Up to speed but unfulfilled
I’m still just young and in touch enough both to have heard of the concept of ‘guilty pleasures’ and know what it means.
Often used in the context of television series or musical artistes, it is the situation whereby those of discerning, even progressive, mind are also simultaneously careful regarding to whom they reveal that on the quiet they are also ardent devotees of The Simpsons, such ‘uncool’ soap opera staples as Eastenders or Holby City and/or the music of Kylie Minogue, Abba or Take That.
Cue also here the genre of lame excuses for reading, watching or listen to what ordinarily be regarded as complete tat, i.e. most often something along the lines “Purely in the interests of science and/or research, you understand …” or even perhaps “because I was given the assignment by my editor”.
None of the above explains why I deliberately stayed up past my 8.30pm bedtime last night in order to watch the opening episode of the latest series of the Marmite-reputationed reality television series Love Island broadcast at 9.00pm on ITV2.
One of the hazards of being male and over sixty in the modern world is that one is constantly bombarded with references in the media and/or in half-heard snatched social conversations between female members of the species to the names of ‘celebrities’ and/or reality-TV stars. The ongoing career progression of such beings appears to be entirely fuelled by gaining themselves tabloid-style exposure at any cost, presumably upon the old showbiz adage that there are no such things as bad publicity or indeed any prospect of ever under-estimating the taste of members of the public.
I say that because it seems that, on the evidence of the ‘celebrity’ magazines I’ve seen, the vast bulk of the Great Unwashed possessed of better-than-average looks seem to believe that the easiest path to untold riches and therefore happiness is either to marry a footballer and/or else make such a public spectacle of themselves that the resulting mountains of income from endorsements, sponsorship, personal appearances, one’s own cosmetic or clothing ranges, pop records … even carefully-choreographed ‘accidental’ clothing malfunctions or bikini and/or red carpet disasters captured by friendly paparazzi in on the wheeze … and, if all else fails, media-sales of the latest developments in their lurid and inevitably car-crash love-lives … will keep them in the style to which they aspire.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t doubt that – as with most career paths – to get to the top takes a lot of hard work, ‘no gain without pain’ dedication and a great deal of luck.
Oh, and also (lastly) perhaps a little bit of talent at something (it doesn’t matter what) doesn’t go amiss if you do have it.
Most days I have the radio or television going on in the background whilst I go about my business at home. As a result, over the past week or so, it has been impossible to avoid registering the fact that Love Island was returning to the UK’s screens last night.
My awareness of reality TV is not great. I have in the past enjoyed watching the occasional edition of Gogglebox on Channel Four – in which a wide cross-section of Brits all watch the same raft of TV programmes each week and react with their verdicts upon the content and those appearing in them – but I have never watched more than trailers or brief snatches of such series as The Only Way Is Essex (aka ‘TOWIE’), Big Brother, Geordie Shore and/or Celebrities Shipwrecked On An Island With Bear Grills (or whatever it is called … something like that anyway).
And so I made my decision to tune in last night, just so that I could see what everyone was talking about.
I am afraid that it wasn’t much.
For fellow Rusters still struggling, as I am, to keep up with ‘the latest’ just so we can converse with our children and/or grandchildren in the hope of preventing them reaching the conclusion that it is time for ‘Grandad’ to be carted off to the residential care home prematurely, I can summarise the scheme as follows.
A television company takes six or more ‘attractive’ members of both genders off to Mallorca and sticks them in a five-star hotel clearly designed with the British 18-30 brigade in mind – think the Big Brother house, but worse and abroad.
Qualification as ‘attractive’ for girls requires that they should be broadly pleasing on the eye, thin-to-curvy (boob implants preferable if not mandatory), faked-tanned to the limit, possess a regional accent of some sort plus seemingly the sole intention in life of partying, drinking and meeting men.
For men qualification ‘musts’ are slightly different. ‘Tall, dark and handsome’ seems the vogue, plus relentlessly buffed gym bodies, a keen interest in mirrors and hair gell, and lastly a massive degree of self-regard coupled with an IQ score of less than 90.
Last night I managed to stay with the programme about 30 minutes (including two long advertisement breaks) – during which presenter Caroline Flack, a former Strictly Come Dancing celebrity contestant I managed to identify without assistance – having introduced the participants to the viewers – then asked them to ‘pair off’, apparently everyone being required to make their choice of potential partner based entirely on ‘looks and lust’.
And that was it, really. I will never get back the half-hour of my life that I spent ‘researching’ Love Island last night, but at least I feel that I do now understand what the programme is about and will therefore be able join in social conversations with my grandchildren next time they come to visit.
If they ever do.
