False Widow Spiders Want To Kill Me!
It’s been a while since you had anything spidery from me, so let’s address it.
Over the last few years, whilst our newspapers were filled with horror stories about Deadly False Widow spiders invading the UK, I’ve been spotting them all over my house.
When mowing my lawn, I had a very suspicious bite on my arm, that looked very spidery, and itched for months, with the spread of the poison being visible over about half of my arm.
I’d seen a few small False Widows around the place, and figured they’re a bit runty compared to the House Spiders tromping around the place, so wasn’t too worried. Yeah, they’re poisonous, but I didn’t die, and the press greatly exaggerate this kind of panic-inducing stuff.
Around 6 months ago I discovered a filthy great False Widow living in my garage.
I call him Nelson Mandela.
What the pictures don’t show, is that he is HUGE for one of these spiders! They’re not actually supposed to grow this big – but Nelson Mandela wouldn’t fit on a £2 coin in his normal squat.
This sucker must have a Hell of a bite!
I don’t know if it was Nelson Mandela that bit me before, but he must be a good few years old, and has happily claimed that half of my garage.
And look how close he is to the light switch!
You don’t want to poke him in the eye whilst fumbling around in the dark for the switch!
There was also Maggie Thatcher, who lived in our kitchen for a while. She was less than a 10th the size of Nelson Mandela, but you could still clearly see the markings. Sadly, she seems to have been obliterated by my fiancee, who “will not have a Tory living in our house!”
After telling how I’d seen several others in our porch, I was warned that I should probably kill them, as finding one in my bike kit might not be a great experience… I was kind-of hoping they’d eat some of the -ing people who keep leaving charity clothes selection bags in there!
So, there I was this morning, backing my bike out the garage (kept well away from Nelson Mandela), when I caught a movement out the corner of my eye.
I moved my head to look, but the movement was still in the corner of my eye. Hanging off the side of my open visor!
“NNnghh!!” I said bravely, throwing an inside right hook, just like I learned from watching “The Fighter”. Mark Wahlberg hadn’t been balancing a motorbike at any point of that film, however, so never had to deal with 200kg of Kawasaki falling sideways on top of him.
The swinging False Widow – let’s call this one ‘Pol Pot’ – calmly held on as his path described a nice short arc in the morning air, swinging back in at eyeball level, fangs glinting in the sun.
I quickly flipped my visor down, severing any chances Pol Pot had of clambering up to fang my iris.
And all the while Nelson Mandela was sat in the far corner of the garage, bouncing in his web from what must have been a gust of wind, but may have been from his spidery chuckling.
I sense the war of terror has begun…
After writing this blog on my lunch break, I got home and discovered another large False Widow sat in my porch. This one is called ‘Rasputin’, and must be catching some serious sun as he’s very dark-skinned. Pray for me, people!