Arts and crafts: tidbits from Manchester

In a gallery hangs a large landscape painting depicting the Gods and Goddesses of the classical world
I included this photo to show that the gallery still makes plenty of room for the “old masters” — but, to be honest with you, it sums up everything i dislike about some renaissance and baroque art. Just a huddled mass of mythological figures, with no life, no colour, no attention paid to the greater picture. Sad!

Manchester is not particularly renowned as a home for the aristocracy or patrons of the high arts, so i was pleased to discover upon a visit that the Manchester Art Gallery is one of the finest of its kind.

The Mag (as nobody calls it)’s success lies not in the size of its collection — it’s no larger than my local, the Laing — but in its presentation. Like many museums, its curators have lately been making efforts to diversify their collections and make them more relatable to the average yoof of today. It’s a process that can often come off as haphazard and rushed1, but the team at the Mag have pulled it off with care and respect.

A painting of a black woman covered in coal laying on a cloth-covered black table, as if deceased
Berni Searle, In Wake Of, 2014.

Newer works are dotted in each gallery in such a way that they complement, rather than denigrate, the greats of old. A visa rejection letter from a group of Pakistani artists hangs alongside Victorian paintings of eastern caravans; where a gallery about protest and revolution could have added some shrewd, vapid letterpress and called it a day, the museum’s curators have instead chosen to incorporate a thoughtful self-portrait by a South African painter, made in the wake of the Marikana massacre.2

A portrait of a dashingly handsome Shakespearean actor

The captions accompanying each artwork face a similarly complicated task. Be too conservative and you’ll disappear up your own arse into a world of romanticist masturbation; be too reactionary and you’ll come off as cloyingly didactic, engaging in pseudohistoric iconoclasm for iconoclasm’s sake. The Mag hit a stroke of genius here: after a brief description in the typical style, the captions adorning prominent works also include conversations and thoughts from a variety of perspectives, be it historians, curators, or the artists themselves. It’s a brilliant way to further inform the visitor without beating them over the head with one opinion, alienating them with arcane academese, or leaving out unsavoury histories.

A lit up colourful glass tapestry marked with traditional Ghanaian patterns
Someone, please, tell me what this painting is called. I have to know.

Other highlights on the lower floors include a portrait of the early black tragedian Ira Aldridge (the very first work in the museum’s collection, which rather surprised me coming from the people of 1858), a Ghanaian tapestry that i was surprised to learn was actually made of glass, and a lovely painting of an industrial scene lit by hazy fog whose name — to current me’s infuriation — i neglected to include in the photo, taken from an angle so inconvenient that reverse image search returns nothing of relevance. Past me is a bastard and i’m killing him when i get the chance.

Upstairs sit the gallery’s temporary exhibitions. The most prominently advertised was on the topic of the history of men’s fashion, something i regrettably could not get myself to muster up any interest in. I’m sure it’s quite interesting if that’s your sort of thing. The other (smaller) exhibition sits in a surprisingly grand hall which, from what i can tell, normally houses the museum’s pottery galleries, and it’s about tea. No wait come back i sw—

An all-black, marbled tea set

I jest, but there really is some fascinating stuff in there. The room’s cabinets are packed with advertisements, old jugs, and all sorts of other things detailing how hot drinks have shaped Britain and the world over the years — from sparking conversation to funding colonisation. But there was one thing that stuck out to me the most. A newly-created work of art, perhaps meant to inspire some thought or another in the viewer, but that our whole group agreed could only be described as one thing:

A collection of tea stoppers, hung on ropes in such a way that they really quite resemble a dreamcatcher made of buttplugs
Buttplug dreamcatcher.

PS: I had to ask what the abbreviation “dbl” (“double”) on the signs for upcoming trams meant. My poor exurban soul simply could not comprehend the idea of a transit system that consistently ran so punctually — i had been thinking it stood for something like “delayed by late”.


PPS: This was meant to be the last post in the series, but my rambling about the gallery got so out of hand that i thought i’d spin off its intended complement into its own part. Tune in next week3 for one last dispatch from Affleck’s Palace.

The Saturnine Rites of the Cult of Phanes

Time travel is often thought of as a scientific affair, with precisely-calibrated equipment, sleek uniforms, and incomprehensible jargon. As any physicist can tell you, this is bullshit. It’s nonsense. It’s impossible. It’s a complete violation of the laws of physics.

…There’s a word for that, you know. It’s called magic.

The Saturnine Rites of the Cult of Phanes

The cult

Long ago, before the people of Greece knew alpha from omega, a priestly faun received a revelation. That faun’s name has been lost to time, but the cult he started, kicked out from his tribe for such incredible heresy, continued to grow in number well through the centuries, initiating hundreds into its mysteries — the mysteries of chronomancy.

The satyrs’ creed is simple: the Cultists of Phanes are to bring Bacchic joy and ecstasy to the people of the future, for our numbers are far greater than theirs, and they are to spread the word of peace and love. Many thousands of lives have been touched by them, and most will never even know it.

The physics of time travel

There is much disagreement even within the cult on the precise mechanics of chronomancy, but among its astrologers, a rough consensus had developed (prior to the return of Libanomene) on its approximate physics.

As Bill and Ted would put it, the clock is always running in San Dimas Delphi. The universe seems to have an unchanging “present”: while the future is fluid and can be changed as one likes, the past is set in stone, unchanging and unrachable.

The Saturnine Rites, as they are called, use magic to set a stable “anchor” from which our brave congregants are launched into the future. Once an anchor is set up, it takes far less effort for a chronomancer to return to whence they started; they need only perform a simple solo ritual with the materials strapped to their belt.

The rite

A solo traveller can accomplish hops of a few years by themself with a small stone circle and enough prayer, but serious business requires a serious ritual. The Great Saturnine Rite is the cult’s time-tested method of flinging their members up to a thousand olympiads into the future and bringing them back safely. It goes, roughly, as follows.

1. A circle of gypsum chalk — any material will do in a pinch, the closer to its natural form the better — is drawn on the ground in the form of a sigil, based by cult chronastrologers on the precise position of the stars and planets at any given time. (It often represents a date a precise amount of years in the future; this is not a physical limitation, merely something the cult likes to do to reduce the star-speyers’ workload.)

2. The ritual space is fumigated with lavender, rosemary, and cannabis, first introduced to the fauns by an uptime dealer, until the air is foggy and thick with smoke. This creates a trance-like effect once the already drunken fauns enter to begin the ritual proper; it is best done in a cave, building, or other enclosed space.

3. Our brave chronomancers enter, supplies and utility belt in hand. Due to the rite’s nature, they are always of an even number; the cult’s priests have attempted adaptations for one or three members, but they are far less effective. We will be assuming for the remainder of the description that there are only two within the circle.

4. The rest of the cult chants and dances in a ring around the circle, rhythmically howling and singing songs of praise, while the time-sailors within recite prayers and hymns to Gods whose names i am not party to.

5. With a toast to Dionysos, the two fauns within the circle eagerly drink up a small flask of hand sanitiser. This used to be a calyx-ful of wine, but modern advances in technology have allowed travellers to get far drunker, far faster. (The High Priest says He strongly approves.)

The Cult of Phanes are self-described “hippies” who eschew violence when out and about. The daggers they keep are blunted, used only to intimidate, and never to hurt. They keep bouquets of flowers in their hair, and preach a gospel of unity and equality. All this makes the final step of the ritual shocking to the unacquainted observer — but we must remember that much as they idealise peace and love, they are also an Orphic cult, one that deals in sacrifice and reincarnation.

6. The High Priest (or, if they will be tagging along for the ride, a priest of lower rank) hands one of the travellers a freshly sharpened scythe.

I am not a member of the cult myself, and this account is based only in the whispers i have heard from members in vino veritas; thus, i cannot attest to the precise meaning behind the rite. It seems to me to be derived from myths of Saturn, Dionysos, and (bemusingly) Mithras, but the cultists i have spoken to are all of the laity, and they have no more of a clue than i do.

7. In one fell swoop, one of the chronomancers slices the scythe through their hand and strikes the other with it in the calf. As drops of the two’s blood fall to the floor, the rite takes effect, transporting them and their belongings hundreds of years into the future. The only remnants are a blood-splattered scythe and a metallic taste in the air.

A few hours, days, or weeks later, the travellers materialise back in the circle, confident that they have successfully spread peace and love to the denizens of the future and ready to do it all over again.

The return of Libanomene

It is said that Hallowe’en is when the veil between spirit and matter is at its thinnest, and the same too goes for Saturnalia. Around the winter solstice, the fabric of time becomes far more susceptible to human (or satyr) intervention; far less work is needed to launch someone millennia into the future, or to send dozens of cultists on one trip. This is why Christmas (as we now know it) is such a wondrous time of the year. The troops in 1914, the warm family reunions, the children screaming with joy over their new gifts — all made possible, in some part, by the Cult’s activities.

But even in those weakened days, the laws of chronomancy held true, much to the chagrin of Phanes’ priests. The Gods are unchanging and eternal, exempt from our mortal notions of time; why, then, should prayer and magic be beholden to our earthly rules? It was by accident that, last year (1970 BCE to us uptimers), the cult discovered an exception.

It was high noon on midwinter’s day. The high priest Libanomene and their assistant Ombrosilphion were readying themselves for an expedition to gods-know-when, gods-know-why (the precise order of the day has been forgotten since), and as a ruddy scythe clattered to the floor, all seemed well. But, just as the cult’s other members were shuffling out the room to tend to other business, Libanomene returned to the circle in a state of frenzy, barely a few minutes after they had left. They claimed to have seen visions of a distant future, with their first and second eyes, no less, of dark golden clouds blotting out the sky, onyx-shard buildings cutting through, and — well, my drinking companion passed out before they could say what else was spoken of.

The priest’s assistant, however, was unaccounted for, and a search party set out. For days on end, they scoured Delphi’s hills and valleys, until they found the missing faun, battered, bruised, and broken-horned, in an ivy-covered ditch. Ombrosilphion was despatched back to the temple, wrapped in a woolen blanket, and fed a steaming bowl of soup. Once the trembling cultist mustered up the ability to speak, they revealed that they had been lying there, unsure of what had happened, for “seven days and seven nights”.

It had only been three days since the rite.

Lords of Misrule 2022 — let the misrule begin!

This is a copy of the main page for this event.

The cycle of a year is a wonderful thing. Trees grow and wilt, rivers ebb and flow, and every winter, Gæa blankets Herself in a snowy coat. All across Europe, people gather together, huddling around, exchanging gifts. Most would call it Christmas.

For us? Well… Io Saturnalia!

It’s time for the second annual Satyrs’ Forest Lords of Misrule! In the spirit of the topsy-turvy season, i’m putting you in charge of the site.

If you write or put together something — absolutely anything — and email it to misrule@satyrs.eu, come Saturnalia (that’s December 17 to 23, for those who aren’t up to date with their ancient festivals) i’ll put it up on the site, both on the blog and on its own dedicated, permanent subpage, etched in stone for all to see.

Like last year, i would ask that you refrain from political polemics or anything that would get this noble forest in legal trouble. Apart from that, anything goes. Your gran’s chocolate cake recipe? An impassioned defence of Freddy Got Fingered as an ironic masterpiece? Hell, i’ll even let you vandalise one of the permanent pages for a bit if you ask me to. Whatever you — my lords of misrule — want.

You can submit your entries from today until the 16th of December, 2021. Have fun, and don’t be afraid to get weird with it!

— Xanthe

Old book smell: tidbits from Manchester

Modern, Ikea-like bookshelves adorn the halls of an ancient library
The tail end of the room which houses the Central Library’s extensive music collection.

Manchester’s influences on British culture and life spread far and wide — music, politics, industry, TV — but it’s fair to say it’s not exactly renowned for its literary output. And yet, nevertheless, i found myself wandering the halls of two great libraries in Cottonopolis.

A ceiling stucco decorated with coats of arms

The first and grander of the two is the Manchester Central Library, whose imposing hall first squat itself upon St Peter’s Square in 1934. Upon walking in, there are a number of things the discerning visitor might notice. Hir eyes might wander upwards to the expertly crafted stained-glass window of Shakespeare and his protagonists, or all the way up to the ceiling, generously coated with the arms of authorities priestly, princely, and popular. Or, if our hypothetical visitor is a Geordie, shi might instead notice some things that the rest of the country’s eyes would gloss over: clean, well-designed signage; sleek open space; swooshy modern æsthetics… All paid for out of the council’s pockets.

A stained glass window depicting the works of Shakespeare

There are no decaying bridges, no council computers running Windows XP, no decade-old untouched brownfields. When ministers talk a big game about “levelling up the North”, this is the North they’re talking about. Cumbria? Newcastle? Middlesbrough? Isn’t that in Scotland? It’s best not to dwell on these things (for cynicism doesn’t do the mind good), but one can’t help but feel like they’re rubbing it in.

The Central Library is a treasure trove. It houses an impressive collection of musical paraphernalia, from sheet music to encyclo-glee-diæ to biographies of Saint Noel Gallagher. Its central atrium is home to the “archives plus”, where Mancunians can drill into their city’s history without needing to be fluent in acadamese. The reference library on the upper floors is so tightly packed that it uses mechanical bookshelves which reveal themselves with the push of a button. By all accounts, it serves the people of Manchester well. Perhaps that’s the problem: for a tourist like me, it’s hard not to get jealous.


The Portico Library is an older, humbler affair, constructed at the height of the industrial revolution and taking up but the first floor of its classically-inspired building. Anyone can enter, but i’m afraid the full collection is a members-only joint; my group were just here to check out a book a family friend had paid to be restored. (A page fell out while we were handling it. Whoops!)

While the back catalogues might be off limits to us plebes, there’s still plenty to pique the passing itinerant’s interest. The central hall is still decorated in its original homely Victorian fashion, having a delightfully idiosyncratic way of catalogueing its books: “biography”, “travels and voyages”, and “polite fiction” (a vestige of the time when the middle classes were still joining “polite” society).

A tiny, Middle Eastern-style cardboard house

An exhibition of architectural art circles the middle seating area. While much of it was the usual arty bollocks, i found myself captured by the adorable cardboard houses of Thu Le Ha, an artist and volunteer at the library. Ms Ha has a vanishingly small online footprint, but i hope she keeps at it — this is the sort of thing the world needs more of! Cute little whimsy.

And that’s all i wrote. Next up, some less wordy centres of Mancunian culture.


P.S. On the way back from the Sigur Rós gig, we bore witness to a throng of teenyboppers and weary parents making their way back from a different gig held at the famous Arena. What could possibly inspire such turnout from such a young crowd: Taylor Swift? Olivia Rodrigo? Some K-pop act i’d never heard of? Nope — they were there to see the Backstreet Boys.

Some things never change.

Mx Tynehorne’s link roundup, volume XV

A parked lorry, late at night, bearing the name "Discordia" on its side.
Seen on the way back home from Manchester — why on earth would you call your logistics company “Discordia”? It’s like calling an airline “Icarus”. Just asking for trouble.

A jolly good show: tidbits from Manchester

Hello. I’ve been to Manchester. I thought i might tell you about it. Wait no come back i promise this isn’t just showing you my holiday ph

The last time i went to that wonderful southern city, i was hardly ten years old, and hadn’t much of a chance to explore — a mistake i was itching to rectify this go around. Over the next few days i’ll be sharing some of the things i saw, heard, and third verb goes here.


First things first, our trip’s raison d’être: Sigur Rós were on a world tour, and though they might not have been schlepping up to Newcastle, i sure as hell wasn’t going to miss the chance to see them.

A case with some tea and incense strewn about, branded "Flotholt: Sigur Rós × Fischersund"

Sigur Rós are a post-rock band, and their gig made clear that it’s with a strong emphasis on the “post-”. It was an all-seated audience, with vanishingly little banter from the band (one has to imagine they’re not 100% confident in their English), excepting a brief pantomime bit at the end of „Andvari”. No complaints from me, though: a laid-back, almost classical atmosphere quite befits their ætheral soundscapes. I mean, could you imagine people going wild in the pit to „Vaka”?

As „Popplagið” came to a close and everyone shuffled out the venue’s doors, i noticed a curious item at the merch table: an officially licensed Sigur Rós tea and incense kit. What a world we live in. (I didn’t buy it — there was only one left, and i probably wouldn’t be the one to make the most use out of it.)


A Google Earth render of the skyline of Manchester, containing a modest few tall buildings
MAN WAS NOT MEANT TO LIVE LIKE THIS

As an official, Lisa Nandy–certified resident of a Town™, i was left slightly dumbstruck and intimidated by the dense forest of tall buildings that is Manchester’s city centre. Sure, it’s not like i’m a stranger to the idea of a city, but of the two big cities i have most haunted over the years , Newcastle only has a stumpy luxury apartment and a few council houses strewn about the suburbs, while Amsterdam’s skyscraper district is sectioned off behind the other side of a ring road, far from the centre of town.

But Manchester? Nay — Manchester is England’s second city, and they’ll show it any way they like! Dozens upon dozens of architectural phalli jut up from the ground in all directions, a veritable orgy of capital. I pray thee, have we as a species learnt nothing from the tales of Icarus and the Tower of Babel? Nothing‽ This is hubris writ large, i tell you!

Or, you know, something like that. Their green spaces don’t even have cows.


They both serve the same purpose, really, but i just want to rub in that where we up north has a fully-fledged metro, Manchester merely has to do with trams. Sure, ours might be delayed every five minutes, and theirs might be uber-reliable and extend throughout the urban area, but who’s really winning?


Montage of portraits of Emmeline Pankhurst and the brothers Gallagher
(I don’t actually know or care which Gallagher is which. Apologies.)

Manchester has no shortage of iconic residents — Morrissey, Danny Boyle, Burgess, Wanksy — but Mancunians have taken it upon themselves to idolise two people above all else. Everywhere you look, there are statues, plaques, and posters in their memory.

The first is Emmeline Pankhurst. An early leader of the suffragette movement, she and her allies often used violent tactics to get their way, from breaking windows all the way up to arson. You can see why the left-wing, industrial city, birthplace of the labour movement, would be proud to honour her.

The other is Noel Gallagher.

Naturally.

Mx Tynehorne’s link roundup, volume XIV

A bin with the front and binbag taken off
Fuckers took my bin. Can’t have shit in… erm… wherever the exit to this forest is?

THE WAR ON SANTA

ALRIGHT BUCKO IT’S FUCKING NOVEMBER, PUT YOUR GODDAMNED HANDS UP!

MARIAH CAREY DEFROSTING
MARIAH CAREY IS DEFROSTING RIGHT FUCKING NOW AND THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT

THIS FUCKING HALLOWE’EN SHIT IS OVER MERRY CHRISTMAS I WANT YOU TO REPEAT AFTER ME “MERRY CHRISTMAS” RIGHT NOW AND I’M NOT LETTING YOU GO UNTIL YOU DO IT

MERRRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU TOO

NOW YOU MIGHT BE WONDERING WHY I’VE BROUGHT YOU HERE TODAY AND THERE’S ONE SIMPLE REASON. THE WAR ON CHRISTMAS? IT’S FAKE. IT’S A FUCKING PSYOP. WE’RE RECRUITING YOU INTO THE REAL WAR. THE WAR ON SANTA CLAUS.

THIS RAT FUCKING BASTARD SANTA IS AGGLOMERATING CHRISTMAS INTO ONE CORPORATISED YANKEE MEGATRADITION AND THIS CANNOT STAND! FATHER CHRISTMAS IS THE REAL ONE. SINTERKLAAS AND HIS WEIRD RACIST FRIENDS ARE THE REAL ONES. SATURN IS WEIRD BUT WE KIND OF STOLE HIS SHTICK AND ALSO WE’RE PRETTY SURE HE’D EAT US IF WE DIDN’T LEAVE HIM BE. DED MOROZ IS STAYING. BUT SANTA CLAUS? WE’RE KILLING THAT ELF-ENSLAVING ASSHOLE

YOUR SOUNDTRACK FOR THIS MISSION WILL BE “FAIRYTALE OF NEW YORK”, PLAYED ON REPEAT FOR SEVENTY-TWO HOURS STRAIGHT. THIS IS BECUASE SANTA IS HOMOPHOBIC AND YOU NEED TO GET ACCLIMATISED TO HIM CALLING YOU A WELL YOU KNOW

FATHER CHRISTMAS WITH LASER EYES
WE HAVE LASER EYES POWERED BY THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS AND WE ARE NOT AFRAID TO USE THEM

AND AFTER WE’RE DONE, OH TRUST ME BUCKO, WE’RE NOT STOPPING THERE. YOU THINK NOVEMBER IS BAD? WE’RE GONNA EXTEND CHRISTMAS SEASON TO ALL YEAR ROUND. HALLOWE’EN? YOU MEAN PRECHRISTMAS? SUMMER HOLIDAYS? YOU MEAN CHRISTMAS IN JULY??? THAT’S RIGHT FUCKER IT’S CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY THE PROPHECY IS TRUE MERRY CHRISTMAS

Don’t Worry Darling is not the greatest film ever made

I was bored the other day, so i thought i’d go see a film. The problem, my dear readers, is that i have this terribly unlucky habit: 70% of the time, when i go see a film at the cinema, it’s not very good — and i can confirm that Don’t Worry Darling is, indeed, not very good.

If you’ve heard anything about Don’t Worry Darling, it’ll be about the juicy, juicy behind-the-scenes drama, involving saucy affairs between director Olivia Wilde and the film’s leading male star, an exasperated Chris Pine, and Shia LaBeouf. But we’re not going to be talking about any of that — instead, we’ll be talking about the topic everyone is desperately avoiding: the movie itself. Oh dear.

A promotional still showing Florence Pugh making a confused and terribly concerned face at the camera
© Universal or whoever distributed it i don’t really care.

The film boils down to a thin Truman Show pastiche following a troubled couple in an idyllic American suburb, wherein a 1950s housewife, imaginatively named Alice Warren, questions what her controlling husband, the inexplicably British Jack Chambers, actually does at his mysterious government job. The wonderful Florence Pugh, hot off of 2019’s Midsommar, gives her all with the script she’s given as Alice, and is easily one of the standout parts of the film. Jack, on the other hand… Jack is played by Harry Styles, a man who should not act. (Every pop star nowadays seems to think they can walk the tightrope between music and cinema as easily as Lady Gaga does, and it never quite seems to work out for them.)

So, let’s put ourselves in Ms Wilde’s shoes. You have one common plot structure, one brilliant lead actress, and one so-so lead actor. How do you make this movie… good?

Well, first you load up the secondary cast with talented people. KiKi Lane and Chris Pine both absolutely kill it in their respective roles — Margaret, a troubled neighbour to Alice, and Frank, Jack’s hammy villainous boss — but neither character feels fully fleshed out; Mr Pine in particular finds himself with not much to do despite ostensibly being the driving force behind the plot.

You can also pour piles upon piles of money into your film’s technical aspects. The quaint suburb in which Jack and Alice live is designed to within an inch of its life, and every shot is clear, crisp, and packed with colour while not being too overbearing — like a James Bond film or, if you’re being unkind, a perfume commercial.

Alright. You’ve got your cast, you’ve got your style, now you just need to… ah, god, what was it? You look down at the smudged writing on your hand — ah, yes, the script! You have to write a script, with, like, a plot and stuff.

You wake up from a terrible dream. You are no longer Olivia Wilde. You are once again the handsome reader of the blog of an even handsomer webmixter, who politely informs you that the film’s one-block-wide Jenga tower of a storyline, while it seemed to be setting up for an interesting conclusion, falls apart completely in the third act. The film’s writers pull out every cliché in the book — “it was all in VR!” “our protagonist’s best friend was in on it!” “if you die in the game you die in real life!” — in the space of about ten minutes, with barely any of it given room to breathe. (In fact, that third revelation comes after a pivotal death scene.) Just as the audience wonders what impact this will have on the plot going forward, the film just… ends, with a distinctly unsatisfying resolution to our hero’s story, and an air of “well why did they even bother?” about the villainous plot.

All in all, i really can’t recommend watching Don’t Worry Darling — perhaps catch it on streaming when it comes out if it piques your interest, but don’t spend your heard-earned Lizzies on going to the cinema to watch Harry Styles gaslight his wife for an hour and a half. (5/10)

Pass notes: some other films of note

See How They Run is a fun, Wes Anderson–lite romp of a mystery story that gets in and out and does what it needs without making too much of a fuss about itself. Saoirse Ronan and Sam Rockwell drive around in a tiny blue ’50s police car; what more could you possibly want? (7½/10)

The Woman King is a fine enough (alternate-)historical epic carried on the backs of some terrific performances by Thuso Mbedu and Viola Davis. (6/10)

I wasn’t expecting to be so spellbound by a seventy-year-old drama film of a bunch of people talking in a room, but i absolutely could not take my eyes off of 12 Angry Men, which you should really just go watch right now. (9/10)