Thursday and Friday – solo spoken word gigs. Thursday is the painter Ella Guru’s art show launch at a curious Kentish Town venue – Flaxton Ptootch – half hairdressers, half art gallery. Her portrait of me with the pelican and fox is one of those on wall. For the next few weeks, people will be having a shampoo and set while staring at my face.

I came up with the title for the painting – Pelican Blond. It’s a reference to a rather good song by Glasgow band The Orchids, on Sarah Records circa 1990.

Ms Guru’s own nom de plume is also taken from a song – by Captain Beefheart. Lately some new Liverpool band also christened themselves Ella Guru, and have been getting enough attention for Ms G to add a disclaimer to her website. Must be slightly annoying for her after using the name for years. At least her own music is under a different name – the Deptford Beach Babes – a rather good twangy surf-guitar band who also perform at her art launch.

I recall how Suede had to rename themselves “The London Suede” for the US, because of some other musical Suede already existing over there. Such a cumbersome and ugly sobriquet can’t have helped their Stateside progress. These days, when you start a group and give it a name, you really should spend 5 minutes on the Web to check if someone else is already using it in a creative capacity. Surely even Liverpool has the Internet now?

[August 23rd. Ms Guru writes: “The band Ella Guru has been going quite a while. Though i would agree not as long as I have been called Ella Guru – 1987 was the first time for me. But they got to the web before me – they took .com or .co.uk so i am an .org.uk.”]

In a nervous mood generally. I like being recognised at the art launch as one of the paintings, though (as with my slot at Hanky Panky the following night) I’m not too happy with my spoken word performance. I really do dislike my voice at the moment – spoken or singing – and it seems unfair to expect anyone else to like it. I feel very nervous and am unconvinced if I should even be doing it at all. Looking forward to future cabaret slots where I finally try different singers performing songs I’ve written. People who can really sing and actually enjoy singing, leaving me free to concentrate on playing guitar beside them. It’s be good to hear the likes of “Confused and Proud” sung by a vocalist who can really do it justice. Which definitely isn’t me.

******

Talking of androgyny-obsessed frustrated musicians, I’ve had a bit of a Brett Smiley weekend. At the Hanky Panky cabaret, David R-P screens a tape of a 1970s Russell Harty TV chat show, featuring the delicately girlish teenage pop star wannabe Mr Smiley, flicking his long hair at the microphone as he sings a very Bowie-influenced number. Afterwards he chats with Harty alongside the louche Mr Andrew Oldham, who declares the boy to be the Next Big Thing. It’s all very Velvet Goldmine, of course. The clip ends with a shot of the typical 70s chat-show studio audience applauding. Their average age must be 68, and I notice about five Mary Whitehouse clones clapping away politely. Goodness knows what they made of it all.

I’d already been aware of the Brett Smiley story due to standing in Borders the other day, leafing through the recent book by Nina Antonia, “The Prettiest Star: Whatever Happened To Brett Smiley?”. It’s as much about her own life as it is a biography of the failed star. Seeing him on the Russell Harty programme was a pivotal moment in her formative years. My interest in picking up the book was entirely down to its rather striking cover depicting Mr Smiley in golden profile: young, beautiful, androgynous, doomed.

The next evening, I share my journey home from Emma J and Marie N’s shared birthday bash with Ms Lora, a friend of theirs I’d not previously met. She turns out to be the designer of the Brett Smiley book jacket.

******
Packing for Edinburgh, doing my roots, listening to Boston’s Brechtian-punk-piano duo the Dresden Dolls. They’re playing Edinburgh on Wednesday, and I’m reviewing it for Plan B magazine. I say “they’re” but it now transpires the drummer can’t make it, so it’ll be a gig by The Dresden Doll, singular.

Last week: I receive possibly the most Decadent (with very much a capital “D”) voicemail message I’ve had to date: Mr Shane MacGowan inviting me to go on holiday to Tangier with him. “Mr Edwards…. This is your wake-up call….. Kehhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrr!” [which is my attempt to transcribe his rattlesnake giggle.]

He seems serious about Tangier. Why me? Well, I suppose being jobless I’m more able than some to drop whatever I’m doing and jump on a plane tomorrow, assuming my expenses are paid. Also, he’s been there before and I haven’t, and we had been discussing it lately in the context of Literary Decadence. And I already have the Paul Bowles hairdo and linen suit.

The city is associated with more than a few Decadent names: Wilde, Orton, Gide, Kerouac, Williams (Tennessee and Kenneth), Beaton, Capote. Mr Burroughs wrote The Naked Lunch there; he called Tangier “Interzone”, a name that quickly became part of alternative culture vocabulary, referenced in a song by Joy Division.

The main Tangier-associated writer, though, has to be Mr Bowles, author of The Sheltering Sky. For decades he was the person to visit if you were an arty type passing through the city – like Quentin Crisp in NYC.

I was in the pub a few weeks ago, bemoaning the umpteen times people feel the need to come up and tell me who I apparently look like: Andy Warhol, David Sylvian, a New Romantic butler, or in one case, just “The Eighties”. Lately I have been tempted to be quite unkind and withering:

“Goodness! Thank you SO much for coming up to me and saying I look like Andy Warhol. Do you know, no one’s ever said that to me before! ”

No, I couldn’t possibly say that outwardly. It’s a broken record, I know, but it’s be nice to at least hear some less common comparisons. High on the list has to be the time a middle-aged visibly-gay American tourist turned to me at a Camden bus stop to say I resembled Kim Novak in the film Bell, Book and Candle.

More recently, Mr MacGowan told me I looked less like Warhol or “the 80s”, and more like Paul Bowles. And so we talked about Tangier.

There’s a panel on Mr Bowles in the Tangier chapter of the Lonely Planet Guide To Morocco. He and his wife Jane are described as “an ambivalent bisexual and an active lesbian”. As opposed to a lesbian who just sits around eating crisps, I suppose.

We were meant to go this week, but a combination of my Edinburgh jaunt’s imminence and his inability on our hoped-for day of departure to leave his Highgate sofa, let alone the country, has postponed the trip till I get back from the Fringe. To be honest, I’m happy to go later rather than sooner anyway, given the suffocating temperatures Tangier solicits in August.

The Boogaloo jukebox has been updated with choices by Mr Johnny Marr. They include records by Donovan, Django Reinhardt and the soundtrack to Performance. There can’t be many pubs with that kind of selection. I spend all of Sunday night locked in the pub with Mr MacGowan till sunrise. I put on The Supremes “Someday We’ll Be Together” next to “Memo From Turner” from Performance. It was just the two of us for the last hour or so. Can’t recall any more details, other than I enjoyed myself. That’s sometimes the problem with enjoying oneself too much.

Currently sneezing and snuffling. I naturally assume I am the Patient Zero of Europe’s forthcoming Bird Flu pandemic, as mentioned in some newspapers in the bits between bombs and knifes. As if there wasn’t enough to get worried about right now. Is it more reassuring to see police at the entrance of every tube station, or less?

What is impressive is the speed with which suspects of terrorism or recent well-publicised violent killings have been tracked down and apprehended. Seems to be a combination of media saturation and CCTV use. It’s now harder to hide than ever, if the authorities are after you. One can only hope they’ve got the right people. With suspected suicide bombers, it’s not so much “come out with your hands up” as “come out with your trousers down”. Tabloid newspaper covers of captured men in their smalls, echoing what must now be referred to as the Saddam look. I’ve just invested in new Marks and Spencer underwear, in case they come for me.

Looking forward to getting away from it all… or at least, to where London’s arts scene relocates for most of August. My Edinburgh accommodation is sorted out. Have booked a ticket to The Book Club on the 22nd, as I’m keen to see Stewart Lee and Martin White on the same bill. Also booked a ticket to “Tomfoolery”, the Tom Lehrer show with Kit and the Widow.

Otherwise, my Edinburgh To See list currently reads: Gonzo Dog gig (Mr White plays the hits of Stanshall, Innes and co), Joanna Neary, Sue Perkins, Stew Lee’s latest show and book reading, Ms Silke’s flatmate’s Woody Allen-esque play, something featuring Xavior, Ryan, Yr Mum & Yr Dad, and other Kash Pointy sorts, a gig by Dresden Dolls, a Francis Bacon exhibition… I’ll try to cram as much as possible into my smattering of days in the city (22nd-25th), and report back here, Dear Reader.

Fosca recordings progressing well in Radlett. Guitar stabs on “Kim” sound very Field Mice-esque. Performed it at the cabaret last Friday using a lecturn, a la Mark E Smith. This week we also had Ernesto, a poet who takes his clothes off while reciting. The Bistrotheque decor is increasingly odd. Glass bell jars on shelves around the room containing model animals: a parrot admiring itself in a mirror, above a mouseskin rug. A squirrel holding an even smaller bell jar, containing an illuminated sugar lump over which hovers a fly. What can it all mean? Such sights wouldn’t be out of place in Ms Angela Carter’s excellent Nights At The Circus, which I’m currently reading. The first page contains the word steatopygous, meaning “fat-buttocked”. As opposed to callipygian, which is more “shapely-buttocked”.

Doing holiday relief at Archway Video. Today I tried to optimize the shop computer to work faster, but instead made it crash into a pre-Windows bluescreen state and reduced poor Ms Silke to running the shop with pen and paper for an hour or so. Thankfully managed to get it working again after much fiddling about in Safe Mode. I have learned my lesson, and shall concentrate more on dusting and explaining to customers why they can’t get “The Machinist” on video. (Frequently Given Answer: 70% of new films are released on DVD only, and rising).

This should really remind me that lately I’ve been spending too much of my own life in Safe Mode. About time I got on with the real stuff, even if I risk a few crashes.

Two new gay-ish Colin Farrell movies out this week: the popcorn “Alexander” and the carrot-cake “A Home At The End Of The World”.

The former DVD’s cover depicts an armoured Mr Farrell shouting on a horse, in front of thousands of Ancient World troops. The message is: it’s that sort of film.

The latter has a photo of him in a nice jumper drinking coffee in a New York cafe and meaning it. The message being: it’s that sort of film.

“Sideways” is the runaway rental hit in Highgate, though. It’s very good of the director Mr Payne to make a film that I can recommend to pretty much anyone at all. It’s the movie equivalent of Carole King’s “Tapestry”; it manages to please most people, while retaining a sense of tasteful, non-pandering artistic worth.

Have bought train tickets for Edinburgh (arriving Mon 22nd, returning Thurs 25th) without confirmation that I’ve got somewhere to park my sleeping bag for those three nights. It’s such bad form to nag when you’re asking a favour, so I sincerely hope the person who offered to help returns my last email. Otherwise, I shall have to depend upon the kindness of strangers.

Some days ago: As I queue up at Angel Waterstones, buying Mr Kundera’s The Book Of Laughter And Forgetting, a slightly grizzled 40-something man in a Hawaiian shirt is signing a book for a staff member. I glance over to see it’s a copy of Simon Reynolds’s ubiquitous doorstopping guide to the post-punk genre, Rip It Up And Start Again. He is not Mr Reynolds, so I assume he must be in one of the bands covered in the book. Should have had the nerve to ask. He looked the way many 40-something former band people look: an air of lost boyishness.

This week: rather excited to meet the utterly recognisable Ms Maureen Lipman. Chatted about her late husband Jack Rosenthal’s TV movie Ready When You Are Mr Gill, about the pathos and tragicomedy of the film extra world. Made 30 years before Ricky Gervais’s new series Extras, and remade with Tom Courtenay, Bill Nighy and Amanda Holden for Sky Movies two years ago. One hopes that it will see a DVD release if only to compare and contrast with the Gervais programme.

The latter is a bit Nathan Barley: has its funny moments, but there’s something not quite right about the whole tone. In the second episode, the main joke is meant to be that Mr Ross Kemp thinks he’s terribly tough and can handle himself in a fight. Not only is this rather obvious and not funny enough per se, but the whole premise is rather upstaged by the grimace-inducing sight of Mr Kemp mugging his part. He’s such an astonishingly bad actor, he can’t even play himself convincingly.

Email from someone at the Evening Standard. They read my 2002 diary entry about how the classical music-dominated Royal Festival Hall has become such a great venue for enjoying alternative rock music in a civilised, seated fashion, without the danger of cigarettes burns, sweaty moshpits, spilt beer, and where the audience is less likely to chat during the performance. Ms Jude Kelly has just taken over the building, and there’s fears in the classical music world that she’ll have the RFH booking more Brian Wilson and less Beethoven. The ES person wanted me to comment. I said I’m very glad the RFH is in the hands of the director of The National Theatre Of Brent’s Messiah, one of the funniest 80s TV shows unavailable beyond a deceased Betamax video recording. Probably not what the ES wanted to hear, but take away my love of obscure comedy references and I am nothing.

Time slips through my fingers, while piles of things keep growing. Piles of CDs to listen to, piles of books to read, piles of magazines and papers on the floor to sort out, piles of rubbish, piles of emails. Too much to do, too much to read, and I hate to throw anything away at all. I appear to have forgotten How To Live.

A strange thought: I am not getting any work done, because I am far too busy. Doing what? I’m not sure.

I keep saying Yes to far too much, and my appointments diary quickly fills. Oh, but this is London. Everyone’s got a gig or club or an art show or a birthday party to go to… Everyone is talking… and… no one is listening! No, that’s unfair.

But I don’t feel so worried about it any more. It did seem until recently that I woke up, spent my entire waking hours apologising to people by text or email that I can’t make their gig or party, then so to bed. A full time job! No more. One mustn’t worry about losing friendships. People know where to find me if they really need to. Come to the Bistrotheque cabaret every Friday night, or come to the Boogaloo in Highgate.

A Tiresome Frequently Asked Question: “We haven’t seen you for ages, where have you been?”.

Answer: Trying to Live! Trying to Create!

Recording sessions with Tom E going well. Have also been offered recording time with Tommy B and Aug S. Very pleased about that. I turn up with guitar, lyrics, notebook and ideas, and we make recordings together. The DIY solo recording thing is not for me: I always need a producer.

Enjoying my weekly residency at the Hanky Panky cabaret at Bistrotheque, but still get terribly nervous about performing solo. Still, the more I do it, I can only improve. Have been singing using the brand new Tom E demos as backing. Hot off the press music, indeed. The debate panel is fun, and last Friday I was roped into improvised acting as part of a bizarre sketch. I was a toyshop owner presenting three Courtney Love dolls (all male: David R-P, Ryan S and an appallingly drunk Citrone, all in Ms Cobain drag). Xavior as a townie dad and Lucinda as daughter wanting a present. To impress her, the Courtney dolls then lipsync, then perform “Doll Parts” live, then play musical statues. Ye gods, what Nu-Romo chaos. It’s the sort of thing that could only happen in Camden circa 1995… which is now Old Street / Hackney 2005.

Toying with the idea of going up to Edinburgh for a few days at the festival. Accommodation might be a problem on a zero budget, though.

The cabaret aside, I’m taking any excuse to get out of town right now. Too hot, too hot-headed. I hear a man was stabbed to death on the Holloway Road-travelling 43 bus (which I use frequently) last Friday night, purely for asking a hooded youth to stop throwing chips at him. The feeling is if the Night Lads and the bombers don’t get you…. Well, they shoot electricians, don’t they.

Reading As You Like it. At the start of Act 4, Rosalind mocks Jacques for his grumpy affectations:

look you lisp, and wear strange suits

She appears to be accusing him of trying to be me.

Last week – stay a couple of days with Captain Hughes on his green and red narrow boat moored at Oxford. See photo, taken near Folly Bridge. Capt H would like to point out the actual mooring work here was carried out by himself, and that this photograph is more of my attempt to strike a manly pose while holding onto one of the boat’s rope.

He takes it down the Thames to Abingdon, and I get the chance to rope the vessel to the bank while it waits at the locks for the water level to change. It’s my gentle nautical debut. Iffley Lock has two lock keepers (one wears a blue lettered jumper reading ‘Assistant Lock Keeper’) and a small lock keeping dog who stands on the towpath staring out the boats. When I get back to Highgate, I re-read Three Men In A Boat, mainly for the bits about Iffley and Abingdon. The Hampton Court Maze scene inspires me to write ‘Narcissus In The Maze’ for Scarlet’s Well, with Martin White’s music.

Saturday – catch The Would-Be-Goods and Scarlet’s Well at the Water Rats. I’ve seen both bands a few times now, but can never take for granted a concert by these two previously studio-bound artistes I’ve adored for years. For me, the concert is a celebration of Ms Griffin and Mr Bid’s musical existence. I am paying homage, even if I don’t pay to get in. Both should be winning awards for songwriting and fearless dedication to original British pop music. Ms G is backed with other cult legends – Andy Warren (Monochrome Set / Adam and the Ants), Peter Momtchiloff (Talulah Gosh / Heavenly), Bongo Debbie (Mr Childish’s Headcoatees). Ms Griffin herself looks like no amount of stifling July heat could begin to affect her delicate-yet-invulnerable BBC announcer’s poise and singing voice. She does a couple of late 80s Would-Be-Goods crowd pleasers: The Camera Loves Me and Velazquez and I; but it’s the achingly desolate solo rendition of Too Old, from her most recent album The Morning After, that steals the show.

Scarlet’s Well are as giddy and colourful as ever, and air a new song about mermaids by Mr White, which has a particularly fantastic melody. Ms Dornan takes lead vocal on Pirate, and is rather superb at it too. Mr Bid still swears too much. Night of the Macaw is pure El Records. Bid tells me he likes the new song I’ve written, so I’m obviously biased.

Sunday – to brother Tom’s new home studio in Radlett to record demos for the new Fosca album. Well, I say “demos” but with unlimited studio time one may as well keep polishing, mixing, re-doing takes, trying out ideas and working on the tracks till you can’t hear anything that could be improved. And if you do that, you may as well release the track properly on the album, I say. It’s nice to not have the stress of being up against the studio clock, a factor which must affect the way many records turn out.

That said, if Fosca can afford to use a studio and producer with a history of making proper records, we should do, even if it’s just for a few “stand out tracks” (if not singles). Regardless, I do hope Tom can work with me more regularly now he’s living closer to London. Not least because we get on, which is something one can never underestimate with producers, related or not.

He’s managed to salvage a piece of our childhood from the Suffolk garage and mount it on the wall of his new home. It’s a present from our artist sci-fi-loving father from when we were both small – a huge piece of hardboard, painted and cut to resemble one side of a silver Flash Gordon-like spaceship, complete with portholes and “D & T” in Roy Lichtenstein-esque lettering. We would spend many endless afternoons with it propped up in our bedroom (by our bunk beds), and pretend we were in a spaceship by sitting behind it. Tom points out today that although we couldn’t see any of the painted side of the hardboard ourselves, and there was no one else in the room to watch us behind it, this didn’t seem to matter. We knew we were in a spaceship together, that was enough

I can’t help equating this example of unfettered, uncynical childhood faith in imagination – and the fact Tom now displays the hardboard ship over his new staircase – with our work in his studio. We go in and have creative adventures that please us both. Except this time, I want people to watch us from the painted side.

Friday – Perform at Mr Xavior’s now weekly Hanky Panky Cabaret. I decide to read selections from the eavesdroppings website Overheard In New York, my flimsy excuse being the editor is a Fosca fan.

Three selections I read out:

St Mark’s between 1st & A:
Girl: I’d sleep with a big midget.
Guy: A big midget is a normal person.

Toys R U, Times Square:
Girl 1: So when I was in Italy, I went to France.
Girl 2: What did you do there?
Girl 1: I went to the Leaning Tower Of Pisa.
Girl 2: Still Italy.
Girl 1: Really?
Girl 2: Yeah. So what did you do in France?
Girl 1: I guess I didn’t go to France, then.

91st & Amsterdam:
Girl 1: You know, if you think all songs are sung by a penis, they suddenly become funny.
Girl 2: You are high, you know that?

Then I sing a new number written for the band Scarlet’s Well (though I don’t yet know if they’ll like it), “Narcissus In The Maze”. Vamping music by Martin White, lyrics by self. Parts of it are like a Gilbert & Sullivan patter song. Rather proud of the line:

If a fop falls in the forest / does he make a sound impression on the trees?

Finish with a rendition of the Fosca song “Rude Esperanto”, self on vocals, Xavior on piano and backing vocals at end. Am also involved in a debate panel, which is a lot of fun. Questions put by the audience include “Is Cheddar overrated?” and “Who will kill you?”.

On the whole, rather enjoy myself and look forward to the next week; I can only get better at this sort of thing. I also use the spot as a writer’s discipline tool, ordering myself to have a new song ready for the next cabaret.

Have been teetotal this past week due to the dentist’s antibiotics. Is it a coincidence that I’ve also been more creative in that week than in the past 18 months? Or recent events emphasising the “live today, for tomorrow you may die” sensation? Am considering giving the teetotal thing a try for much longer. Only danger is, as a substitute I’ve been consuming more caffeine and sugar than usual. This can sometimes be good for a frantic writing pace, but renders onstage performance a little jittery to say the least.

Board a tube for the first time since the bombs last week. As it goes through Kings Cross without stopping, my stomach turns.

Mr Shaw writes to remind me I’ve made an appearance in the latest edition of “M” magazine, the business publication of the MCPS-PRS Alliance, who collect royalties for the UK music industry. It’s sent to all kinds of recording artists and composers across the genre spectrum.

He suggests my readers might want to see a scan of the anecdote I was invited to recount, as part of a feature called “My Worst Gig”. I’m next to someone from The Stranglers.

Typically, I end the story being toyed with by inebriated women rugby players with 50s quiffs. They kept singing Japan songs at me, I recall.

M Magazine also used my photo for the contents page, as scanned here.

Note that I’m by my computer, looking at a photo of myself on someone else’s web diary.

The pattern of the curtains was also used on photographer Sarah Watson’s business card.

She was rather taken with my curtains. The credit can only go to my tolerant landlady of 11 years.

Elsewhere, I’ve stumbled on a new photo of myself (below) from the site of Mr Michael Malice, who runs a successful and very amusing site of NYC eavesdroppings.

He is also the subject of a forthcoming graphic novel by Harvey Pekar, of American Splendor fame.

In the photo, I’m posing with Mr Grace from the band My Favorite, at their London gig the other week.

Mr Malice writes “this is quite possibly the gayest photo ever taken.” I think I must have been in an usually silly mood.

I watch Closer, and rather enjoy it. Despite the explicit dialogue, it’s otherwise entirely old-fashioned. Consisting mainly of couples shouting clever but cruel things at each other, it has much in common with the 60s Burton & Taylor film Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, not least the same director. Although there’s many generously detailed references to sexual acts, there is no nudity, and no sex scenes. The film is about people talking in the hope of sex, people discussing the sex afterwards, and the taking down of clothes to be used in evidence against them. But the only on-screen congress is undertaken via an Internet chat room, and even that’s part of a practical joke on the part of the bored (and fully clothed) Mr Law, pretending online to be female for the unwitting Mr Owen.

The dialogue may be peppered with Grade A swearing, but otherwise the characters speak in theatrical, well-honed sentences that could have come from any British 20th century playwright pre-Pinter. Mr Owen says things like “Oh, the moronic beauty of youth” about little Ms Portman, before promptly requesting her to bend over. It’s George Bernard Shaw does gynaecology.

Though the film is an ensemble piece, Mr Owen steals it effortlessly from the others. I understand he is the only actor to have been in the original stage production, and it really shows. He first appears in the aforementioned Net chat room scene, when the camera pans from his PC screen to his charismatic fingers typing on the keyboard. Before we even see his face, we know instantly the film is all his. A safe pair of hands indeed.

I’ve not seen the stage play myself, but I have read the book. There’s a particularly memorable line I was waiting for when watching the movie, only to find it’s been cut. This occurs in the strip club scene, as said by Ms Portman’s character (who appears to have stolen Ms Johannsen’s pink bob wig from Lost In Translation). In the original play, she declares “all men really want is a girl who looks like a boy.” Not so in the movie. Perhaps it was omitted because this argument-starting statement is not really discussed or developed, just thrown out as if to make people sit up in the theatre. Perhaps the writer changed his mind. It makes sense, though, as Ms Portman is not a girl who looks like a boy. She is a girl who looks very much like a little girl. In a bedtime scene with Mr Law, she jumps on the mattress as if she were his pet kitten. And very apt too, as the movie is really about possession and the battles for power in the relationships it depicts. Mr Owen’s marriage is even likened to a dog and its owner by Mr Law. Some pets give the orders to their owners.

The analogy has been touched upon before in The Good Father, an excellent 80s British film about middle class CND-supporting people being unkind to each other. Its principals are Anthony Hopkins and Jim Broadbent, and though a young Stephen Fry has about two lines in it, it’s a very serious film. To gain custody of their children, the men use the “old boys’ network” against their estranged wives. In their own uneasy phrase – challenging their liberal views – they have to “jerk their leads a bit”.

Both films are engrossing and intelligent looks at anger and emotional damage in relationships. Though perhaps not recommended for watching on a first date.