Chaste, childish and terrified of cancel culture: Love Island needs sex and chaos

In theory, Love Island is a perfect television show. After all, what’s everybody’s favourite part of reality television? The hot 20-somethings, the romantic entanglements, the fights and the sex scandals, obviously. So why not drop the pretence, skip the part where we act like we aren’t just here for the drama, and put a bunch of sexy idiots on an island together to see what happens?

Why, then, it is so boring?

I’m not exactly a Love Island devotee – I mostly watch it because it happens to be on my television in the evenings for reasons beyond my control – but I’m not made of stone. With previous seasons, I’ve certain seen the appeal. It’s Big Brother with bikinis. It’s like it was made in a lab by an unethical television scientist, putting together the best parts of dead reality TV premises. Did you know that Love Island is actually the name of the doctor, not the monster?

But this season, man, I just don’t know. The cracks had already started to show a long time ago, but now they’re chasms. It’s like the producers sent out a casting call to find the least charismatic people on the planet, and then got rid of all the ones who even hinted that they were interested in sex and romance. If you’re lucky you’ll get a chaste kiss between two of the most boring people on Earth, and you’ll like it.

Watching this season is like watching a mating ritual between HR executives. Maybe it’s because they’re scared of cancel culture, maybe it’s the “woke mind virus” that Twitter keeps warning me about, but these guys flirt like they’re at a deposition hearing. No wonder ratings are dropping, with the premier receiving half as many viewers as last year.

It’s all half-baked innuendo and cringy slang. Andre keeps saying he likes “bum bums”. If he ever wore clothes, I’d think he was just one kid stood on another kid’s shoulders.

Mitchell arrives to find that he’s the only guy there, with two beautiful women all to himself for the first crucial minutes of the season’s first episode. His opening gambit? “Guess what my job is? That’s right ladies, I’m a gas engineer.” Somebody pass me my smelling salts, I’m about to be overcome with lust.

There was one point in the opener where it seemed like we were in for some drama, when Ella and Tyrique realised they had actually met before. Finally, some intrigue! Are they former lovers? Did the producers set this up on purpose? Even better: it was slightly awkward for about five minutes and then they moved on. Easy, Love Island, my heart can only take so much scandal.

The issue with these recent seasons, and really with the show in general, is that it’s trying to satisfy two masters. On the one hand, it wants to be a sexy flirty show made by – and for – horny people. It wants intrigue, it wants drama and above all else it wants headlines (that last one is a real struggle for them at the moment – I’ve seen more exciting news come out of Bake Off).

On the other hand, it’s an ITV show. It needs to satisfy that British tendency towards twee conservativism. You can’t do anything too shocking, lest you pop the monocle of every pensioner who forgot to change the channel after reruns of Celebrity Catchphrase.

Its two main selling points are directly at odds with one another. We want them to have wild parties (but no more than two drinks a night). We want them to show off their bodies (but no nudity, obviously). It’s a show sold on the premise of having as much fun as possible (within strict limits, of course).

Good reality television needs a good mix of people. I’m not talking about race or gender, but personality types. You need a troublemaker. You need a really vacuousbut endearing hunk. You need somebody who has decided their goal is to become the most hated person in Britain and eventually land a job on GB News.

Instead, we’ve opened the Starburst to find that they’re all green (the most boring flavour of Starburst; please do not @ me). It’s a cohort of people pleasers with nothing to distinguish themselves from one another. In the show’s defence, it’s gotten a lot better in that last regard, with fans praising the most diverse and inclusive cast; though the format of the show still means it’s overwhelmingly straight, putting it at a disadvantage to something like the BBC’s I Kissed a Boy.

Honestly, I don’t blame the contestants too much – it’s probably a good thing that Gen Z has started to realise there are better ways to make money than by sacrificing your dignity to get on the cover of Hello magazine. But it doesn’t make for compelling television.

Here’s my solution: older contestants. Make 30 your floor, and see how much more interesting this show gets. These 20-year-olds are too concerned about their futures, and how a show like this could impact their careers. They don’t want to say anything problematic because they’re worried about losing Instagram followers, and none of them drink because they spend 10 hours a day in the gym.

What you want is a stable of older millennials with absolutely no regard for their dignity or reputation. Load us up with WKD and blast some Mr Brightside, then watch as we all immediately start to cry and kiss and shout at each other. Will it be as pleasant to look at? Probably not. But will it be more entertaining (and also a little bit sad)? Undoubtedly.