Two months ago I had Foxtel connected for the first time and it has undeniably brought out the worst in me.
When I moved to my new flat two months ago I found myself in two unique situations. The first was that our block of flats had no antenna, so the only way to pick up free to air television was via either Foxtel or the old coat-hanger-bent-into-the-shape-of-Australia rabbit ears solution. The second was that after years of sharehousing I found myself in a situation where, for the first time in my adult life, I actually had autonomy over my own television. I didn’t have to sit through hours of reality cooking shows or American crime franchises if I didn’t want to. The freedom of choice was all mine. Seduced by this luxurious independence; a TV room of one’s own, I decided to get Foxtel connected.
The first week of the connection was exciting. The channels were seemingly endless and I was excited by the prospect of finally watching all of those programs I had heard so much about on the internet. I was also looking forward to special event programs like Cloudstreet, which I was rather pained to have missed earlier on this year. Our Foxtel magazine arrived in the mailbox shortly after we connected, filled with fascinating programming; documentaries, drama series, movies, all brightly hyped in articles and lined up snugly within the schedule. We discussed what we would watch, we noted our times, we compiled our viewing list.
But as life trundled onward, the powers of the new connection faded and the television was regulated back to its old role. I began to use it merely as filler- a companion in the bleary-eyed early mornings, an opiate for post-work recuperation, and very quickly my choice of programs began to highlight the very worst side of me.
When I sit down to watch television now I am lazy, dumb, undiscerning, unadventurous, and unimaginative. I sit slumped in the armchair, back melted into the seat, knees hooked over the arms of the chair, some variation of pickle jar balanced on my stomach, and I watch crap. Horrible wedding competitions, vile parenting programs, shockumentaries on teenage mothers- I’ve seen it all. What’s more I now know the name of every Kardashian.
Now, there’s certainly nothing wrong with a bit of fluff every now and again but faced with an open smorgasbord of stupidity I have stuffed myself like a glutton. Did you know that at any one time on Foxtel there is a lurid wedding competition show of some sort? My problem is that I have lost all ability to consume this garbage in moderation. Where I was previously quite discerning with my television viewing, faced with the extravagance of subscription television I am indulging far beyond my own benefit. I am like a mad queen of a corrupt court, stuffing my face with sugary delicacies while the intellectual part of my brain starves out in the cold street. “Let them eat Cake Boss!”, I cry. If the kind of television I have been voraciously gobbling was an element in a cultural food pyramid the shows should be regulated to the smallest tier on the top. Instead, like a bridal gown in a Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, the pyramid has ballooned disastrously out of proportion. Other more noble pursuits like reading, practicing my hobbies, listening to music, or even watching high-end or educational television, have dwindled to the point of near non-existence. I am in trouble.
Ultimately I’m disappointed in myself because the shows I am watching- Wife Swap, Toddlers and Tiaras, Four Weddings, Don’t Tell the Bride- are designed specifically to bring out and highlight the worst in people. Gawping at them as I do I feel the worst is brought out in me. The Christmas and New Year period is a time for self-reflection and right now the square eyed, grinning yokel I see reflected in the television screen in between episodes of The Real Housewives of New Jersey is not a pretty sight.
But, I won’t be disconnecting my Foxtel subscription, partially because I’ll be whacked with the remainder of the sum of my contract if I do, but mostly because if I disconnect now, I’ll know it has beaten me. Learning to use my subscription responsibly will be a great exercise of discipline and really, I should be able to control myself. It’s a matter of USE verses ABUSE and if I can learn to exercise some control there’s all kinds of benefits I can gain from subscription television.
So Dear Santa, please grant me the strength to overcome my vices and take control over my life once more, and to tone the wedding competition shows down to at least one per day because I think my boyfriend is starting to quietly freak out.