Three years ago, the world went properly mental. The United Kingdom left the European Union at the end of January 2020, an act of such self-sabotaging stupidity that, today, many of those Brexit supporters are rueing their decision. Even more significant was the discovery of a new strain on the coronavirus from a small district in China. It was called Covid-19, and you may not have heard about it, but essentially it brought the entire world to a standstill and forced us all to stay indoors.
I myself was not immune from the dizzyingly off-piste f*ckery that defined the beginning of 2020. Thanks to some weird external force, I found myself both watching, and becoming engrossed in, Love Island. Now, chances are you’ll be familiar with ITV’s sunshine- and botox-filled dating show and, if you are not, I envy you.
I ended up watching more or less the entire series, getting my nightly fix of the dramas, developments and boobies that define the programme. While my fondness for breasts has not dissipated in the intervening three years, I can honestly say I have had little-to-no desire to return to Love Island. I’m better now, and can see the programme for what it is: pure mind-numbing trash.
It is often said that television has to fulfil at least one of two roles: to educate or to entertain. Well, Love Island fails at the first task, unless you’ve always wanted to know whether Daz from Nottingham is a bum or boobs man (maybe I should stop it with the ‘boobs’ references). Entertain? That is perhaps slightly less up for debate, although the ‘entertainment’ it provides is of an imbecilic variety. Unlike cerebral comedy such as Yes, Minister, you can leave your brains in the other room when watching Love Island.
I might have watched but one series of Love Island, but I’ve heard enough ‘I’ve Got a Text’ and ‘Just See What Happens’ exclamations to last me a lifetime. Perhaps I’m bitter because the ‘contestants’ get more texts than I do. Whenever my phone beeps, invariably it is to notify me that my data allowance has expired…
On a more pertinent note, what exactly does Love Island say about modern dating? I fail to believe that the desire to truly find that special someone is a stronger pull to boarding that ITV-liveried plane than the ensuing fame and fortune. It would be interesting to see how many pairings have lasted beyond the show’s closing credits. Perhaps I will research this. Or I might go and cut my toenails instead.
A group of well-groomed, slim-waisted and camera-friendly, but ultimately intellectually-questionable, men and women donned in Dior and quaffing champagne is about as realistic and representative of the real world as Instagram. And perhaps that is where they should have stayed.
Forgive the tautology, but it is vacuous and empty-headed dross. Anyway, who’s excited for Strictly this autumn?
Loving the blog Ian! Keep up the good work. I particularly enjoy your musings on everyday occurrences and your take on them. It’s a real slice of life! Can’t say I much enjoy the car stuff though, as it’s not my thing but hey, can’t please ‘em all, right?
looking forward to the next post :)