Goodbye Sky TV, my old friend
Dear Sky TV,
Please forgive me for what I am about to do.
For weeks I have paced the living room, agonising over this decision. I’ve reached deep into my planner to re-watch glorious highlights of Richie McCaw lifting the Webb Ellis at Twickenham, and Grant Elliott lifting Dale Steyn from the Eden Park pitch in the Cricket World Cup semi.
I’ve valiantly tried to recreate our best days and banish the thought of losing you. But as much as I don't want to accept it, I must. It’s over.
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We’ve been through so much. I remember the time you first came into my life - like a thousand Christmases descending upon a teenager’s television set in the mid-nineties.
The dawn of professional rugby and the polished NRL were perfect foundations for your meteoric rise in our household - I simply couldn’t get enough. I would fill my weekends watching live sport, then spend weeknights watching recent releases from Hollywood on Sky Movies and oddball sitcoms on Orange. Our futures appeared so serendipitous. I never once imagined a life without you gathering dust in my cabinet.
When university flatting days and overseas travel were behind me and serious work started, our formidable partnership resumed. I truly was back in my happy place.
These were our halcyon days when you would light up the living room; Roger Federer came up trumps seemingly at every Grand Slam he entered, Tiger Woods became unstoppable on the Tour and the Warriors came agonisingly close to taking out the NRL.
When younger versions of myself needed night-time bottles you would allow me to keep up with the latest live action from the Northern Hemisphere, or my wife to keep up with the Kardashians. The mortgage was high, the budget was thin, but your status in our household soared above all that. You were in many ways indispensable.
But sadly the waves of technology have chipped away at your walls. In time, those walls will breach.
My wife, once a staunch ally, has completely disowned you. She looks at you as she would an ex-girlfriend who continues to send messages on Facebook.
My children, now old enough to both hold a remote and independently critique viewing content, can’t even distinguish you from free-to-air television. Get this: their favourite channel isn’t even Netflix or Lightbox. It’s YouTube.
They have all moved on and it’s just me - sitting up at night paying over $1000 per year for about 300 channels, 295 of which I’ll never watch.
I unplugged you this evening and neatly packed you into a bag to return you tomorrow. No-one noticed.
We had a trial separation a couple of years ago. We missed each other terribly. I badly wanted the Cricket World Cup, you were even more desperate for my monthly direct debit and decided to halve the fee for a year. For that fleeting moment we were back like reunited schoolyard pals.
But all good things come to an end, and this time it’s different. While you continue to provide content via a clunky set-top box you’ll always want more of me than I can give. At the ripe old age of 37 I need to try to stay with the times.
Your time has been and it's over now. Don’t come calling. Unless you halve the fee.
- Stuff Nation