What Love Island taught me and my daughter
Ahead of tonight’s finale, Judith Woods reflects on the two months of gasps and laughs she has shared with her 16-year-old
Who can resist the sweet poignancy of a holiday romance? Not me, not my 16-year-old daughter, nor the three and a half million-plus viewers who will be tuning in to watch the series finale of Love Island tonight.
For the past eight weeks, we’ve been transfixed by the contestants’ turbulent break-ups and make-ups as they sought – and indeed fought – to find their soulmate. And we have experienced every giddy high and desolate low with them.
Cynics and snobs who have never watched more than half an hour of this magnificently compelling poolside psychodrama routinely dismiss the ITV2 show as nothing more than a tawdry excuse to screen couples rutting on television.
If only they knew. Much of Love Island revolves round the various reasons why most of the couples aren’t rutting, aren’t getting along, or are entirely mismatched – despite the best of intentions.
In essence, it’s simply a 21stcentury version of that enduring girlmeets-boy classic, except girl is in a tiny thong bikini, boy has paid £400 a tooth for blindingly white veneers, and everybody’s internal monologue is conveniently verbalised in the Camera Confessional.
If Emily Brontë, born 200 years ago today, were alive, would she not be reflecting society’s mores with a weirdly smooth-chested Heathcliff smouldering darkly on the daybed while Cathy weeps and rents her hair extensions on the balcony?
Such is the cultural resonance of Love Island that it has been discussed (sometimes with disgust) by intellectuals on the Today programme, breakfast TV and in the pages of every heavyweight newspaper in the land.
When a BBC journalist pointed out that 85,000 young people applied to Love Island this year, compared to the 36,000 who applied to Oxbridge, commentators had a field day about what that glaring disparity augurs for the future of civilisation (clue: nothing)
Now, as the final contestants prepare to leave, it’s either the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning for all of them. That’s the thrilling jeopardy of holiday romances for you.
Jack Fincher, 26 – he of the megawatt smile – and Dani Dyer, the preternaturally sage 21-year-old daughter of Eastenders hard man Danny, must surely be a shoo-in to win the £50,000 prize or there will be civil unrest here in Woods Towers. You see, as Lily – my 16-year-old – and I settled down on the sofa at 9pm every evening to watch the goings-on in the villa, we embarked on quite an emotional journey of our own.
We gasped, we laughed, we cringed together. Above all, we bonded as we followed their fortunes and misfortunes, and in so doing gained valuable insights into human behaviour. As a result, Lily has learnt more about relationships in eight weeks than I have in half a century. Here are some of the biggest lessons we’ll be taking away.
Looks aren’t everything
The nation fell for demigod Adam, who boasted of having slept with 200 women prior to entering the island, as soon as he swaggered into the villa. Yet he turned out to be a serial seducer with a wandering eye who dumped Kendall for Rosie, Rosie for Zara and then cracked on with Darylle – before reuniting with Zara once he’d been evicted. Meanwhile, every boy in the place has had the hots for pneumatic Megan, with her pillowy pout and alleged £25,000 worth of cosmetic procedures. Who can forget Eyal accusing her of just using him for sex? Or Laura’s grief when she discovered Megan had stolen her partner, Wes? Daughter: Megan is dull. Adam is beyond boring. Neither of them has any discernible personality because they just rely on their looks. I’d far rather be with someone who can make me laugh.
Mother: Yes, but Adam is terribly handsome.
We need to talk about gaslighting
This is where you bring up a perfectly legitimate issue of concern such as “you’ve been ignoring me all day”, and the other person insists you imagined it and that you are mad. “No I wasn’t, but because you’re acting all clingy, I will now.” Previously consigned to conversations in the corners of pubs or arguments at the bus stop on the way home, these are now being played out in less than glorious technicolour. Mother: Oooh, nasty.
Daughter: That’s what one of my school friends does all the time, and I didn’t know there was a word for it. It’s the worst form of bullying, because it drives the other person into psychosis.
The grass is never greener
Boy meets girl, they couple up, then he has his head turned and dumps her for a new arrival. As he cracks on, the rest of the blokes claim they are happy while wondering aloud if they could be just a little bit happier with someone else (usually Megan). A certain degree of churn is crucial to keep things interesting but it doesn’t reflect well on those involved as they ditch their inamorata (usually Laura) with unconscionable haste. Daughter: Boys are so superficial. Mother: Anyone does that to you, poppet, I’ll tarmac his face into his own drive.
You can’t put a price on loyalty
Two-faced Georgia’s “I’m loyal, me” mantra has already been turned into a Primark T-shirt. Enough said. Mother: If you have to keep telling the world and your other half that you’re a loyal person, chances are you’re not. Daughter: Sisters before misters every time. I quite liked Georgia before she sneakily tried to kiss New Jack – after that, I lost all respect for her. You should never break the girl code.
Two people can have a totally different version of events
When a lie-detector test indicated Jack could, in theory, be tempted by other girls outside the villa, Dani was angry and tearful. Jack was genuinely confused initially, then got just as cross with her as she was with him. Daughter: Wow! They both have an entirely different respective on the same event. He has no idea why she’s upset even though he loves her and is one of the more emotionally intelligent men in the villa. That’s scary. Mother: This is why I haven’t spoken to your father in 15 years.
Body confidence isn’t one-size-fits-all
All the Islanders are unfeasibly attractive. The guys are muscular and have no body hair. The girls are superslim with perfect bottoms and spend hours slathering on make-up and swapping strumpety outfits in readiness for drinking warm rosado from plastic wine goblets by the firepit. When curvaceous Amazonian Alexandra entered the villa she was acutely conscious that her figure set her apart; it’s a wonder she didn’t hide her shameful, normal-sized body in humiliation.
Mother: Rumour has it that fashion label Boohoo fills the wardrobe with new floozywear every fortnight but only in one size. Is that why all the women are identical?
Daughter: It’s body fascism, pure and simple. And you can’t call their clothes strumpety; it’s anti-feminist. I think there should be far greater diversity among women in the villa – although not as many people will watch. Tragic but true.
Melty beats muggy every time
A melt is a bloke who shows affection, makes a fuss of his other half and generally behaves solicitously towards her – which lays him open to mockery and derision from his peers. A muggy guy does all of these – but to another woman. This is called grafting (keep up at the back!) and may or may not lead to recoupling for him and heartbreak for his by now horribly paranoid girlfriend.
Daughter: If you have to keep asking the boy you’re going out with whether or not he likes you, he obviously doesn’t.
Mother: So young. So wise. If this advanced knowledge is down to the hard-bodied inhabitants of Love Island, then roll on next summer.
Lily has learnt more in eight weeks than I have in half a century