Gavin Williamson has confirmed that his pet tarantula, Cronus, is dead. The eight-legged arachnid achieved more Westminster notoriety in its lifetime than most backbenchers manage in a career, which tells you everything about modern politics and nothing good.
Williamson’s statement on the creature’s passing was delivered with the gravitas typically reserved for fallen soldiers. Cronus was, he explained, his “trusty companion” and “best mate.” This is the same man who served as Defence Secretary, then Education Secretary, then Security Minister, positions that apparently ranked below spider husbandry on his list of meaningful relationships.
The tarantula became famous—genuinely famous, not Westminster-famous—after reports emerged that Williamson kept the animal on his desk while making decisions affecting millions of children during the pandemic. While schools closed, exam boards panicked, and parents lost their minds, Cronus sat there in whatever passes for comfort in an arachnid’s existence, probably eating crickets and judging the chaos with eight eyes.
Williamson’s grief is real, presumably. People do love their pets. But the specific texture of this mourning—public, performative, rendered in the language of political loyalty—captures something rotten about how power operates when nobody’s watching the actual levers anymore. An MP weeping for a tarantula while his parliamentary colleagues slide past each other in the corridors is not tragedy. It’s documentary evidence.
The internet, naturally, had thoughts. Memes emerged within hours. Cronus became a symbol of everything wrong with British politics: a creature more beloved by its owner than his constituents, more trusted than his colleagues, more reliable than his judgment. One viral post simply read: “At least Cronus never backstabbed anyone.” The replies were merciless.
What’s genuinely surreal is that this is not the weirdest thing Williamson has done. He once threatened to “take out” a journalist. He sent a threatening WhatsApp to a colleague during a crisis. He resigned from multiple cabinet positions under clouds of scandal. Yet here he is, eulogizing a spider with more sincerity than he’s ever shown toward any policy outcome, and somehow it lands as the most honest thing he’s said in years.
Cronus has been cremated. Williamson did not specify whether there will be a memorial service, though at this point Westminster should probably just dedicate a room. The tarantula lasted longer in public life than most government initiatives and generated considerably more loyalty. In death, Cronus has achieved what Williamson never could: universal agreement that he was, at least, harmless.
The real question is whether this marks the moment when Williamson finally pivots to something he’s genuinely qualified for—professional pet mourning, perhaps, or motivational speaking to arachnids. Either way, Cronus’s legacy is secure. He was loved more than democracy, trusted more than institutions, and mourned more sincerely than any policy failure in living memory.