In all the gushing over Netflix, there's room for caution

The reaction is predicable. The share price is not.

With a certain depressing predictability, the newspapers today are gushing in their praise for Netflix. The US-headquartered service now streams video to US 29.17m subscribers, up just over 2m since the start of the year, enabling it to claim to be the most watched network in the US.

Netflix added another 1m streaming members outside the US in the first quarter, bringing total international subscribers to 7.1m. It currently offers its service in Canada, Latin America and since early 2012, the UK. Netflix’s first quarter results provided a further boost to a share price that has been skyrocketing of late: at the end of last September, the share price was $55.

Since then, the share price has risen almost four-fold to $213. According to Netflix, its future success will be boosted by producing original content. The sum total of its original content to date is the grand total of one programme; that requires a generous definition of original, namely a remake of House of Cards.

It currently charges £6.99 per month in the UK; by contrast, the BBC licence fee seems really quite a snip. Just before potential investors empty the piggy bank and rush to invest in Netflix shares, they might care to reflect on the nature of this market sector. Netflix’s main rivals, the Amazon-owned LoveFilm and HBO, are not going to go away any time soon and can be expected to fight back.

If and when Amazon bids more aggressively for the rights to film and TV shows, the acquisition costs for Netflix cannot but rise. Also, as a number of sharper analysts have spotted, Netflix may have cash flow challenges, with $3.3bn in off-balance sheet content liabilities and only around $1bn in cash. As for producing further fresh content: House of Cards cost around $100m to produce. At that sort of cost, do not expect too many headline grabbing productions of that calibre to follow any time soon.

One other thing jumps out from the first quarter Netflix results and that is how way out the performance of the firm is compared to the management predictions. If the firms own management finds it so hard to predict its performance, heaven knows how the analyst community will get on in their forecasts.

Investors may get lucky and Netflix could be an acquisition target for an Apple or a Microsoft in the coming months. On the other hand, the shares are wildly volatile; not shares one would suggest for savings put away for a rainy day.

Photograph: Getty Images

Douglas Blakey is the editor of Retail Banker International

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism