You would think that after 18 months of being locked in the house, any self-respecting twentysomething would now be hellbent on wringing out every hot minute of their hot years. Mad with existential angst and unfocused horniness, they would be blindly propelled like a plague of cicadas in thongs towards their ultimate destiny: Love Island. There they would be sure to find romance, or if not, at least be the source of a few juicy complaints to Ofcom.
But no, because this is 2021, and everything is awkward and weird and disappointing. This year, it would seem that nobody fancies each other, and there’s nothing going on but the rent. Despite beauty standards that include kidney-coloured lipstick and copious amounts of underboob, I’ve seen more chemistry between the mannequins in the window of a defunct Ann Summers.
Things are so desperate that the least-worst guy in the villa is a PE teacher called Hugo
With all that pent-up pandemic energy going on, how could the producers get this so wrong? The girls are doing their damnedest: if they flaunted their curves any more the Daily Mail would be suing them for libel. Among them are letting agent Faye, with the aforementioned kidney lips and manic flashing eyes; Rachel was glam, confident and still under the impression that men have any redeeming features; Sharon, who seems filled with rage; and the shimmeringly named Liberty Poole, a vision in a red shorty nightie. They gather like sirens on the rocks, carefully dissecting the words and actions of the boys, all of whom are – let’s not put too fine a point on it – a bunch of absolute, humdinging dickheads.
Where to start? One of the hottest prospects was Brad, who looks like an AI composite of a sex doll and George Clarke, and talks about himself constantly in a Northumberland accent that’s unintelligible to the human ear. Another prized specimen is Jake, a water engineer (plumber) and self-confessed foot fetishist who farts while he’s flirting. The personality drought continues with high-end events manager Aaron, who, on a date with Sharon, was astonished that she didn’t want a future looking after his four imaginary children and doing all the housework. The lads sit together bellyaching and gossiping, moaning that the girls are too “feisty” (ie sentient) and that they want a girl who’s more “chilled” (a surrendered wife). Things are so desperate that the least-worst guy in the villa is a PE teacher called Hugo.
If something big doesn’t happen soon I will have to abandon Love Island for good. Which is a shame because I badly need to spend the next two months watching idiots by a pool saying things like “he’s a bit of me” and “100 per cent”. All I can hope is that they’ll get someone in there who will bring some romance, energy and drama. Who could it be? Matt Hancock? Come on, young people, sort it out. This series is a real turn-off.
Love Island is on ITV2 at 9pm nightly and ITV Hub
