cradles of filth

Like W.C. Fields, I prefer my children fried. And, in spite of me banging on about selective breeding, or better still – mandatory sterilisation – for the last few years, it appears that the rest of the world is quite content to keep spraying out babies like peanuts from a fully-automatic popgun. In fact, at least 3 people I admire and respect greatly became fathers in the last week or so, but I'm trying not to hold it against them.

Dave Grohl and Jordyn Blum's sprog-rocker made her debut appearance last Saturday, according to a notice on the Foo frontman's website. I can say with some authority that a drum kit is not a good present for anyone under the age of 27, but I think we should all club together and buy one for little Violet Maye anyway. I've been wanting to do that ever since a relative bought my brother a plastic lawnmower ("with realistic sounds!") when he was three.

After a long and difficult labour, Frank Black finally squeezed out a Hum-Vee named Lucy on Thursday morning. At least, that's what I think he's been carrying around his middle for the last couple of years. For god's sake, Charles – people are starving to death in Africa! And please, stop releasing live DVDs!

Finally, François Naudé, a man with no connection to the music industry save a shock of Bolan-esque hair, and who deserves a round of applause for snagging a beautiful wife anyway, welcomed Zoë Olivia to the household on Friday afternoon. I'm uncharacteristically pleased for Fran and Carmel – two of the nicest and most talented people I know. Heck, I'm even a little excited. I'm sure it will pass.