Spiders From Mars

Tears are falling from my left eye as little baby wolf spiders hatch from their mummy's eggs. I'm a sucker for baby animals and now it looks like I'm a sucker for baby arachnids, too.

How can you not love these beautiful creatures? You've got a phobia? I'm sorry. Perhaps you love baby humans? Those horrid ugly, big, bald, crying, scary things which usually grow up to be much better looking? Each to their own.

Snakes scare me. The reptile house is full of beautiful lizards and horrible snakes. A house full of snakes and baby humans would be just too much for me to take.

Thank you, David Attenborough and the life in your underpants. I heart spiders.



And this morning tears are falling down again as I listen once more to Grace by Jeff Buckley. Everybody says Hallelujah is a religious experience, but no, its the least brilliant thing on the album. Not only is it written by cold fish Leonard Cohen, but also whenever I hear it I'm reminded of the version by foghorn leghorn Rufus Wainwright. I spent most of the eighties listening to stuff by singers putting on a voice and I've had enough. Tom Waits doing his drunken tramp. Nick Cave doing his junkie preacher. Elvis Costello's new wave vibrato. If I'd continued in that vein I'd now be listening to Mr Wainwright and wounded polar bear Tony Johnstone of Antony and the Johnsons. Instead of a beautifully natural voice like Jeff's.

Musicians' sons are usually crap musicians. The Lennons, Rolan Bolan, the Marleys. But Jeff was better than his dad. Listen to Lilac Wine or Corpus Christi Carol and try not to cry. And he could kick ass like Kunt Cobblers could kick ass.

He went out with Elizabeth Fraser for a while.

He died young, falling into a fast moving river.

I want to pull him out of the river. Pump his chest till he coughs up the crap that's in there. Lead him to the altar with Elizabeth and ask them to sing their vows. Live happily ever after, not having to sing any more...

...just sit there having a laugh at Thom Yorke.