Welcome, welcome to the modern coliseum, where an ordinary studio at Channel Nine is refurbished to resemble a candlelit loft slash restaurant decked out for your mum's 60th.

It's called a dinner party, but as Steve asked rhetorically last night, "Does anyone ever really eat at these things?" Absolutely not Steve. Absolutely not. But if we're talking food, salad for entrée is not the best idea for the group of women who are addicted to telling each other "I love you" after half a glass of pino.

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In an ideal world, you'd have some salty starches at that table. Garlic bread, potato wedges with sweet chilli and sour cream.

But maybe theirs is a different kind of love, fortified in the firepits of a Kiama Airbnb, while the cries of Juliette rung out through the grounds like a church bell as she called yet another cast member the c-word.

It's perplexing. But then again, whose behaviour isn't? Why is Gia, who has a man devoted to her, always stubbornly stirring up trouble?

Why does Danny, dressed up like Guy Richie on his first communion day, keep demanding toasts? Why did Bec refuse Juliette's pre-dinner apology last night? Why on earth did Juliette keep saying the F-word? (You know the one and out of respect to Rachel I will not be repeating it here).

For connoisseurs of reality TV drama, this season, the 13th of MAFS in Australia, is probably just heating up. But the rest of us? We are stressed! And by we, I mean the viewers and Sam, who is very close to pulling his guernsey up over his head.

Filip called it a war zone and I know David agreed because he came ready to rumble – there was no shirt underneath his blazer!

But where did this all erupt from? We could blame the outdoors, but a lot of the hostility was under the surface. Well, kinda. 

When poor Rachel tried – repeatedly —  in Kiama to explain to Bec that it wasn't the comment itself that she made, it was Bec's gaslighting and defensiveness that blew it up, Bec just could not comprehend it, giving the look the cameras seem to love… it's Bec on profile, looking confused but indignant, mouth agape, almost as if she is straining to hear. Such was the case around the fire pit, leaving Rachel to get triggered, give up and leave.

Danny then trotted over to ask Joel if he thought Juliette calling Bec the C-word was wrong. This could have been easily solved if Joel simply said, "I know you're trying to triangulate me here and I won't have it." But again, he didn't know how to navigate the situation!

Steve, poor, gentle, introverted Steve, could have told Rachel, "I understand you feel upset by Bec gaslighting you, but her speaking to me for LESS THAN 30 SECONDS does not amount to a betrayal, so you may need to do some inner work on that babe!"

It is what I hope Wikipedia will one day call The Great Reality TV Paradox: if they could only articulate their emotions calmly, they wouldn't be having these insane fights. 

But if they could articulate their emotions, they wouldn't be suitable candidates for the show.

We all say, (cast, audience, experts, commentators, recappers, Albo will probably be tricked into saying it one day too): we can't believe how appallingly these people behave! Don't they see they are scapegoating each other? Why do they perform such loyalty when, minutes later, they will go on to skewer that person between sips of prosecco? Don't they get that they're all frightened? All human? That one day, we will all die?

And yet, and yet! After we condemn these people to a lifetime of individual and couples and family therapy, we remain solidly stuck to the screen.

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This season in particular possesses a gravitational pull that defies physics. I'm disgusted, outraged, shocked by the raw, unhinged spectacle of grown adults treating minor offences like major crimes. It's chaotic, it's choreographed, and it's hauntingly compelling. Especially when the producers put the "echo" effect on voices when they run the recaps.

Honestly, watching a contestant demand respect for their "wife" or "husband" (who they've known for less than 7 weeks, on a show, sandwiched between advertisements for laxatives) is what gets me through the week. Just like Bec after a night on the booze, I get a little heated, I yell things I know are outrageous, and on Thursday morning I wonder what came over me.

Until Sunday, when I'll do it all over again.

For more from Natalie Reilly, you can find her here.

Feature image: Nine.