Love Island is ultimately the Hunger Games of Sex – a goldfish bowl insight into the most vacuous musings of nightclub pulling.
But people are obsessed with it, watching on voyeuristically as a group of beautiful looking people show their utter contempt for dignity.
Perhaps the draw for the millions is not the joy in seeing someone triumph, but in the gathered giggles as their efforts fail. From what I can see it is a very glamorous and sunlit version of 2.30am in the smoking area of an Irish nightclub – the desperate, last-chance saloon.
The millions who watch it with the dedication of a cultist gang practising at the altar of voyeurism, think nothing of the sacrificial nature of the callous programme structure.
People will tell you it is a bit of fun but the reality is that there have been a number of tragedies, including at least two suicides of ex-contestants.
Could it be that an underlying mental health condition was exacerbated by the stress and public exposure of the most private of hopes and aspirations?
Is this mindless TV fakery really worth it?
Love Island is like the age-old satisfaction found by humans in the schaden-freude joy of other people’s disasters.
