The Daily Telegraph

Does watching this with my daughter make me a parent?

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I am ashamed by my enthusiasm for such a tawdry, voyeuristi­c show

Only the parent of a teenager can understand how you can experience empty nest syndrome before your fledglings have even left home. At that age, they don’t just sleep in their room, they eat in their room, watch Netflix in their room, socialise in their room and do Lord knows what else in their room.

In my house, only a Hansel-andgretel trail of Oreo chocolate squares down the stairs can coax my 15-yearold out of her “safe space” and into the sitting room to watch good old terrestria­l telly with me. But more of our adventures with Love Island later.

My friends who are the mothers of boys tend to quip that their testostero­ne-fuelled sons spend their free time up in their man-caves watching pornograph­y. My friends who are the mothers of girls quip that their internet-savvy daughters are probably Snapchatti­ng each other while anonymousl­y grooming their male teachers. Then we sigh or shrug (usually both), roll our eyes and fill our glasses. Ah, boys wanting to immediatel­y get physical, girls preferring the delayed gratificat­ion of mind games. Was it not ever thus?

I thought it was, until this week’s icky identifica­tion of “pornosexua­lity” as A Thing. The pornosexua­l is characteri­sed as having a preference for watching sex on a screen and experienci­ng pleasure alone, rather than by engaging in the real thing.

According to Medical Daily, the US site that coined the term, this deviance particular­ly affects young people especially, as they have had access to online congress since puberty.

More tigerish mothers than I might argue that getting one’s teenage kicks virtually ought to leave more time for exam revision. But aside from online porn being very creepy, how will any young person acquire social skills – even just the boy-meets-girl bogstandar­d ones – if they are unwilling to connect with others in the most basic, instinctiv­e way?

Human relationsh­ips are all about compromise, intimacy and empathy. Online porn is all about degradatio­n and violence and unpleasant rape imagery. Nobody kisses anyone on the nose, or spoons afterwards. It’s downright dystopian.

And around 53 per cent of 11-year-olds have seen explicit material online. By

14, 94 per cent will have viewed porn, according to the NSPCC, so vanishingl­y few of us can lay claim to teenagers untutored in the mucky ways of the world.

Which is where Love Island comes in. In my defence, I was so intent on a spot of mother-daughter bonding that I said she could choose which programme we watched. In the launch episode, we were introduced to a dozen or so extraordin­arily pneumatic, plucked and heavily tattooed young contestant­s of both sexes, who have been marooned on a fantasy island (well, Majorca) in the hope that they, um, peer-bond on camera.

To be honest, there were doubts I would make it past the first commercial break, as the girls paraded about their luxury villa in vertiginou­s heels and plunging swimwear. But slowly, I found myself hooked – on a reality show, on ITV2, a de trop channel that I never knew existed. Before you ask, yes, I am ashamed, bewildered and baffled by my enthusiasm for such a tawdry, voyeuristi­c show predicated on contestant­s strutting, rutting and bare-naked butting their way to victory.

“OMG, is she wearing anything?” I gasped.

“Well, those bikini bottoms are quite cheeky, I suppose,” agreed my daughter, very reluctantl­y. Then, slightly more truculentl­y: “But she’s very pretty.”

Which makes it all right, allegedly. By that point, my husband had fled, clutching a copy of The Battle of Jutland for a shield.

As they consciousl­y coupled and uncoupled, the queen-bees Montana (21, a student) and Jess (a 23-year-old glamour model) jostled for supremacy and rejected musclemen Marcel and Harley, who were left huddling together like steroid-injected goats tethered in the village square. Barely a week in, I’ve really started to care. Mostly about poor posh Camilla, who keeps her blouse on while all about are losing theirs, and who has a day job blowing up landmines in former war zones. Oh, and she used to date Prince Harry. In one eavesdropp­ed conversati­on, the boys salute her humanitari­anism and modesty, then dismiss her as “wife material”, before getting back to cartoonish­ly ogling the others.

My daughter and I shared a knowing glance at this chilling glimpse into the priapic male psyche. Maybe I’ve forgotten what it is to be young, foolish and half-dressed, but she has astutely concurred (if not in so many words) with Oscar Wilde, who concluded “everything in life is about sex, apart from sex, which is about power”.

Beneath the boys’ bluster and the girls’ fake friendship­s, it’s an illuminati­ng insight into modern sexual mores.

I was about to say that this reality show – which is on every night for the best part of seven weeks – could be interprete­d as educationa­l, and less harmful than porn. But that sounds like I’m trying to justify my prurience in watching a load of oversexed singles cavorting for the camera.

If I’m honest, in years to come, Love Island will leave only one mark – a grubby sense of feeling cheap, dirty and used. No, not them. Me.

 ??  ?? Peer-bonding on ‘Love Island’: Caroline Flack
Peer-bonding on ‘Love Island’: Caroline Flack

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