British Summertime is here, and with it the smell of charcoaled sausages and burnt flesh lingers in the air. Your wardrobe is a mix of "vest tops that discreetly hides under boob sweatage" and "cardigans that can double up as an umbrellas". But alas, your hen do to Ibiza is still 6 weeks away and your social diary is as empty as your wallet before payday. So what better way to fill those muggy summer evenings than to spend each night in your pants, propped up next to a dozen fans, watching people (decidedly better looking than yourself) find ways to win fifty grand, I mean love. Ah the romance. Love Island is back for its second series (third if we're including the series where Callum Best dumped Rebecca Loos for farting) and I could not be happier. If you think for one moment that this is vacuous trash TV viewing then, my friend, you are terribly wrong. Love Island has things to teach us, and in three weeks I've learnt quite a bit already.
There's a dating Santa and he takes requests "on paper"
I've been single for half a decade and during that time there isn't a dating website I haven't scoured in search of the ideal man. Different websites and applications have measured my personality and matched me with hundreds of men based on our 'chemistry' but alas my one true love evades me. Yet, little did I know, there is a solution to this. For on Love Island, all of the contestants have access to 'paper' where they can request their perfect match and he gets dispatched to your door like a pervy deliveroo. Amber, Olivia, Chris, Mike, they've all got access to this paper and the dirty Tinder Santa is dropping off hot love matches all over Magaluf. For the love of all that is holy, would someone give me access to this paper, as I'm filling out my request form and sending it recorded post asap.
Eggs aren't just for breakfast or Easter.
Chris has three eggs in Olivia's basket, Dom has put all of his eggs in a Jess shaped carrier and Chloe's eggs are splattered all over the floor as she threw them at Mike as he waltzed out the villa door. There is an abundance of eggs in the Love Island Villa and people are moving them around and in and out of each other's baskets like the Easter Bunny on crack. As in the real search for love, your egg sharing is your game strategy, and Love Island is full of love strategists. Like an elaborate game of Risk, you have to decide how you are going to manoeuvre your eggs around the love playing field and hope you don't end up with an empty basket at the end of it all. So which strategy are you using in your game of love? Do you do a "Dom' and pop all your eggs in one Tinder date's basket and hope she doesn't ghost you in preference for the boy with the blue eyes? Or do you do an Olivia and pop a few eggs in all the boy's baskets and hope you can take one of them to bed long enough to smash them and make an omelette?
Being 'Not Bothered" is man for "I'm Fine"
One Christmas, many years ago, my boyfriend at the time and I sat by the twinkling lights of our fake plastic fir tree and exchanged gifts. I watched gleefully as he delved in and ripped the paper from his array of perfectly chosen presents I had spent months scouring the land (and Amazon) for. He held up the designer clothes, man moisturisers and the little gifts that inspired memories of the year we had spent together. Each perfectly chosen with him at the forefront of my mind. And then it was my turn, and he handed me over the plastic bag, and I gasped in anticipation as I pulled out a 'Top Gear' Annual. A 'Top Gear' Annual. I looked over at him quizzically and he gave a nervous laugh, and said "Well you know, because we both like Top Gear."
And for the rest of the day, I was fine. I was fine over Christmas dinner, I was fine on Boxing Day, and the rest of the Christmas Break, and I was even fine on New Year's Eve. I was totally fine. Could not have been finer. Exactly like how Sam was totally not bothered when Olivia pied him for Chris. Or when Chris was not bothered when Olivia humped Mike like a rabid Jack Russell. They were not bothered; I was fine and we all developed haematomas from holding in our rage. The end.
Feminism is dead, long live the Patriarchy.
In the first week, Camilla put a t-shirt on during a gym session and the men applauded and called her 'wifey' material. The following week, Jonny declared that feminism was irrelevant and Camilla dumped him because it's 2017 bitches. Twitter rejoiced. Girl Power! Then Jonny and Camilla went on a date, Jonny pulled out her chair and called her "Darling" and Twitter announced that 'Jamilla' was the best love story since Charles and Diana and demanded a wedding. So what if he thinks you're a hairy arm pitted, bra burning Feminazi Camilla, he's got cute hair and basic manners, give that boy a blowjob pronto. If Love Island teaches us anything this summer, it is that we should put all our values, morals and ideals to one side for a boy who looks good in a tank top.
I think we can all agree, that Love Island is the most forward thinking psychological experiment of our time. Or it's just Tinder, vomiting in our laps in a glamorous villa in an area of Spain most Spanish people wouldn't dream of visiting. Either way I am addicted and if you like what you have read here you can read my commentary most weeknights over on my Twitter. Which life lesson have you gained since watching Love Island? And more importantly, which current islander would you couple up with?