Never before in human history has mankind had so much entertainment available while simultaneously insisting there is absolutely nothing to watch.
Once upon a time, television was simple.
You had four channels.
If you were feeling particularly adventurous, perhaps five.
If something good was on, the nation watched it together. If something wasn’t on, you simply stared out of the window and wondered what the neighbours were doing.
Today we have solved that problem.
Modern households now have access to thousands of films, hundreds of television series, seventeen streaming services and enough content to occupy several lifetimes.
And yet every evening, millions of people sit down on the sofa and declare:
“There’s nothing on.”
Not “very little on.”
Not “nothing that particularly interests me.”
Nothing.
The entire global entertainment industry has apparently failed once again.
The ritual usually begins around 7:30pm.
A couple settles onto the sofa.
One picks up the remote control.
The other assumes a comfortable viewing position.
Neither will move again for approximately three hours.
The streaming pilgrimage begins.
Netflix.
Nothing.
Prime.
Nothing.
Disney+.
Nothing.
BBC iPlayer.
Nothing.
ITVX.
Nothing.
Channel 4.
Nothing.
Back to Netflix.
Still nothing.
Experts estimate that the average household spends more time choosing something to watch than actually watching it.
This figure remains unverified, largely because everybody gave up halfway through the documentary about statistics.
The real problem is that television is no longer merely television.
It has become a second job.
Selecting a programme now requires research, planning and risk assessment.
One must evaluate running time, critic scores, audience reviews, genre compatibility and emotional commitment.
A film isn’t simply a film anymore.
It’s an investment.
Two hours is a serious commitment.
Three seasons is practically a mortgage.
Six seasons and a spin-off require consultation with financial advisers.
The greatest challenge of modern viewing, however, is the recommendation algorithm.
These digital geniuses promise to understand us better than we understand ourselves.
After analysing thousands of hours of viewing history, they confidently recommend things no rational person would ever choose.
“Because you watched a crime thriller…”
Here is a Norwegian documentary about industrial fishing.
“Because you liked a period drama…”
Please enjoy this seven-part series about competitive taxidermy.
“Because you watched a cooking show…”
May we suggest a harrowing prison documentary?
The connection remains unclear.
The algorithm, meanwhile, grows ever more confident.
Families eventually reach the final stage of streaming exhaustion.
They begin rewatching programmes they’ve already seen.
Not because they’re favourites.
Not because they’re masterpieces.
Simply because choosing something new feels like hard work.
Entire generations now spend evenings rewatching the same sitcoms on an endless loop.
Characters whose dialogue they can recite word for word appear more frequently in their lives than some relatives.
At this point, the television isn’t providing entertainment.
It’s acting as emotional support furniture.
Then there is the great lie of the watchlist.
Every user has one.
A carefully curated collection of films and series they genuinely intend to watch someday.
The watchlist is a museum of good intentions.
A digital graveyard where recommendations go to die.
People proudly add programmes for years.
Very few ever return.
Some titles have remained on watchlists longer than government infrastructure projects.
Friends don’t help.
Friends never help.
Friends simply recommend more things.
“You have to watch this.”
“It’s amazing.”
“Best thing I’ve seen all year.”
By this point, you already have twenty-seven unwatched recommendations and the psychological burden of three unfinished series.
The last thing you need is another six-part Scandinavian murder mystery.
Eventually, after forty-five minutes of searching, comparing, rejecting and scrolling, a decision is reached.
The chosen programme begins.
Everyone settles in.
The opening scene appears.
Within thirty seconds somebody says:
“This looks rubbish.”
The search begins again.
Historians may eventually conclude that the streaming era represented the moment humanity achieved infinite choice and immediately became incapable of making any.
Future archaeologists excavating a modern British living room will discover twelve remote controls, seven active subscriptions and a scrolling menu permanently asking:
“Are you still watching?”
The answer, of course, is no.
Nobody ever got that far.
They were still trying to decide what to put on.
