Like a lot of neo-paganised "Celtic wheel" stuff, it's pretty easy to find information on what Lughnasadh (Feb 1 in Southern Hemisphere) might means to a self-proclaimed 'Druid', whose real name is Harry, and who hails from Milton Keynes. But it's more difficult to find out how it was celebrated back in the days when folks may have known who the deity 'Lugh Lámhfhada' actually was, and what he did. 

I decided to ask general Google AI a pointed question about what the deity Lugh would do if he met someone pretending to be a fucking 'Druid' in 2026. Here's how the conversation went down. 

Question 1: Is Lugh unusual among Irish deities in having founded a festival? 

Summarised and paraphrasded Answer: yes. Lugh is mentioned in the Book of Invasions as having founded a festival in honour of his mother Tailtiu, after she dies of exhaustion helping to clear Ireland of trees. No other Irish deity founded a major festival. To Lugh's credit he didn't call it MY FESTIVAL, he called it the Óenach Tailten, the games to honour his dead mother. Later on people called it Lugh's Assembly. 

Question: What would Lugh do if he came back to life in 2026 and found neo-pagans pretending to celebrate his festival without knowing who his mother was? 

(The answer AI gave is so good I almost couldn't believe it:)

Based on his mythological characterization as a master of all arts, a stickler for proper skill, and his fierce dedication to his family—specifically the honor owed to his foster-mother, Tailtiu—Lugh would likely react with a combination of haughty arrogance, critical correction, and a swift, dramatic, and likely humorous, rectification of their ignorance.

Here is what Lugh might do if he found neo-pagans in 2026 neglecting the memory of his mother:

1. Disrupt the Ceremony with Divine Intervention
Lugh is a "Samildánach" (skilled in all arts) and a master of magic. He would not quietly stand in the background.

• A Grand Entrance: He would likely appear in a burst of light (as he did at Tara, mistaken for the sun rising in the west).
• Challenge their "Skills": He would treat the gathering like the gatekeeper of Tara, challenging them to prove they know the "skills" (history/lore) needed to honor him.

2. Force-Feed Them the Truth about Tailtiu
Lugh is famously associated with the harvest festival of Lughnasadh, which he instituted specifically to honor his foster-mother, Tailtiu, who died from over-exertion while clearing the plains of Ireland for agriculture.

• Demand Memory of the Foster-Mother: He would be furious that the "mother" of the festival is ignored. He would demand they recognize Tailtiu as the foundational sacrifice of the harvest.
• Correct the Narrative: He would correct any misunderstanding that this is just a party for him, emphasizing that it is a funerary feast for the Queen of the Fir Bolg.

3. Subject them to a "Trial by Truth"
As a god of oaths and law, and owner of the sword Fragarach (The Answerer), which forces truth-telling, he might make them confess their lack of knowledge.

• Test Their Knowledge: He would ask them to tell the story of Ethniu (his birth mother) and Tailtiu (his foster mother).
• Disdain for Shallow Practice: Given his high standards, he would likely deem a superficial, "easy" modern celebration unworthy of the "long-armed" warrior.

4. Teach Them How to Properly Celebrate

• Athletic Competitions: He would likely stop the meditation and demand horse racing, weapon displays, or a flagstone-throwing contest, as he first instituted.
• Demand Proper Offerings: He would likely demand they make offerings to Tailtiu, or perhaps require them to engage in manual labor or creative craftsmanship, not just commercial, pre-packaged rituals.

In short: Lugh would not be amused. He would take the role of a harsh, demanding teacher, turning a 2026 festival into a rigorous, intense, and historically accurate, but likely very entertaining, wake for his foster-mother, Tailtiu.​

That all sounds amazing. I really wish he would come and do that. 

Happy Lughnasadh. 

Some time ago, I just submitted something to the New Yorker for the first time. Despite the glamorously low success rate for first-time authors, hopes are high.

Here is a short selection from my short fiction piece, Bloody Gerald....

Airport is male. He has legs below the terminals, the tubular type with plastic-knob shoes, but you can’t imagine his arms. The windows of the arrival hall are his eyes, the automatic doors into the departure hall his mouth. He wears an apron made of planes. The control tower and hangar are not part of his body, so whenever he goes anywhere, they are left waiting on the tarmac.

Airport awoke as Intercom crackled: ‘Control Tower Ralph To Airport, Do You Copy Over!’

A plane, again? Airport did not feel like answering. He had been dreaming of an executive lounge where they served drinks with special straws named after famous actors. He wanted to go on a Holiday and see the actors in the films they played on the long-haul flights. Ah, to live a life of leisure like the lucky elite, instead of being a regional Airport with concrete hair. That would be grand.

I've so far had one failed attempt to publish my Port Adelaide urban folklore book, the Panther of Divett Street, and I am tempted to self-publish it, or possibly reformat the book and try again with a regular publisher. Still scratching my head about that one.

In the meantime, a few mates have had a go at a cover, using AI. My prompt was "An old fashioned policeman holding a baton chasing a panther with a chicken in its mouth." Results are hilariously bad. Thanks to Richard, Chris and Eva for playing along.

A Life in the Book of Monsters is available now through Amazon.

While remaining dedicated nonsense, it also hints at the story of Arthur Hindside, a failing romantic poet of the mid-19th century, who goes insane after a trip to France to rescue a lost manuscript, then becomes a supernatural journalist, tries to contact the Holy Spirit during a seance, and then finally escapes London to teach at  Scottish Grammar School, only to go missing for seven years after sleeping on a hilltop on St John's Eve.

Sheesh...I never did hear back from the New Yorker (!), or any other place I wrote to, but I happen to think this is a fine piece of nonsense / satire, so I am including it in full this time. Click to read the whole thing...