Back then finding out about Scott and Charlene’s wedding on Neighbours before I’d had a chance to watch the VHS tape were slim.

Meeting a Neighbours fan simply required me to say: “Don’t tell me - I haven’t watched it yet.”

Even telephone calls to Kylie Minogue obsessives were safe: the landline bills were so expensive my dad limited me to six minutes.

There was only time for the essentials: Are you going to Amanda’s party? Will there be boys there? Can I borrow your Global Hypercolour Tammy Girl top?

What’s the answer to question eight on the maths homework?

My relationship with Scott Robinson’s mullet was safe.

Spoil was something you did to your clothes if you dropped an ice cream.

When TV channels multiplied up from the terrestrial four, to the satellite hundreds, and into the Netflix gazillion boxsets spoilers became a real thing.

The internet has cemented the word in our vernacular. Right now someone I know is illegally streaming the latest hottest show from America I don’t even know I’m obsessed with yet.

It often feels like one half of the online world is shrieking about that scene, and the other half is shrieking about no spoilers.

The word’s so overused it’s imploded. When the BBC’s period drama Wolf Hall aired its last episode the internet ignited with accusations of spoiler-ing as people discussed the beheading of Henry VIII’s second wife Anne Boleyn.

That is not a spoiler – it’s history. As Elsa sings in Frozen – Let it Go! Oh, you haven’t seen it yet? My bad.

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