Pound the *feel bad about your body* klaxon, it’s that time of year once again: where the UK’s surgically-homogenised, twenty-somethings strut into the Love Island Villa (TM) to live with us for the rest of the summer.
I’d personally been resting on my reality laurels with Married at First Sight Australia, snuggly in its geographic distance and everyone’s relative state of clothedness. But, if I want my anthropological fix of late Gen Z love, this is my next dose, and I might need to slather on some St Tropez and pop my bleach trays in while I’m watching.
On first inspection, this bunch seem no different from any other year. The boys mostly have forward-thatched hair (bar hairdresser Sam’s ‘cool mullet’ of the season) and half of the girls have identikit honey highlights and matching lips, tans and bikini bods, like interchangeable Sugababe members just idling before they’re replaced.
Their first task to rate each other by ‘dateability’ was a laugh — how could you ever rank such evenly matched physicality and faces? Everyone is ‘attractive’, everyone 'has chat', and yet it was the pair that poured the most scorn upon each other, meaning they both ended up at the bottom of the pile and matched to one another —Harriet and Ciaran — who seem to have had an immediate Pride and Prejudice attraction.
Mimii, voted alpha girlfriend material, promptly ditched her Prince Charming, Munveer, when the evening gear was donned, switching her attentions to the distinctly un-mid-table 6ft 6 model Ayo. Naturally he immediately confirmed his undying affections and asked to 'cap the conversation' (which I think may be as legally binding as marriage?) It's basically Bridgerton, just without all the layers of tulle.
We’re all still just animals who like what we like. Except now all that anyone likes on here is veneers and an Instagram follower count in the hundreds of thousands. And by that logic came the bombshell: Joey ‘I’m already a celebrity’ Essex
These machinations, the ‘sex with the eyes’ across the fire pit; the big, early doors conversation starters on ‘have you cheated?’ and ‘what’s your longest relationship?’ (answer: ‘anything less than a year doesn’t count’, in case you’re celebrating your 11-month anniversary with your beloved) is what I’m here for as a 41 year-old married person, sat on a couch in grey Zone 3 London. That insight into what’s on the youth’s minds (please wait while I wade thorough copious brain matter – yup, it’s still sex), and the fact that it never changes. We’re all still just animals who like what we like. Except now all that anyone likes on here is veneers and an Instagram follower count in the hundreds of thousands. And by that logic came the bombshell: Joey ‘I’m already a celebrity’ Essex.
Which sparks another important conversation that seems to be a constant on Love Island — age. I know at 41 I have lost all perspective on what’s ancient and young, but when Patsy felt the need to declare that at 29 she was not ready to be the mummy of the group, my eyes rolled back in my head. That said, the age gap talk on socials around Mr Essex's being a mature 33 in comparison to the youngest girl at 24 is an interesting one. Whilst a nine-year gap isn't outlandish, it is a Millennial-Gen Z gap which may become more apparent. When we checked with our 20-year old office interns, they were at nursery when Joey was on TOWIE. They might view him as an old spinster man if they weren't painfully aware of his celebrity status and how that could impact their own career ascendancy after the Villa.
But I'm always interested in how the generations rub along. For example, Paul Mescal and Natalie Portman's 13-year gap, which was observed during a shared smoke break last week was declared a May-December relationship, which made me laugh and cry in equal, measure given I'm the same age as the elder party. Though I probably wouldn't have opted for a man in his mid thirties when I was in my early twenties.
If my kids were young teenagers, I’d be tempted to sit them down and let them watch along with me. Despite the acres of flesh on show, it’s probably more sanitised than most Netflix YA dramas
Now I'm a mum, with a five year-old and a 20 month-old, so I shudder to think about the future where they tell me they’re off to Marbs for a summer in front of the cameras. Think of the sunburn. 'Don’t touch the lips!’ I’d plead at the airport gate, just as my own mum talked me down when I was a vainglorious 23 year-old. I listened, and my lips, thankfully, remain untouched.
But, if they were young teenagers, I’d be tempted to sit them down and let them watch along with me. Despite the acres of flesh on show, it’s probably more sanitised than most Netflix YA dramas. And the lessons they could learn about patriarchal values of attractiveness placed on both sexes, the intersectional divisions that are immediately drawn and the lack of LGBTQ+ representation, would be ripe for some larger conversations that need to be had at home since Rishi and co have outlawed sex education in schools.
Children need to know how to spot gaslighting, or someone who’s just out for money, or what amounts to stinky chat. They could do with looking up from their screens (yes, I know, to another larger screen!) and see what it’s like to correspond with someone you fancy in person, in the light, and basically in the nuddy. They need to recognise what’s cool and what’s not, what’s a red flag and what’s cute. And then we need to talk about how all bodies are not the same, and how structured reality isn't real, but can hold a mirror up to how we live. Or we could leave them to learn about this stuff through the online game Second Life. I choose real life. I choose Love Island.
