Love Island is screaming out for feminists, snivelling intellectuals with concave chests and fatties who love cooking

There have been a lot of accusations about the lack of diversity when it comes to Love Island. This is not surprising, given the latest intake of men look like they’ve rolled off a Mattel Action Man factory line – literally all these guys are missing is a little plastic hand grenade, whilst all the girls look like something that got pre-mixed in a Laboratoire Garnier bucket.

This isn’t to say there isn’t genuine sweetness (like Dani and Jack) amongst the £25,000 worth of cosmetic surgery (Megan alone), hair extensions, Persil-white veneers and elaborate inkings, but as for diversity, well, no – there really isn’t any.

By diversity, I’m not just talking about skin tones – with the new intake Samira is no longer the only woman of colour in the house – and this new bunch are at least demonstrating a powerful mix of accents, with Bristol and the North strongly represented. However where are the Irish, Scottish and the Welsh?

As for class, we’ve got our first new potentially idiot posh boy, complete with requisite cricket sweater over shoulders, but what we haven’t got is a mix of religion, sexuality or even intellect. Love Island is quaintly old fashioned in its rigid heterosexuality, where are our bi-curious, our lesbians and trans representatives?

And when it comes to intellect – forgive me if I’m wrong and the place is riddled with degrees – but so far it seems our sole representative of middle class tertiary education is the spectacularly emotionally dim Alex who has managed to cancel out any A-levels he might have achieved in my eyes by being completely gormless. His parents must be mortified.

Here is a boy, a doctor no less, who is prepared to give himself skin cancer in an attempt to be one of the lads, slavishly adopting rip-kneed jeans and endlessly asking girls ‘Like, where’s your head at?’ Get back in your chinos, Alex. The man’s a fool. If he had any nous whatsoever he’d have set up a little clinic, somewhere in a shady bit of the garden, offering advice about cystitis, thrush, shaving rash and folliculitis (a side effect of removing hair from the groin area resulting in painful in-growing hairs and boils), now that would have the girls flocking round him.

This programme is screaming out for some fat queens who like cooking. Seriously, I have yet to see anyone on the island sit down to a proper meal. Are there any knives and forks in that kitchen? What about plates? When do these people eat? Why does no one seem remotely interested in even looking inside the fridge? Some of these women must be pre-menstrual by now, so why aren’t they sitting on their beds pushing chocolate into their faces and demanding Nurofen? And that’s another thing – who is changing the sheets and how come we don’t see anyone cleaning? Where do they keep the hoover? The place must be filthy by now, covered in a fine ash of bronzing powder, a bit like Naples after Vesuvius erupted.

This show has been going on for weeks, and by this point thousands of teenagers will have failed their GCSEs over it and I for one am bored now of bikini bods and bulgy trunk Gods.

It’s time to send a few snivelling intellectuals in, preferably with concave chests and the inability to grow a beard. I want to see Megan chat to a bloke who doesn’t want to shove his tongue down her throat, and I‘d like to enforce a mandatory Love Island book club, where even Adam has to stop flexing his muscles for long enough to turn the pages of the latest Booker Prize winner.

Most of all I’d like to send in the monstrous regiment. Let’s see some proper new wave argumentative feminists who would proceed to do ferocious, take-no-prisoners style front crawl up and down the pool, before patiently explaining the patriarchy over plates of grilled halloumi.

Love Island isn’t reflecting real life, so we aren’t seeing the mad mix of hobbyists and creatives, the twenty-somethings who aren’t prepared to flop out on a bean bag all day. We aren’t seeing the activists, writers and artists. We’re just seeing the kind of people who would probably be spending the summer doing just what they’re doing now, even if the cameras weren’t on them, which basically boils down to sunbathing and snogging.

So, it's time to hand the villas over – after all, there are two of them – to the young people who can't afford a couple of weeks in the sun, and, please, come the revolution, can we have a sun tan lotion monitor who stomps around slathering Factor 50 on the fairer skins and insisting they move into the shade after lunch, a proper lunch, served with salads on a big trestle table, with knives and forks and plates and strictly no snogging with tongues until after the dish washer is stacked.