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Unexpectedly for a Monday evening, viewers of talking point TV were spoilt for choice last night. Would it be the seventh series launch of hit dating show Love Island? Goalkeeping heroics in a dramatic Euros penalty shootout (aka Glove Island)? Or Andy Murray’s victorious Centre Court comeback at Wimbledon (aka 40-Love Island)?
I surprised myself my choosing the naughty, non-sporty option. OK, with snippets of football during the copious commercial breaks.
Rather embarrassingly for a professional TV critic - or perhaps not - until last night, I’d never watched an episode of ITV2’s raunchy reality juggernaut. I know, right? What a muggy melt. (Am I doing this correctly?)
Sure, I’m aware of its “work”. I've seen clips on Gogglebox and awards show montages. I’ve scrolled past the social media memes. I know that one of its previous winners was Dani Dyer - not to be confused with her “pwopah nawty” dad, Cockney cult hero Danny.
I also know that, like a bikini-clad Line Of Duty, the show has spawned a whole new lingo. This is an Ambre Solaire-scented world of “coupling up” and “cracking on”. Of being “salty”, “snaky” or “extra”. Of telling someone “you’re a bit of me” before “sticking it on” them. Of “grafting”, getting “pied off”, avoiding “the ick” and sagely declaring “it is what it is, babes”.
I even know that every incoming phone message must be met with an over-excited squawk of “I got a text!”, like when you got your first Nokia during the late 90s.
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More seriously, I also know about the ethical issues surrounding this televised Majorcan meat market. It deliberately breeds conflict, meaning contestants get mercilessly trolled online and dragged in the tabloids. Until recently, though, the production’s after-care left a lot to be desired.
Two contestants, Sophie Gradon and Mike Thalassitis, tragically committed suicide within nine months, as did Gradon's boyfriend. Last year, former presenter Caroline Flack took her own life too.
Then there’s the show’s increasingly problematic lack of inclusivity. Its newly “diverse” line-up still isn’t diverse enough to include any LGBT+ participants. ITV execs ill-advisedly claimed this was because same-sex couples pose a “logistical difficulty”, which only served to annoy critics even more.
Charity Women’s Aid has criticised the treatment of female contestants by “controlling” and “abusive” males. There have been concerns over the show’s adverse effect on impressionable young viewers’ body image. Without exception, Love Islanders are waxed, manicured, spray-tanned and gym-buffed, like a different species. Plus-size contestants - or even ones with average BMIs - remain conspicuous by their absence.
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Despite ITV making the right noises about safeguarding and freshening up the format, it’s still just identikit straight people strutting around in skimpy swimwear. And none of them ever seem to go swimming.
However, I know all this from hearing other people obsess over it, observing the media discourse and soaking it up by osmosis. I can bluff my way through watercooler chat about Love Island but I’ve never actually sat down properly to watch an entire episode, let alone a full series.
Yes, say it loud and proud: I’m a Love Island virgin - very much unlike the perma-horny 20somethings taking part. Their sexual CVs run to several pages, while I’m only now popping my Casa Amore cherry. It’s my secret shame. Except I don’t feel terribly ashamed.
Blame the fact that there’s simply so much TV nowadays and the fact that I have to watch a helluva lot of it for my day-job. Blame the fact that as a man whose grafting and cracking on days are behind him, I’m hardly its target market. And yes, blame a large element of cultural snobbery too.
I resented the way it was hyper-commercialised, more about the “sponcon” than actual human relationships. I hated how it was populated by shark-eyed social climbers, desperate to parlay their fleeting infamy into a so-called career as an Instagram influencer.
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As plotlines are shamelessly manufactured by producers, Islanders fake drama in a cynical bid to score lucrative brand deals. It’s so deeply insincere, it makes the Kardashians look like a gritty documentary.
I found its worship of wilfully stupid people reductive and rather depressing. Life’s too short to spend so much of it in the company of attention-seeking wannabes with both the skintone and brain cells of a teak wardrobe. I’d avoid such people in real life, so why stare slack-jawed at them on-screen for six hours per week? After all, there’s hardly a shortage of quality TV to watch.
Rather hypocritically, I also harboured a nostalgic affection for the civilian franchise’s VIP predecessor, Celebrity Love Island. To my mind, this two-series wonder in the mid-Noughties - which saw tabloid shag-monsters such as Abi Titmuss, Calum Best, Rebecca Loos and Paul Danan flying to Fiji to rut and row - was one of the finest reality shows ever. Without “Dangerous” Danan and his Chinawhite-frequenting pals, why bother with a cast of unknowns?
Well, I decided it was time to know my enemy. To see what I wasn’t missing much. After 18 months off-screen, Love Island was back for its first summer series in the Covid era and anticipation had never been higher. Besides, after some pesky pandemic put all our lives on pause, I figured I was owed some mindless fluff. Perhaps I could put aside my prejudices and live vicariously through a hot girl-and-boy summer.
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The opening montage didn’t exactly allay my fears. The first shot was a lingering close-up of a bikini-clad backside, jiggling in slo-mo 4K. This year’s cast of sizzling singletons were seen posing for sexy photoshoots, hitting the gym, taking selfies and getting their boobs out in business meetings. A highbrow BBC4 documentary this wasn’t. It was ITV2, sponsored by Just Eat (those I’m A Celeb rip-off ad bumpers were annoying too).
After a few drone shots of the Med and a tour of the refurbished villa (astroturf! naff neon signage! ornamental rabbits!), the doors were flung open to what narrator Iain Stirling called this summer’s “sanitised sex bubble”. Our cast arrived, standing in the back of open-topped jeeps. I wondered if they’d come all the way from Palma de Mallorca Airport like this. A convoy of nymphomaniac Popemobiles barrelling down the motorway past eye-rolling locals.
The firepit was lit and the girls wobbled in on vertiginous wedge heels. After airkissing and cooing at their new lodgings, they struggled to open their welcome bottle of fizz and whined: “We need a man!” You could hear Suffragettes spinning in their graves.
Presenter Laura Whitmorewas a slight charisma vacuum compared to comedian husband Stirling, whose sarky voiceover added an extra layer of lolz. In introductory VTs, the five females told us what they were looking for in a man: tall with muscles and a nice smile was about the size of it. Although Devonian estate agent Faye wished someone would “rip her a new arsehole but not like that” and fashion blogger Kaz wanted “a guy to rail me”. I Googled this and rather wished I hadn’t.
Next came the “coupling up” process - even more humiliating than picking teams in Games lessons at school. The boys bounced in, their eyes on stalks. After awkwardness, tension-building pauses and some slightly confusing swapsies, we had our first five couples.
Pleasant-but-dim Somerset plumber Jake - a self-confessed fan of “little white toes”, which was nice - was paired with lovely Brummie chicken shop waitress Liberty. Social media immediately gave them the affectionate portmanteau name of “Jaberty”, although they talked so much, “Jibber-Jaberty” might be more apt.
Trout-pouty Faye gave off faint “mean girl” energy but was in hot demand, meaning the boys pointed at her and grunted “the one in blue”. She ended up with Northumberland labourer Brad - one of the Geordiest Geordies you ever heard.
When they made smalltalk on the poolside banquettes, Faye kept widening her eyes in a weirdly distracting manner, presumably to pretend she understood a word Brad was saying. Luckily, Brad looked like a Michelangelo painting and lives with his Nan (aww!) so should become a firm favourite, even among bemused Southerners.
Kaz of “railing” fame got semi-professional footballer Toby, aka Wes Nelson Mk2. Both were social media obsessives from Essex (quelle surprise) which seemed promising. That is, until Kaz repeatedly grumbled that poor Toby wasn’t “gymmy” enough for her. If six-packed semi-pro sportsmen aren’t hench enough, what chance have the rest of mankind got?
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Civil servant Sharon had the poshest accent but the least posh name. She was paired with PE teacher Hugo, a gangly, goofy charmer who seems destined to become this year’s “Dr Alex” - ie. too nice and normal to succeed in the cut-throat world of Casa Coitus.
I already fear for Hugo returning to his classroom in Hampshire: “Sir, didn’t I see you on Love Island? None of the girls stepped forward for you, did they sir? What does ‘went to town on your earlobes’ mean, sir?”
Every time his back was turned, Sharon hissed to the others that he was “too shy”, “too polite”, “too sweet” or some other strange complaint. This was after she’d dismissed Jake as “someone who’d wear white jeans”. Miaow. Then again, Sharon’s job is literally making Brexit happen, which must go down badly at dinner parties.
Finally came Scottish model Shannon and lanky Londoner Aaron, who works in “high-end events” (well, he is 6ft 3in). Shannon, who described herself as a “travel bug party girl” and has potential to be a proper handful, made it crystal clear that Aaron “wasn’t my type”, either “on paper” or otherwise. Love Islanders are partial to saying “on paper”, I noticed, along with prefacing every sentence with “I’m not gonna lie”.
So there we had it. Five couples were formed, ready for the first nocturnal montage of the series. Cue slo-mo dirty dancing at poolside, prosecco glasses in hand. Each pair proceeded to pick dares from a box. Twerk! Snog! Suck each other’s toes! Nibble each other’s ears!
Hardly subtle, this didn’t so much break the ice as melt it with a thermo-nuclear weapon. Foot fetishist Jake furtively filmed the toe-suckage. If you see a glowing light under his duvet in future episodes, you know he’s rewatching it. Shudder.
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There was just time for one last twist. “I got a voice note!” exclaimed Toby. Texts are so 2019, clearly. It was from a new arrival called Chloe, who left a Babestation-style breathy message, trying a tad too hard to be sexy. On tonight’s episode, she’ll steal one of the lads from his fuming partner. Acrylic claws will come out and the toxic games will begin.
In many ways, Love Island conformed precisely to my preconceptions. Homogenous, heteronormative and profoundly “cheugy” (yep, I Googled that too), it was populated by under-dressed narcissists with unwise tattoos. Some of the sexual politics on display felt disappointingly dated.
Yet it hasn’t won BAFTAs for nothing and I slowly began to see its appeal. This was the TV equivalent of junkfood: disposable, doubtless unhealthy, but irresistibly more-ish. This opener apparently felt samey, adhering closely to the template of previous series, but there’s something soothing in such familiarity.
With its saturated colours and slightly dated synth soundtrack, it was redolent of the summer breaks most of us won’t be able to have this year. Escapist, addictive and breezily untaxing, this was a holiday for the eyes. An antidote to the packed summer of sport and a lot less nauseating than that Matt Hancock CCTV footage.
It had a warm heart, too. Beneath the bronzer, banter and bulging muscles, most of the Love Islanders were surprisingly sweet. Mutually supportive friendships were soon formed. They genuinely wanted to meet “The One”, seeming to believe in the life-enhancing power of love. Well, there might be sun lounger fumblings and in-shower shags but it’s not called Sex Island, is it?
I’ve finally lost my Love Island virginity. And I’ll reluctantly admit it felt good. Right, let’s crack on with the rest of the series. It’s not my type on paper but it might just be a piece of me.