PAGANS
Daily Telegraph - March 2007

This Sunday, for those of you who forgot to pencil it into your diaries, is the 10th annual Pagan Awareness Network Twilight Picnic and Full Moon Ritual.

This is good news for at least a couple of reasons. Firstly, it means I now know not to go anywhere near Seven Hills train station that evening in case I bump into a bunch of aromatherapists with wands. Secondly, it offers the perfect opportunity for me to write a column wreaking revenge on my pagan neighbours who once hung a wind chime made of animal bones on the fence and keep double-parking in the turning circle at the bottom of the street.

I really can't abide anyone who claims to be a pagan. This goes double for “witches”, “wiccans” or anyone who spells “magic” with a “k”. Mostly this is because I grew up in Canberra which, along with public servants and lesbians, has a disproportionately high number of smug hippies who seem to regard recycling as an act of religious piety (come to think of it, the three things frequently overlap).

Pagans infested my university, were constantly pulling out ouija boards at parties and could often be found in the bush near my home, dripping candle wax on one another and swapping Tori Amos albums.

If you've ever seen someone with a “Magick Happens” bumper sticker and wished you had the power to make them disappear, permanently, then you have some idea where I'm coming from.

Since that time I have come to the conclusion that pagans are evil -- not because they get in touch with the devil or warp the minds of the young or are responsible for more bad heavy metal art than anyone else, but because they have such appalling taste.

I mean, sure, get in touch with the Great Spirit, run through the woods and kill a goat. But do you have to do it while wearing crushed velvet harem pants, Robin Hood shoes, pentagram jewellery and a purple satin cape?

If any further proof were needed that paganism should be banned on aesthetic grounds alone then look no further than the celebrity pagan Fiona Horne. When not reliving the glory days of Def FX or selling spells enabling women to find a husband, Horne is updating her website with pouty, Vaseline-smeared photos of herself decked out in animal print dresses, purple nail polish, matching lipstick and Celtic arm band tattoos.

Clearly there is no spell for helping you better cope with the fact that it's no longer the early 1990s.

Pagans seem to be everywhere these days. Head to any weekend market and I guarantee there'll be someone under a tie-dye marquee playing whale songs and claiming the Great Spirit of Nature can be harnessed with only lavender candles and a lump of quartz.

It's on days like these I wonder how the term “witch hunt” ever got a bad name.

© Brendan Shanahan 2008