece of god-spotting. UPG is portrayed as a technical, evidence-based process but it’s really only a distillation of the Gnower’s knowledge and imagination. What fits is what matters. Methods are more important than message, and methods boil down to a bic and an A4 tablet.

It’s the infection of animism, in which everything is regarded as people and all people are regarded as equal. If everyone is equal then nobody’s message is special or has any legitimate imperative. Which brings me nicely to those who do not regard themselves as equal, and the identification of those who aren’t. If I were asked whose example and guidance it is best to avoid then I would say anyone with a title such as seidkona or druid, or anyone who uses adjectives in self-reference. Such people are hopelessly romantic. It’s all about them and any message they utter serves their ego and their agenda. Who aren’t equal? Who has a valuable message? Those with questions. No claim of magical skill or a seer’s eye from these but a real stuff to give about the life they lead which they love.

There are some people who have always regarded UPG as the aspirational religionist's equivalent of “My cat told me it prefers Whiskas”, that is, when it’s not “Look at me everybody! I‘m a seidkona and a PhD! Wheee!”. They’re really cynical types, though, as a rule, and don’t get invited to Christenings. Anyway, next time some one tells you that they’re spotted the Greater-Bearded Trickster, or the Bad-Tempered Ginger Hammer, step back for a moment and consider the possibility that you may be listening to the song of a Big-Headed Tit.