Love Island review: The sooner it sinks without trace below the warm azure waves of the Balearic Sea, the better

The Islanders aren’t actors, they are real, surprisingly fragile people, and I can’t say I find watching them have their young hearts broken entertaining

Right, so we’ve reached the end of week four of Love Island, probably nearly half way through its run (the exact date of the finale is a state secret known only to ITV’s Light Entertainment department, the Ministry of Defence and Huawei). There’s been countless couplings, decouplings and recouplings; six dumpees; and, the highlight thus far, one unfortunate fellow, Sherif Lanre, who was “removed” by the Love Island authorities for reasons that were at first unclear. I prayed that he’d been deported because he’d shat the bed and stank the dorm out, which would have not only indelibly stained the sheets, but also whatever vestige of self-respect the programme producers might still cling to. But no, it turns out his misbehaviour was repugnant on a quite different plane, and so he had to return to civilisation and give an exclusive interview to the Sun on Sunday about his humiliation. Good to see those post-show duty of care protocols in place, by the way.

So much for emigration. It now seems that Love Island is permitting mass immigration, and is going to double its population, starting with six freshly tanned “bevs” (hunky lads) arriving at the island and being put up at the ridiculously named Casa Amor villa. The girls at the regular Love Island villa then made their way over to Casa Amor (which may be freely translated as Shag Shack), to check out the breeding potential of the male members.

Plainly these fine specimens had all been selected using what our politicians like to term “Australian-style points based system”. Bonus points must have been awarded for stereotypical Love Island occupations such as personal trainer (Marvin Brooks), builder (George Rains) and bathroom salesman (Dan Rose); gruesome tats; and the ability to say “it is what it is”. Points were deducted, presumably, for: body hair; trying to smuggle the London Review of Books in; and being able to prove via formal logic the proposition “it is what it isn’t”.

Such an influx was bound to put pressure on the Island’s public services (pool/bar/supplies of sun cream) and, even more seriously, existing social and romantic structures, and so it proved. Heads were turned and indeed necks craned by the 7 foot 6 basketball player Ovie Soko. Especially Anna who forgot all about Jordan and managed to get a snog out of Ovie. Ave!

Maura, who’s already acquired a bit of a reputation for being forward, looked like she wanted to keep all half dozen to herself after she got the text with the good news: “Waaaaaaah! There’s gonna be loads of willies! Waaaaaaah!” I think – think – I heard her say something about “fanny flutters”. She wasn’t quite so ecstatic to learn that there’s also a boat load of fresh girls on its way to the boys, one of whom, Elma, has already expressed a parallel mission of her own: “Dick.”

Anyway, as ever, I found it difficult to watch. Not much happens, so it’s still mostly dull, but I did find myself, against my better judgment, feeling concerned about Lucie, who seems permanently on the brink of tears. Prompted by the snakey Anton (the one who gets his old mum to epilate his bum), Lucie pulls Tommy for a chat. She vouchsafed that she was “open to things”, like they used to be when they were a couple, even though he is with Mollie now. He turned her down. She told him not to tell anyone, he agreed, and then he blabbed. Which just put her through the emotional wringer all over again.

So I suppose I do care what happens to some of the “characters”, as you would in a soap, which is normally OK. Yet of course the Islanders aren’t actors, they are real, surprisingly fragile people, and I can’t say I find watching them have their young hearts broken entertaining. That’s what’s wrong with Love Island. It really is Jeremy Kyle, just with better dentition and a bit less swearing. The sooner Love Island sinks without trace below the warm azure waves of the Balearic Sea, the better.