One payment, twelve months,
and then it simply stops.

A term here is a year of access to a channel list and an on-demand shelf, carried down the broadband line already coming into the house. No box arrives, no engineer visits, and no agreement survives the twelfth month. Behind the figure sit servers, bandwidth, content ingest and a desk staffed through the night, which is why a term offered at a fraction of everybody else usually turns out to be a resold feed nobody involved can repair. What a term never buys is ownership. It is access for a stated period, and when the period closes the access closes with it — by design, on a date you were told before anything started.

Every renewal that fires without being asked for depends on one thing: a credential left behind after the first payment. Remove the credential and automatic renewal stops being merely discouraged and becomes impossible. That is the arrangement here. Once the amount clears, nothing is retained — no card number, no token, no continuous authority lodged with a payment provider — so no mechanism exists that could open a second term on your behalf. The same absence cuts the other way too, and it is the part worth noticing: we cannot quietly move the figure at renewal, because renewal is not something done to you. It is something you either request or never mention again. A message is the whole of it.

Around a fortnight from the end date, one message arrives saying the term is closing and what another year would come to. That is the only contact of its kind you will ever get from us — no sequence of increasingly anxious emails, no final-notice theatre, no countdown. Ignore it and nothing follows. On the last day the login stops opening channels; the app stays installed with its settings untouched, and the account sits dormant rather than being wiped. Households that come back eight months later are usually surprised their favourites survived. There is no reactivation charge for that, because nothing is being reactivated — a later term is simply a new term. The sequence is set out on the renewal page.

Starting a second year is one message and one amount, at whatever figure is published on the day. The login itself does not change, so the app on the television needs no attention at all: nothing reinstalled, no server line re-entered, no list of favourites rebuilt. Channel order and settings carry straight across because none of it was deleted in between. What renewal never does is happen by itself, and what it never carries is a loyalty penalty — a returning household pays the figure printed on the plans page, not a quietly inflated version of it produced in a private message. Where a term lapsed months ago, the same applies; there is no back-payment for the gap and no reinstatement fee.

This is the shortest section on the page, because there is almost nothing to describe. You stop by doing nothing. No form, no conversation with somebody trained to keep you talking, no thirty days of notice, no final month billed out of politeness, no equipment to post back. The term reaches its date and closes. Telling us is welcome and changes nothing about the outcome. The reason it reads so thin is that the machinery built around leaving — retention scripts, cancellation mazes, win-back offers that appear the moment you click the wrong button — only exists where a payment is still running. Here it ran once, a year ago. The leaving page says the same thing at greater length, mostly because people do not believe it the first time.

Households change shape mid-year. A child gets a screen of their own; a lodger moves out; somebody starts working nights. Moving up is same-day: you settle the difference between the two plans across the months still to run, and the extra stream opens on the existing login within minutes. Nothing is reinstalled, nothing is reset, and the end date does not move. Moving down waits for the next term, because capacity already committed cannot be handed back part-way through — and that asymmetry is the honest argument for buying the smaller plan first and letting the house prove you wrong. The arithmetic, worked through with actual figures, is on the changing-plan page.

Nobody should be funding two providers for the same weeks, and the fix is embarrassingly simple. Tell us roughly how long is left on the arrangement you already have, and your term is set to begin when that one lapses rather than on the day you order. Nothing has to be migrated: a term is a login, and the players sitting on your television will accept a different one without complaint or reinstallation. The usual pattern is to run both side by side for a week, compare them on the evenings that genuinely matter rather than at eleven in the morning, and then let the older arrangement expire without saying anything to anybody — which, where no card is stored, is all leaving ever requires. Moving across covers the overlap properly.

The absences are hard to advertise, so here they are listed plainly. No minimum period beyond the year you bought. No notice to give. No equipment on loan, therefore nothing to post back and no charge for failing to. No credit check, and no account carrying a balance that can go negative. No bundle in which leaving one part silently re-prices another. No installation appointment, and so no early-termination fee bolted to one. No address held, no household census, no contract renewing on a rolling basis while you look the other way. The entire commitment is the amount settled at the start, and the entire consequence of walking away is that the picture stops. Expressed by the month the smallest term is around €4.92, though you never pay by the month.

Screens are the only thing that moves the figure, which makes it the one decision worth a week of attention. One screen at €59 suits a single viewer, or a house that genuinely watches together. Two at €89 matches the ordinary shape of a shared home. Three at €119 suits a household that fills separate rooms at the same hour. Installations are unlimited on all three — what the number caps is streams playing simultaneously, not copies of the app. Count the collisions across one normal week rather than guessing from memory, and weigh the two errors honestly: being wrong small is corrected with a message and a small amount, while being wrong large sits there until the term ends. Most land on the two-screen term.

Four things, in the conversation you ordered in and usually inside five minutes: a username, a password, the server address the app asks for, and instructions written for the exact device you named. Nothing goes in the post. Nothing turns up by email hours later. There is no separate activation step at all — type the four details into whichever player you use, wait a minute or two, and the guide has populated with the full list sitting behind it. Keep the thread rather than clearing it — it records what the term includes, the day it started and the date it ends, and it is also the fastest route back to a person in month seven. Order at four in the morning and it still lands, because selling across a dozen countries requires a desk that never fully closes. Device-by-device steps are on the setup guide.

Recourse is at its strongest at the beginning of a term and at its weakest in month eleven, which makes the opening days the ones to spend carefully. Ignore the headline total and go straight to the ten or so channels your household genuinely puts on. Test them at half past eight on a weekday, with the network under load; mid-morning flatters every provider alive. Test on the set in the living room too, not on the handset in your hand. Then put a deliberately awkward question to the desk and time how long the reply takes. If any of it disappoints, say so that week: a fixed term does not punish you for raising a problem early, but no arrangement anywhere rewards raising it late. What subscribers reported after their own first weeks is on the reviews page, and the rest sits in the FAQ.

Interruptions happen to everything delivered over the internet; what separates one seller from another is the behaviour during one. Ours: raise it in the original conversation, and what comes back is an account of where the repair stands. Time lost through something at this end extends your closing date by the same number of days, arranged rather than bargained for. Where a fault cannot be repaired at all, the written refund terms apply, and they read identically in month nine and in week one. The structural benefit of a fixed term is easy to miss until you need it: nothing keeps taking money while a problem sits unsolved. The amount moved once, at the start, and no further amount is scheduled — so a dispute here is about fixing the service, never about stopping the bleeding first.

A no-questions refund advertised against a whole year is marketing copy rather than a policy, and it has a habit of dissolving precisely when somebody tries to use it. What exists here instead is a defined window at the start of the term during which a genuine fault we cannot resolve is refundable, written down in advance instead of decided by whoever happens to answer. Outside that window, honesty says a partial remedy is the likelier outcome: days added to the term, a change of plan, or troubleshooting continued until the problem is actually gone. One thing has never qualified: a connection too weak to hold the picture. Nobody repairs the wireless in your hallway from another country, and a seller who hints otherwise is setting up a row for later. The wording is on the refund policy page.

Put the app on as many things as you want. A television from the last few years will run the players involved, and so will an Apple TV, a MAG unit, an Android box, the stick tucked behind the screen, whatever handset or tablet is in the house, and any laptop or desktop. How many of them keep a signed-in copy is not something a term restricts at all. What is counted is streams playing in the same instant. A one-screen term spread across a phone, a laptop and two televisions is entirely normal provided only one of them is playing. Nothing is rented, so nothing has to be returned when the year closes — the app simply stops opening channels, and you can delete it or leave it sitting there for a term you might buy later. Everything device-specific is on the setup guide.

One check, quick, and far better done before the term starts than in month two. About 15 Mbps carries a steady Full HD stream, 25 Mbps and upwards suits 4K, and every additional simultaneous screen adds roughly another 10 Mbps on top. Measure at the television rather than trusting the figure printed on your broadband bill, and measure in the evening rather than mid-morning, because congestion is the real ceiling on older lines and on fixed wireless. Where households do meet trouble, the culprit is almost always the wireless between router and set rather than the line itself; an ethernet run or a powerline adapter clears the majority of it and costs less than a month of any term here. The checklist is on the setup page.

The amount agreed at the start is the amount for the whole year, and no mechanism exists by which it could change: nothing is stored, so nothing can be charged. No mid-term uplift, no surcharge attached to a busy month of live sport, no administration fee arriving three months in, no price review letter. If the published figure rises during your year it rises for households starting after you, not for you. And when your term closes, another year costs whatever is printed publicly on that day — never a personal number produced in a private message, which is a habit worth distrusting wherever you meet it. Every figure sits in the open on the plans page, which is also where the struck-through anchors and the monthly equivalents live.

The technology raises no question — pushing video over a broadband connection is precisely how the big national broadcasters run their own apps. Sellers are where the variation lives, so the useful question is whether the outfit taking a year of your money behaves like a legitimate business. Conveniently, the checkable signals are all things a fixed term makes visible: a figure published rather than quoted privately, an end date stated in advance, refund wording in writing, named people behind that writing, and a desk that answers awkward questions before anything is committed. An arrangement that will not tell you when it ends has told you something already. Treat all of the above as general information rather than legal advice; what you choose to watch stays your own responsibility. There is more of this on the legal page.

Certain shapes repeat often enough to be treated as rules. Start with the lifetime plan, which fails on its own sums: hardware and bandwidth generate a bill that arrives every month indefinitely, so a single amount covering that indefinitely only balances if the seller closes down early. That is what you would be wagering on. Next, any arrangement that insists on parking a card for the year has already told you whose convenience is being served. An end date nobody will commit to in writing is not an end date. A renewal figure that only appears once you are already inside is not a figure. And impatience is the oldest tell of all: a real annual subscription is still there tomorrow morning at the same amount, which is precisely why no clock on this site ticks down at you. The longer list is on the safety page.