secret photo name message

It is the year 2015. In response to the growing number of illegal things, the World Government has outlawed the concept of ownership. Only items licensed to a citizen may be placed in the state-appointed home. Anything else is contraband and will be removed and burnt, resulting in harsh punishment for offenders. Robot “Inventory Sentries” are in constant rotation through the streets, automatically triggering the opening of blinds and turning on of lights to better facilitate the rule of law. Through this modern regime humanity has freed itself of such needless traits such as envy or lust. You may have what you are allocated, and nothing more. Through hard work and servility you may be trusted with more fanciful goods, or even a pet. Only total obedience will earn a chance to be considered for the reproductive program.

And yet despite the world peace and hunger eradication we have fostered, there is an element intent on disruption. A band of ragtag miscreants who would destroy our perfect society if they had their way. Their hair is of an unsatisfactory length. Their music is of an unsatisfactory volume. They insist on using outdated, polluting methods of transport. They even eat meat, for Dawkins’ sake. They live far below us, in dark underground spaces in cities that have been long forgotten since the Great Cleanse. They drift between the lines in the food stations. They evade our Inventory Sentries. They graffiti our noble Standards Office walls with their vile slogans of “Freedom” and “Choice”. They have pets. They have unlicensed intercourse. Sometimes with the pets. They are savages.

So a new strategy is needed to locate, observe and obliterate these vermin once and for all. And so, Ladies and Gentlemen, I give to you Security Project 1: Deep Earth Robot. Or SP1DER. Our highest level scientists have used all their allocated resources to construct this army of tiny multi-legged metallic search and destroy automatons. Using modern heat-vision and ultra-hearing they can detect bands of rebels hidden deep underground. Without needing to report back to base, they can then find their own way to them through cracks in floorboards or down drainage tunnels. Once in place the army of SP1DERS can surround the enemy cabal and launch a co-ordinated attack with both the lazer-eye and acid-teeth technologies we have advanced for this project. I think you will agree this is amazing work, and to help you get a better understanding of exactly how amazing, I’ve brought along one of the prototypes here with me today. But it’s not in my pocket, or my briefcase. Ladies and gentlemen, it has been observing this whole meeting this morning from the corner of the office. No, not that corner, THAT corner. No, there’s no need to be worried, please remain seated. The only functions we have enabled are movement and reconnaisance. We placed it on the ground floor around an hour ago, with instructions to find this meeting and oberve. And there it is, watching everything we’ve done. If we were the unwashed swine in their lower tunnels it’d be preparing a strategy for attack. I think we should all now stand and give a round of applause for the inventor of this, our new weapon to strike at the heart of those who would impose the tyranny of freedom. Here he is, come in Dr. Arachnos.

Dr Arachnos, I thought you’d be taller. Where’s your white coat? And were you really allocated that haircut? Why, you’re not Dr Arachnos at all. You’re, you’re one of THEM! What are those things crawling out of your pocket? No, you can’t have? How could you have reprogrammed them all? Please, no, we’ll give you anything, just don’t let them. No. No. ARGGHHHH.

Scaryness: 4. There’s a fine line between cheesyness and classic, and this one is slightly over to the side of the former. But look beyond that and there’s still a large amount of enjoyment you can get from it, if you’re in the right mood.


hanging around

Hi there, what you guys up to? Me? Oh nothing much, just hanging around. Hey, you’ve not got any flies on you have you? Someone told me I could score some out here, but I’ve been here an hour and the place is dry. I really need some flies, man. Like, really. It’s been a couple of days now and I’m starting to get the shakes. Yeah, I know I should cut down and I will. I will. Hey, don’t you think it’s suddenly much colder? You not cold? I’ve got this furry coat on and I’m freezing. I shouldn’t be out here, man.

You sure you’ve not seen any flies round here? You got any on you? You’ve got some haven’t you? Where are they? You holding out on me? Crash us a fly, go on. go on. go on. go on. Oh ok you’ve not. Fine, don’t be like that, I was only asking.

You know somewhere better for flies? You not into them anymore? What? You used to be all about the flies. You got me onto them back in the day. What you on now then? Moths? yeah, I’ve tried them a few times, bit too wingy for me. Beetles? Wow, that’s hardcore, man. Nah, I’m not touching that stuff. I’ll stick to flies for now thanks. If I can ever find any in this town.

Hey, if this block’s empty, what are you doing here? Just passing through? You know, you guys look kinda suspicious you know. You’re not undercover are you? You know it’s illegal for you to say you’re not undercover if you are actually undercover. You could go to jail. I’m helping you here.You look undercover. No? Well, if you’re not can you beat it. I’ll see you around. I think you’re scaring off the flies out here, looking all undercover and stuff.

Scaryness: 4 Just hanging around. Why you asking? You sure you’re not undercover?

shed 7

Remember when we first met? It was a thursday night and It was raining out. I’d just started to warm up in the corner when you came in with water dripping everywhere. I was with my friends at the time, though I can’t recall their names now. You’d just moved in round the corner somewhere. I kept an eye on you as you found a space amongst the crowd. Wednesday nights were always busy back then, as there wasn’t much else to do. My friends were busy discussing themselves. Several had families already, the others enraptured by their tales. I nodded along, but was only half listening. No Romance sold unto Could so enthrall a Woman as the perusal of Her Individual One. You were shaking your hair dry, making a mess of the carpet before apologising to the landlord. You pretended to have not seen me looking. My friends tried to get me back in the conversation. It wasn’t the done thing back then to be so forward, so I sat there, with my thoughts drifting far ahead between nudges to wake me up. Then further on, out again. I remember even having the thought I’d be here someday. I just knew.

The place gradually emptied when the rain stopped. You didn’t look directly in this direction till a few of my group got up to leave. A brief check to see if you’d misjudged things. Eventually there were just two of us left in this corner, and you and your friend in yours. Still you’d not even met my eye, so my friend stormed over there, grabbed your friend’s hand and marched over to the door. “Let’s leave them to it shall we?” She flourished. We looked at the door slowly closing, then briefly to each other before laughing and gazing down to the floor. Before the doubts in my mind could fully form you walked across and sat opposite me. You introduced yourself and offered a formal shake. I looked up and watched as your hand enclosed mine. Impossibly warm, the room shrank. Every absense subsumed.

I blinked for a second, enraptured.

I opened my eyes and you were gone. Thankyou.

big un

In our post-nuclear wasteland, the only survivors will be the cockroaches. We’re taught this myth from a young age to make us feel insignificant. To make us feel helpless. To make us pliable to the demands of the cockroaches, as if befriending them could somehow ensure their help if we were to find our lucky selves still awake after the mushroom clouds have cleared. The cockroaches will help no-one. The roach lobby lies.

So who will survive the longest in a nuclear winter?

The fat. The slow. The lazy. The alone.

The ones who stay put. The ones with less need. The ones who already have the energy stored in their bodies. They don’t have to go out to battle the looters on the way to the supermarket. They’re not out there burning off calories by trying to source a new, fresh supply of water for their family. The queues of corpses at the petrol station are of people with somewhere to go. The skinny cockroaches get eaten by the bigger cockroaches.

You want to survive? Get fat. Get slow. Spin an inpenetrable web around yourself.

You want to live? That’s another story.


Scaryness: 10. It only looks like a 3 today, but lurking deeper lies a 10.


I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the weather’s been a bit warm recently. You know what that means? No, not that the earth is stuck in a downward spiral of rising sea temperatures which is leading to melting sea ice and unpredictable weather patterns causing both unprecedented amounts of devastating floods in some areas while others scorch to a brittle death. Well, maybe that as well, but no, I meant it must be time for SUMMER HOLIDAYS!

Every child knows what that means. Six weeks of no school. Six weeks of playing outside. Six weeks of doing all the things you wish you could do on a boring tuesday or thursday in wet, cold November. November sucks.

But today is July. Wonderful, beautiful, bright potential stretches out in front of us. Let’s run outside right now, right this second and go kick balls around, spin hoops, rattle fences with sticks and chase stray dogs through puddles. Or whatever children born after Victoria’s reign do nowadays for fun.

That was good wasn’t it? Exciting. Energetic. Hot. Too bloody hot. I’m knackered. No Mum, you can’t force me outside. I’m not going out today. My back tyre’s flat. My ball’s lost in a hedge. My friends all have Cholera. Nope. I’m staying in today. And tomorrow. And the rest of the week. And so are my 31 brothers and sisters.

Oh and by the way, we’re BOOOOOOOORED. Entertain us.


Annoying kids cluttering the place up: 2

Stressed Mum having these lot around all the time: 8


into darkness

I heard this was Partytown. Spider central. The only place to be seen. The buzz got too loud to ignore, I needed to pay attention. I heard you can make things happen.

The lights can only be seen a few metres away, but the stories and the hope had spread for miles. A beacon for all creatures of the night, drawn in by the warmth and opportunity we’d heard about. There’s only so much mud and raindrops a spider can take. The older generations have given up and settled for this. They don’t understand, don’t believe that there could ever be any other way of living but their own. They stay in their holes every night, slowly waiting to die. There has to be more than this. So when rumours spread of a place where you could finally be yourself, without fear of prejudice or contempt, it gave hope to so many of us.

We made friends along the way. It seems the news had spread far and wide among many different communities. Some had had jumped at the chance to try and find somewhere that accepts them. Others didn’t really believe this place could exist till they were thrown out, disowned and forced to fend for themselves. Together we laughed and drank and ate flies as we made our way in the direction of this myth we only half believed in. Even if we’d never find the place we were looking for, we’d finally found ourselves.

Across an annoyingly long stretch of wet gravel we finally saw it. The lights. The windows thick with cobwebs; some fresh, some not so. This had to be the place. There was no queue, which was a surprise, but perhaps the mythical status had dissuaded many from even attempting the pilgrimage. We crept inside, unsure what to expect. There was no grand welcome, but there was also no-one ushering us out either. There was no-one shouting at us for being different. for being weird. for being ourselves. We’d found home.

It didn’t take long to work out how things worked, and those already here helped make us feel welcome. We learned what was true and what was just hearsay. There were a few rules to abide by, but they applied to everyone regardless of their background. The penalties were frequently harsh, but were only given to those who tried to push the boundaries too far, too often. There was plenty of space for everyone, though the hallway outside the bathroom frequently seemed far too crowded. Everyone was extremely friendly, and many of us found love, or something like it, amongst the dust and woodworm. Which were delicious.

As fabulous as all this was, the stories of fame and glamour kept resurfacing. Was any of that true? It took a while to get it out of them,  but a couple of the old eight-hands eventually told us about the early days. Apparently the guy who ran this place originally opened it to be some sort of example to the rest of society. Although he wasn’t one of us, he wanted to show the rest of the world that we were fine, normal, nothing to get so worked up about. Back then a few of us had indeed become famous, to an extent, and had admirers all round the world. That’s what we’d all dreamed of, and for a while it was all working beautifully. Then the novelty wore off. People weren’t interested any more. Just being a spider wasn’t enough of a freakshow for them. They wanted more. They wanted dancing spiders, jumping spiders, giant pumped up spiders on sterroids. They wanted spiders who could shock. Normal spiders who just wanted a bit of fun weren’t in vogue anymore. Normal spiders were boring. They were disgusting. They were unnatural. They were fine to stamp on, spit on, throw out the door again.

So the owner slowed, and stopped his attempts to spread our message to the world. The world listened, and shrugged, and wrote us off as scum. But he kept this place open and running ever since. Somewhere for us to exist without the fear and hatred we’d all felt out there.  Somewhere for others to dream about. Somewhere where a spider can be a spider and not have to apologise. So we’d come out of the dark, into the light. Though, you know, us being spiders, sometimes the dark has it’s advantages too. So that’s where I’m off right now, if its OK with you. Thanks. See you around.

Scaryness: 1. Outside is scary. Here I can be myself.




Hello, Good Evening, and Welcome.
Tonight we shall be taking a look, with the help of this picture, through the home of a famous arachnid. All you have to do is watch, and tell us who that is.

So let’s join our Freakishly-Accented Narrator in web number one. So watch closely, because remember, the clues are there, as we go through, the webhole…


Whelll this is everyone’s idea of a fine countryside retreat, isn’t it? The building work is clearly inspired and defined by the natural architecture of the rural surroundings. The material used here is interesting as although the structure is strong and rugged, the interior feels as soft and snug as newly butchered seal puppy fur. Clearly this mixture of practicality and comfort is important to the owner. The uniqueness of this creation all come from one mind, as our occupant claims to have thought of, designed and built it all themselves. Maybe they have a large extended family, as many hands make light work.

As we cross the threshold the eye is immediately drawn to the amazing decor. Clearly not one for pandering to popular fads or style gurus, our owner has strewn their past, future and present meals around every available wallspace. If we delve deeper we can see they must be a fan of all things insect, because who else would keep the dried out carcasses of dead flies on their living room mantelpiece?

As we follow the mesmerising spiral down into the belly of this beastly abode we brush past the discarded leaves and seedheads the wind has brought in through the open door. This owner doesn’t appear to be one for keeping a dustpan and brush nearby. In fact a look round the kitchen cupboards and I can’t find a single household cleaning product. Maybe their traditional roots mean they just make do with spit and polish here.

Finally we shall retire to the garden, which as you can see is both enormous and neglected. The lawn here clearly hasn’t been cut in weeks, and the nettles appear to have been left to thrive in any place of their choosing. But look slightly closer and you can see that under the anarchy here there is order. There are small paths, well trodden, which run amongst the haphazard borders. Our owner may be no Capability Brown, but don’t be fooled by the lack of finesse as there is evidently a mind of high renown at work here.

So, let’s look at the clues. Many hands make light work. The spit and polish in the kitchen. The carcasses of dead flies on the mantelpiece. Who lives in a web like this? Meta-Presenter, it’s over to you.


Well thankyou very much indeed Freakishy-Accented Narrator, and now for our home and studio audience, though not for our panel, here’s. Whose house. It is.



Scaryness: 7. Everyone claps and nods their heads, even though they’ve never heard of them.







Death is everywhere, there are flies on the windscreen, for a start, reminding us we could be torn apart

Thoughtful words there from one of Britain’s foremost thinkers, Martin Gore. Strangely though, Gore didn’t contemplate collecting those flies and wrapping them in silk to keep for a lovely snack later that evening. Instead he and his Depeche Mode bandmates dressed up in leather bondage gear and spent the rest of the nineteen eighties in a whirl of sex, drugs, US stadium tours and record signings in Our Price on Basildon High Street. Never mind lads, all the more flies for me.

But going back to the point, I got up this morning and fought my way through the usual new-build webs which have appeared across my doorways overnight. Into the kitchen, I stuck some toast in the toaster. How come I only ever eat actual breakfast at weekends? With my bread beginning to singe I re-assessed my lifestyle choices while absent mindedly looking for a butter knife. Unsurprisingly I didn’t have a clean one, but there’s probably one still in the cold washing up water from last night. OK, from last week. Over to the sink, my hand began it’s swoop down to the bowl. Just before my fingers touch the water I looked down. Yeeuuughheeewuughhhrrr.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve seen plenty of corpses before. Limbs removed, organs torn and smeared across blooded surfaces. I’ve seen parents randomly murdered in front of their children. Children taken from their families on thrown from a great height. I’ve seen mass killings as entire areas are “cleansed” of their inhabitants just because their neighbours didn’t like them. I’ve seen death. I’ve seen it, because I had become it. But this morning’s corpse was not my doing. When I cull, I cull quickly. A quick swat and splat and it’s done. There should be no pain, no anguish, no wondering why. But to drown? to feel your body filling up and know you have no diaphragm to help cough the water out of your basic lung system? Scratching and clawing at the smooth plastic walls in a final attempt to crawl out of your own grave. At what point do you give up and sink to the bottom? How long is it till your panic, your desperation, your agony, your hope is gone? That’s just cruel.

I solemnly emptied the water from the bowl, encased the poor spider in some kitchen roll and gave it a proper burial. In the bin. Rest well, little one. If I see your family, I’ll inform them of what’s become of you. If one of them then wanders anywhere near my head though, I’ll squash the bastard.

Scaryness: 9. Death is everywhere, the more I look, the more I see, the more I feel a sense of urgency


Round Two.

Last year we discovered that lanky spiders will stand their ground against a smaller, stockier challenger. Previously on this battleground a long leg was flicked in the general direction of the approaching threat and that was enough to make them turn and scarper. This time it was more brutal.

The smaller, fatter spider, lets call him Eddie, had been living peacefully where wall joins ceiling for a week or so. Every now and then he would pop out for a bite to eat, maybe have a look out the window, then go back home. Then one afternoon after a nice trip down to the carpet it started a climb up to have a nice rest, but could see something wasn’t quite right. Sometimes if you’re walking towards your car across a large carpark you squint slightly, just to check your car is ok. Are those windows smashed? Does that tyre look flat from here? Is that a much taller, thinner, slightly geeky looking spider in my seat? As Eddie got nearer the ceiling he slowed down and stopped. His beloved space had been taken. He couldn’t believe it. Looking down, unconcerned, was one of the long, thin, sleek wallcreepers who have taken over my house recently. Lets call this one Syd. Syd was too busy making small web adjustments to take much notice of Eddie approaching from below. Every now and then the legs stopped moving and he leant down to see what this annoyance wanted. But Eddie was still. Thinking. What did he want? That was his house. His wall. His ceiling. Remnants of his web were still visible. He couldn’t just walk away and leave this again, could he? He’d been kicked around the ceiling from corner to corner already this year. Now he had a home, was he going to give it all up once more because a lanky git had moved in? Was he heck as like! (That means no, dear overseas readers.)

So Eddie started his final ascent towards Syd. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his heart. He could sense some sweat dripping from his forehead and started to shake at the thought of this confrontation. He stopped to wonder why he was the first spider in history to have these physical reactions, and the mental capacity to think about them. But then onwards and upwards, towards this homestealing beanpole. Syd readjusted his body and looked down towards this sweaty rotund annoyance. Who does he think he is, barging into other peoples webs like that? Eddie just about opened his fangs to ask if Syd would be so nice as to kindly vacate the premises when a foot swished in nowhere and smacked him in the face. Syd extended his leg with a slow flourish after it had made contact, and like a proud batsman he watched his shot as it rushed to the boundary. Eddie woke up on his back, legs curled up to his chest on the edge of a pile of CDs on the floor. This was not his home. This place would never be his home. Home means not having to look over your shoulder every second of the day. He couldn’t stay here. He slowly turned his aching body over and crawled into the dark corner behind the bookcase. A home could be taken from him. His death would be his, forever.  I never saw him again.


Eddie, 2. I liked Eddie. He was a cheeky little fellow, with his chubbyness and funny outfits.

Syd, 8. Not much to look at, but doesn’t think twice before kicking you in the throat.


midnight hour

From the wall the route is clear. Straight lines. Down. Across. Up. Keep to the right and there’ll be no trace but the line you’ve stretched across. Use that to get back quicker if you need to, though you shouldn’t be detected. These operations are rarely planned to precision, they unfold naturally and are adaptable depending on the nature of the terrain. Always have an eye on each available corner and each possible entrance. Keep away from the light and the space. You need to think between your feet. When the door is shut and the bulbs are cool, we begin.

The world does not end with the dawning of each night, or the ending of your time. Your eyes do not cause our existence.

Your philosophies do not define us.

Your hatred does not kill us.

Your structures do not hold us.

Your world does not concern us.

We will always be here, somewhere.

You will not.


Scaryness: Irrelevant.