Everything is new again

It’s an inevitable part of growing up that we imagine everything we experience for the first time is brand new—not just to us, but to the entire world. Our first loves, heartbreaks or discoveries seem monumental, unprecedented even. It’s only later, with the gift of hindsight and a few decades under our belts, that we recognize our experiences as universal, repeating themselves in an endless cycle, generation after generation. To be young and naive, after all, is simply to be human.

This inherent egocentrism of youth has only been amplified by the internet, a platform that twists and inflates every nuance of human behavior into something seemingly new and profoundly alarming. Recently, I came across several articles—on Substack and elsewhere—lamenting how today’s youth are abandoning traditional social spaces such as pubs, clubs and even outdoor activities. Instead, they’re apparently retreating to their (probably parental) homes, snuggling up in their pajamas, glued to their screens for hours of streaming entertainment. It was presented as if a line of youthful revellers and carousers stretching back through history had finally been broken, cut by the irresistible lure of on-demand entertainment of every kind right in the palm of your hand.

Real-life socializing, the authors declared, was dead. Friendship would henceforth be replaced by digital illusions—virtual connections without tangible human bonds. Fascinating claims indeed, yet not because they represent a genuine trend. Instead, they illustrate how easily we mistake the internet’s endless chronicling of life's minutiae for genuinely significant societal shifts.

When I was the age to which these commentators refer, the internet did not exist. Socializing necessarily meant engaging with actual people, face-to-face, unless you happened to have a very active phone life or an earnest letter-writing habit. What we did have were a few television channels brimming with dramas, game shows, ‘youth’ programming, and much more, and, of course, the ever-present radio. To me, radio offered more profound companionship to the lonely and isolated than television ever could: TV often emphasized our separation from the action unfolding onscreen, while radio created a space of shared intimacy through its disembodied voices. Today’s internet exacerbates this sense of distance even further, highlighting one's absence rather than offering genuine connection.

Yet, back in that simpler, quieter era, free from the relentless bombardment of the 24-hour infotainment cycle, many people in my peer group didn’t socialize in the conventional sense at all. Few went to pubs (often due to age restrictions—they would be unlikely to be served), fewer still went clubbing, or attended sporting events, concerts or theatrical performances. Their (my) version of socializing might have involved quiet afternoons in local bookshops, comic stores, music shops or hobby corners, beguiling away the hours in companionable silence with fellow enthusiasts/obsessives (I discovered the delights of the pub, and a proper social life, later on).

These individuals didn’t have a label. No one fretted over them, apart perhaps from a well-meaning relative quietly hoping they might find someone special to take them out of themselves, as it were. Crucially, I don’t remember worried newspaper editorials claimed these individuals represented ‘the end of an era’. They were simply part of the rich tapestry of youthful experiences, quietly finding their paths in life, even if occasionally dismissed by more outgoing peers as ‘losers’.

And frankly, it’s a good job that not everyone sought excitement outside their homes. Imagine the chaos if everyone, young and old alike, constantly sought entertainment in public spaces: pubs bursting at the seams, restaurants perpetually overbooked, theatres and concert halls hopelessly crowded. And who would remain at home to watch television, absorbing all those adverts that funded the entire enterprise?

Of course, back then no one knew precisely how many people chose quiet nights at home or what they wore while watching Only Fools And Horses or Knight Rider. There was a blissful ignorance, free from real-time oversharing. We existed happily, or angst-ridden in my case, without the relentless compulsion to broadcast and validate our private lives publicly.

I don’t intend this all to sound like an ‘old man yells at cloud’ moment; though I suppose to some, I might already fit that description. Instead, consider it a gentle reminder: next time the internet flares up with a so-called worrying trend, take a step back. Remember that humanity has always been wonderfully diverse. Just because something runs counter to our preconceived ideas of normality doesn’t mean it’s revolutionary. Rather, it highlights the boundless variety of human experience, reminding us that life’s richness lies precisely in its infinite, delightful differences.

Watching The Night Watch on Netflix recently, it struck me how much of the ‘content’ churned out by Hollywood and streaming services, purportedly TV series but often merely long films diced into segments, feels as removed from reality as a Doris Day musical from the 1950s. Yet unlike those charming confections—candy-coated universes where issues were mere misunderstandings and emotional expression came through song and dance—the fantastical elements of today's content seem designed to unsettle and disorient rather than lift our spirits.

Crucially, these contemporary shows lack the moral complexity and genuine tension of gritty 1970s dramas. Today’s conflicts are overwhelmingly physical, resolved in predictably straightforward ways. Characters feel flat, adhering unwaveringly to familiar tropes or societal clichés—even when those clichés are inverted. It’s as though producers shy away from challenging audiences’ comfortable, liberal worldviews, unwilling to portray even a fraction of everyday life’s genuine complexity.

Perhaps studio executives watched something like The Wire and collectively decided that’s enough realism for one lifetime, thank you very much. Gone are the intricate moral ambiguities where characters’ motivations reflect nuanced, messy human realities. Even the blunt emotional honesty of Sex and the City or the metaphorical fantasy-horror landscape of Twin Peaks, with each digression reinforcing everyday jeopardy, feels distant and unattainable today.

This dilution of meaningful content has led to genuine boredom among viewers, myself included. A recent study by Simon Kucher suggests there is widespread ‘subscription fatigue’ among streaming consumers, with 39% believing they have too many services, 43% feeling they overspend and a notable 54% considering cancelling their service due to poor content rather than cost alone.

Friends in the industry tell me this signals the end of streaming’s so-called golden age, which was sparked by Netflix and its competitors. Budget cuts are rampant and given recent viewing experiences, the drop in quality is all too evident. Perhaps it’s time for these services to revisit the power of storytelling that resonates genuinely, before audiences tune out for good.