Herne the Hunter is a rather strange hangover from the Celtic god Cerunnos. Being Celtic he's almost certainly completely made up, probably with the intention of selling some rather cheesy, New-Agey worship CDs.
Even if the Moon Gibbon existed, he'd live, as the name suggests, on the Moon. But he doesn't exist. Some wally overheard us saying "Gibbous Moon" and made a religion out of it.
The Bogeyman is on slightly firmer ground. But again, seems to be some ancient Angle tradition of the earlier Neolithic people whom the Germanic and Celtic tribes drove underground. Probably, ironically, the Beaker Folk.
And Old Black Shuck. Now I know that Young Keith claims he saw one late one night last winter, a six-foot tall dog with glowing eyes. But I think it's more likely he saw a Skoda Fabia.
And there are definitely no ghosts floating around Husborne Crawley. Nobody that I am aware of has died in tragic, suspicious and unforeseen circumstances, apart possibly from mummy and daddy when they had that hay-baling tragedy. And they were too upper-class to do anything as common as roam by night.
Finally, Richard Dawkins is a respected Oxford don with a resemblance to a cheesy left-over curate from Holy Trinity Brompton. He does not lurk at the corner of Crow Lane and School Lane, waiting to eat lost children.
I hope I've cleared this up. Now can we please have some people attending at Howling at the Moon again tonight. I'm fed up leading that ceremony on my own. It's embarrassing and, frankly, it's a bit spooky being out there on my own.
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