We’ve been through a lot together folks, so I’m offering you a warning: this case contains really scary-ass photos, abnormally terrifying situations and I also spoil the novel 1984. I’ve previously spoiled the ends of Seven, The Usual Suspects, Fight Club and Das Boot for my mate Matt, so I’m just letting you know.
I don’t like spiders. In fact, I’m very scared of them. Even more scared than I am of cryptids. My Room 101 would have spiders and cryptids in it (not just friggin’ rats – what an anti-climax that was). That was the 1984 spoiler by the way: rats.
So just imagine my terror when I found out there is a giant-spider-cryptid. Just my bloody luck! Happily, it’s miles away in the Congo basin. Unhappily I’m gonna have to go give it eight black eyes.
J’ba fofi is what the Baka folk of the Congo call the Giant Congolese Spider, which can grow to have a six foot leg-span. Recent sightings describe it with only four legs, a hairy back and a tail. It’s likely that the giant spider imitates dogs to get near its prey. This would also explain the woofing.
The below image is a stirring representation of what a six foot spider may look like. John F Kennedy, most famous for being exactly six foot tall, stands as a human comparison. Christ, what am I thinking? Look at it, I’m going to die! The spider is on the left.
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| I'm going to batter one of these. |
Fact is spiders are mental. I once caught one in my living room. It crashed out of a shoe and made for my chip supper that I’d placed on the ground as I turned the telly on. I was having none of it and quickly downed my beer and trapped it under the glass.
I know what you’re thinking: ‘what a snob drinking beer out of a glass’. Well you’re wrong, it’s not posh because rats wee on the beer cans in store rooms and you get Weil’s disease, so back off. Maybe Winston wasn't so wrong about rats (again 1984).
As I ate my tea, my eyes wandered down to the glass, and there it was staring back at me. Now, you know I don’t like being stared at, especially by some beady dick wanting my chips. It was putting me off Takeshi’s Castle, so I removed it to the kitchen.
I went back in later and there was the maniac with only three legs left! It had actually ripped five of its own legs off. It was that pissed off at me. Well I’m not one to allow such cruelty so I did the humane thing and lobbed it out the window. I swear it hissed ‘death’ at me as it went.
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| Perfect spider trapping equipment - a rude postcard & a glass. |
Well, that was just a British house spider. Imagine what a big bastard spider six foot across could do? If it had come out of my shoe, it would’ve gotten my chips no questions asked, though not the haddock – it’s over a fiver from the chipper. Bloody ridiculous.
I asked about in the library for advice about how to track down this cryptid and received sod all help except Auld Jim telling me to put salt on it. Slugs, man, slugs! I also got an abomination in the post. My ‘friend’ who sent it meant well, apparently thinking it’d be good for training purposes. I’m not sure they’re ‘technically mental’, but I still wouldn’t let them near my cutlery drawer unattended.
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| 'Spunky': A lovely gift, but seriously, what the hell is going on here? |
I spoke to a guy in Edinburgh zoo about tracking down and punching a giant spider. He laughed at first, but then got that I was serious. Basically, he asked me not to try and hurt what was probably a highly-endangered species. He wanted photos, or a bit of web at most. I told him I’d bring him the spider’s ass in a bap, and he asked me to leave the zoo.
As I was escorted out, I asked him for any anti-spider advice. He told me to grow up. Ha! That’s exactly what I’m doing. Every cryptid that gets a hiding is one less lurking baddie to put the willies up the subsequent generations. That zookeeper doesn’t know that one day I intend to sleep without a rolling pin under my pillow.
Out in the car park, a hooded figure approached me. I wasn’t in the mood for being mugged, as I couldn’t even find my car, but the figure just walked swiftly up to me and shoved a note into my hand, then turned and ran away. I recognised the socks and sandals: it was the hostile zookeeper!
I opened the note and it read: ‘Joseph K, Democratic Republic of Congo, +243 1### ###’ (phone number obscured for security purposes). Brilliant! I made the call. Within the hour I was on a flight to Kinshasa! I didn’t have my vaccinations so I popped a berocca and two aspirins.
What a lovely chap Joseph K was! He sent a car to the airport and had me taken out to his home in the country. There was a coke dispenser in the back of the car, and when I put in a Congolese franc, it gave me two back! And then spat out an Irn Bru!
I was living the high life, but this was serious business. Joseph K’s home had been under constant attack by giant spiders. He said they rattled his windows, messed up his lawn and stole his charcoal.
I got to Joseph’s estate, and it was incredible! I met the man himself round the back of his bad-ass castle, as he sat in one of his three hot tubs. I’ve no idea why you’d have three, and not one big one. I mean they were just stacked up next to each other. I didn’t get to ask. He took one look at me and his smile fell.
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| Joseph K's hot tubs: I really wanted a shottie, but couldn't find a hose. YetiSmack 2011. |
He squeezed my arm, and asked what military organisations I had been involved with. I mentioned the scouts, which was a lie as I’d only been a beaver. Wrong move. He stormed off, with his driver and guards in tow.
Unsure of what to do, I decided to be professional and pitched my tent, found a big stick and had a wander around the grounds hoping to find these spiders that were bugging him. After all, I was in Africa, and I still had a job to do.
Christ, Africa’s really muggy. I had a few beers to keep cool…
I woke up to carnage. I have no idea what happened. The local beer and the heat must’ve done something to me. Or maybe it was mixing aspirins and beroccas. My tent was a state, there were bottles and cans all over Joseph’s nice lawn and one of his bloody hot-tubs had been ripped up and was sitting incriminatingly near my tent.
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| The Aftermath: I feel pretty bad about this. Joseph K's rubber duck was never found. YetiSmack 2011. |
I have no idea where the big inflatable cock came from.
This was now an international incident. The spiders went out the window. I’m not proud to say it but I ran away. I grabbed my tent and scarpered. Tail firmly between my legs, I made for home.
I know that you’re thinking: ‘Another piss poor effort from YetiSmack what a knobber he never even found a giant spider in that one.’ Well you’re wrong, your grammar’s terrible and you’re the knobber if anyone is.
Just as I got home from my adventure, my phone went… it was Joseph K thanking me for solving his giant spider problem. They’d not been back since my shenanigans in the garden. He then sent me an astonishing photo he’d taken in his grounds. We're assuming it's aimed at me.
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| Cheeky bastards. Joseph K 2011. |
What the hell happened? Did I actually find a giant spider, gave it a doing, and they all ran off? Did I party so hard that they were put off and left the area? Had they been attracted to the hot tubs, and saw my destruction of their habitat?
Whilst putting this together, I noticed something amazing. Look back at the photo of Joseph’s three hot-tubs… What’s that poking out from the side of the far left one? Yep, it definitely might be a giant spider’s leg. On camera! Incontestable proof!
This case has been a wild success. I made great new friends in a country in which I am mostly still welcome, had an awesome rammy near a bitching castle and may have punched a giant spider in the chops. Whatever I did, I definitely pissed them off.
I faced two fears and came out drunk and violent. I am very proud of myself.
