Readers, I write this in a time of dire need: a television program is destroying my brain… and I love it.
Yep. A wee bitta reality television about bikini-clad humans (who look like they belong in one of those charcoal toothpaste Instagram commercials) has changed me.
Love Island, people. I’m talking about Love Island, the show that has dominated the UK’s ratings and has 2,000,000 average viewers every night.
For those who haven’t frequented the Daily Mail over the last two months, this show is the perfect alchemy of The Bachelor and Big Brother with the teeniest, tiniest dollop of Geordie Shore.
In TV mathematical terms, it’s made from a recipe of bloody perfection.
Love Island sees approximately 12 singletons enter a luxurious Spanish “villa” with the hopes of finding love/enough fame to launch a lifestyle blog. The result? The most entertaining, cringe-worthy, hilarious drama I’ve seen in years.
Why? Because the most popular couple don’t just leave with some mushy feelings and tired genitalia, they pocket 50,000 pounds (AU$82,201) too.
But if you thought some sweet dubloons would ensure the contestants latch onto each other and never part ways until the series ends, though, think again. Season three has seen more re-couplings than the mind can comprehend.
Oh, and cheating scandals… my personal favourite.
For those of you who feel fearful about your brain being numbed every night (one couple did debate about the definition of the word “compatible” for about four years), don’t fear. Camilla, the intelligent ex-girlfriend of Prince Harry who works in explosive ordnance disposal in war-torn regions, is the contestant that brings some class to the show.