Hackers have ruined my Netflix.
Hackers have ruined my Netflix.

Damn you hackers, it’s an Olsen twins invasion


ON A scale of first world problems, this one ranks right up near the top of the disasters.

Since we signed up for it, Netflix has been saving me from the scourge that is commercial television.

A few shows on the ABC aside, the majority of which feature Shaun Micallef, and a bit of news, most of my television viewing has consisted of Netflix, Kayo and more recently, Disney.

I can’t stomach the offerings on commercial television.

I can actually feel my brain cells dying as I watch a conga line of vacuous Muppets act their way through supposed realities of dating, cooking or dancing.

Given I have precious few brain cells as it is, I figure it’s best to avoid the unnecessary slaughter.

Anyway, deep into day three of daddy daycare on the weekend I fielded a very firm request from my daughter.

It was more of a military demand. “I want to watch horses,” came the request.

To be fair, she’d been excellent all weekend, screen time had been minimal, so I was happy to relent.

Turning on Netflix, I was greeted with the advice that the account no longer existed.

The news that horses would possibly not be on was met with about as much enthusiasm as I might greet a vegan barbecue.

The pressure was on.

My technical expertise is marginally superior to that of moss, so I wasn’t confident in my abilities to resolve it.

Multiple failed attempts to log in later and the panic was starting to scale up.

My sweet, polite little mate was now a fairly disappointed horse fan who was not seeing anything resembling equine.

There were no tantrums, but after three days without her mum, this was not the break my little mate needed, she’d reached her limit of dad.

Dinner was turning into a disaster.

The house cleaning had been foregone for cuddles, with mum still hours away.

After completing the near-perfect marathon, I had managed to keep the place spotless all weekend, my race was falling apart just metres from the finish line.

I decided to concede technical defeat and call Netflix for backup.

Incredibly, a real person answered and spoke to me, and we soon discovered some faceless monster had actually hacked our account.

The dodgy profile was promptly deleted, but all our viewing histories were lost in the process. That mattered little, as it meant horses were back in business.

On they went, and I was able to scrape together a meal which would’ve brought most television cooking show judges to tears, and not in a good way.

Our spiritual leader and hero, ‘Mummy’, returned, the marathon was over, and everything was back to normal.

Until I went into the account days later.

What had once been gritty action films, quality (some Adam Sandler) comedies and gripping dramas have been replaced with princesses, fairies and the Olsen twins.

I’d used the wrong account.

The hackers won. And now reality TV doesn’t seem so bad.

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