Love Island: Boy meets girl in dating show for the Insta generation
Okay, I think I’ve got the gist of Love Island.
It’s a bit like at primary school when you picked your football team player by player - only with bikinis and buff blokes around a pool in in a Club 18-30 setting, rather than snotty nosed bairns with their shirts not properly tucked in at a public park.
In your head you’re screaming “pick me!” while outwardly trying to act cool.
The coupling-up process was bewildering for this first time viewer.
One poor bloke waits to see if one of the five girls steps forward to claim him like a piece of left luggage.
If not, he then gets to pick one of them, despite the fact they’ve discarded him with the raise of a tattooed eyebrow.
I’ve seen guys crash and burn with more dignity after crossing the dancefloor at Jackie O.
They’re little more than two dimensional characters wearing little clothing, and the intros don’t add much substance to the superficial style.
One of the guys, Jake, said he likes little feet. Still unsure whether that’s a new pop band or a strange kink of his.
Still, he is also a water engineer so he’ll come in handy if the pool needs fixed.
Aaron, meanwhile, worked in high end events. Nope, me neither.
Shannon, from Fife, underlined her roots by twice declaring “I’m Scottish, babes” in the opening minutes.
Disappointingly, she didn’t arrive in true Fife style shouting “awright Neebs!!” at the pool while wearing a Raith Rovers top and carrying Valente’s fish suppers for the rest of the housemates.
But she was first to be picked.
High end Aaron stepped forward and picked number five, as if he was choosing from a takeaway menu.
The hint of social distancing between them suggests this one will be over before the credits roll. I’m pretty sure he won’t be getting invited to Glenrothes for a night in Pinkertons this summer. Just a hunch ...
Meanwhile, Brad picks “the blue one” - or Fay as her parents christened her - underlining that these blokes have all the depth of a puddle on the Esplanade.
And so it rolled on until we had five couples with all the permanence of a house made from tissue paper.
The girls screeched, the blokes mumbled, and none of them had so much as a hair out of place.
And so begins a show based on daft challenges – toe and earlobe sucking are as gross as they sound, and unlikely to be elevated to Olympic Games status in my lifetime – and that awkward moment watching someone else snog.
And, all to see who cops off, sorry, falls in love, and wins the rather small beer prize of £50,000 and instant social media fame.
The latter is probably the biggie, because Love Island is perfect TV for the Insta generation who talk on hashtags and seem to measure their own value with the number of followers they have.
Being old sometimes has its advantages …