Religious tolerance

I’m not the sort of ape who takes sides in human squabbles, but it warms my hairy cockles when an oppressed religious minority wins its legitimate rights. I’m talking about the druids, who have finally been recognised by the British state as followers of an authentic faith, rather than a bunch of herb-sniffing weirdos who have read too many Asterix comics. 

To achieve this auspicious end, the druids have had to compromise on some of their traditional practices. Human sacrifice will now be restricted to the Festival of the Giant Hooting Barn Owl, which occurs every 721 years. And caterwauling in the small hours to ward off the Demon Duckface will only be allowed in underground caves or nuclear bunkers. In exchange for these pragmatic concessions, druidic trust funds have been given tax-exempt status, which means there’ll plenty of savoury fish-balls and dandelion wine to go round at this year’s winter solstice celebrations. 

The lesson we can draw from their successful campaign is that good things come to those who wait. The druids were wizards-most-exalted of the British Isles before the Roman invasion of 43 AD, which they resisted fanatically by wailing and letting off stick bombs. According to the historian Tacitus, their frightful antics… 

…struck the Romans with awe and terror. They stood in stupid amazement, as if their limbs were benumbed… 

But the men of the Roman army soon pulled out their weapons and got stuck in, burning down the sacred druidic groves and forcing the survivors to hide amongst the Welsh. It was a bitter pill to swallow for a proud indigenous priesthood. 

Pope Benny must be looking with envy at these neo-pagan cults, gaining influence and winning converts while his own church is mired in scandal. He has only himself to blame. When he visited Africa last year, he foolishly condemned our native tribal religions, denouncing the witch-doctor as a devil in ostrich feathers. This inevitably brought a thousand voodoo curses down upon his holy head, causing skeletons to emerge from cupboards and poke him in the vitals. 

Instead of bad-mouthing other faiths, a wise high pontiff would raid them for good ideas. If you ask rank-and-file Catholics what they most admire about paganism, they’ll inevitably mention female deities. The Virgin Mary isn’t quite up to the job, as she’s revered for being someone’s mother rather than a goddess in her own right. There is also the problem of her virginity, which prevents her from answering the prayers of the sexually frustrated. 

If I were the Pope, I would make Lucy Lawless the goddess of Christianity.  Xena the Warrior Princess was a class act - proud of bosom and earnest of thigh, she rode into battle like a true Christian knight. Yet she was also a coquette, who let beefcake suitors woo her like a wood nymph. If she became the Queen of Heaven, the Catholic Church would once more be a fitting home for fearless swordsmen and swooning damsels, whose sins in the heat of passion would be forgiven. This might not be to everyone’s taste, but it beats getting buggered by men in frocks.

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Repeating history

Have you ever met a member of a historical re-enactment society? These peculiar people often staged their events on the same site that our circus performed. I remember a fellow in medieval garb arriving on the scene as we were departing from a venue in Sussex. The gourds hanging from his belt suggested he was an apothecary of sorts.

“Got any contraceptive potions, mate?” asked one of our female employees facetiously.

He responded to this quip by remaining resolutely in character. “The venerable Longworm has written that a woman who swallows a bee will never again conceive from man or demon,” he declared.

The girl tittered and I walked over to have a chat.

“I see you are a graduate of the Catweazle school of medicine,” I said. “Is it true that a woman who swallows a goldfish will give birth to a mermaid, or possibly a fish-faced goblin?”

“Those are the words of Old Mother Muckton, the Fishwife of Fuckton,” he replied. “Last Michaelmas we put her in stocks and pelted her with parsnips for her false tongue.”

“In that case I am indebted to you for refuting her bogus theories,” I said. “What brings you here, good Sir? Is a battle in the offing?”

“Your premonition is true, O wise and wondrous ape! The Bastard of Normandy has arrived at Hastings with his ignoble thanes to ravage our Saxon kingdom with shafts of iron! As we speak, our Noble King Harold makes haste from the north to confront the devilish intruder with an army of rampaging knights and lanky pikemen! Godspeed to the brave protectors of England’s honour!”

“Godspeed indeed!” I agreed. “Were it not for another pressing engagement, I would gladly assist in England’s defence. Send my regards to King Harold and advise him to put on a pair of extra thick goggles before the battle. Good day, physician – I fear that your services will be much in demand!”

It was actually a pleasant surprise to meet a medieval re-enactor, because Britain’s most popular historical role models are undoubtedly the Romans. I put it down to their soldiers’ gear – the light functional armour, the short stabbing sword, the trouserless tunic that permits air to circulate in the nether regions. It is for good reason that Roman men were famed for having the least sweaty scrotums in the ancient world. Roman re-enactors never seem to worry about their javelins going astray on a windy day. You can tell from their faces that they’re having a ball.

We shouldn’t forget the women, of course. Allowing them to be Roman soldiers would be ahistorical, but they can fight against them if they’re butch enough to be British and don’t mind acting in simulated rape scenes. Playing a Roman woman is more suited to the domestic goddess type who prefers to stay in the villa and recreate authentic dishes. The historical sources indicate that the mainstay of Roman cuisine was a fishy sauce in which they dipped their bread and marinated their meat – salsus vaginus as they called it.

But condiments notwithstanding, the best way to spice-up the Roman scene would be to muster an army of druid impersonators. Those mystical wizards made their last stand on the island on Anglesey, spooking the legionaries with their hideous howling curses. The campaign against them provided valuable lessons to all future conquerors of Britain. In the words of Suetonius Paulinus: “To subdue Britannia one must build roads and temples, encourage commerce and crack down hard on the Welsh.” Wales was and remains the exposed groin of Britain – he who holds it in his grasp has the nation by the vitals.

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