Love Island review: If only it were more like a Tory party in the Nineties

Week two of Love Island, and we’ve hit the point where four blokes are sitting on a sofa gossiping and drinking chardonnay

Another day in the Love Island villa, and another day when absolutely bugger all happens. No humping, no thumping, no pumping. It could all be so different, so much more bacchanalian – like a Tory party in the Nineties. Love Island is in fact a much more sedate affair, and its comparatively sensible inhabitants would make a better job of running the country.

Maybe one day, when they grow up a bit more, Molly-Mae (social media influencer, Manchester, 19) will be Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster and Leader of the House of Commons, Sherif (chef, London, 22) can be the Foreign Secretary, and Lucie (surfer, Newquay, 21) Secretary of State for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. They’ll probably be ready to go back to Brussels to re-negotiate the UK-EU Withdrawal Agreement for the 94th time. The British never take no for an answer!

At least the slow-moving Love Island “action” allows a befuddled old misanthrope like me to follow what’s going on.

Danny is the hot new arrival at the villa, and he’s already had two dates. First he managed to peel Yewande off the wall to join him for olives and dips (not a euphemism). Yewande gave him 10 out of 10 for his personality, a touch generous. Then he sampled Amber (beauty therapist, Newcastle, 21) a woman who is so fussy she can’t actually specify what it is that she is fussy about. She lived up to her self-billing, though, because she found Danny, “really sweet” but “give him a bit of banter and he can’t hack it”.

Tall (6 foot 2 inches), handsome (obvs, this is Love island, remember, where contestants are eugenically vetted before entry) though bantistically challenged, Danny doesn’t seem like that much of a threat to any of the established blokes. Not even the Joe “sandwich man” Garratt, Anton “my mum shaves my arse for me” Danyluk or Michael, the super hunky and comprehensively tattooed Liverpool fireman. One day he’ll be old and in a care home and all those glistening sculpted muscles will be so flabby and wrinkly and wasted that his tattoos will make no sense whatsoever, his body looking like a collection of deflated birthday balloons.

Molly-Mae is the other new phenomenon. Amber may not fancy Danny Boy much, but Yewande still does and Molly-Mae is the obvious rival. She’s got two blokes on the go already, but moves in on Danny and informs him she wants to spend a day in “Dannyland”. Be careful what you wish for, love.

It’s all a bit disappointing really, with no fresh revelations. A few days ago we learned that Molly-Mae once farted during sex (just the once?), and that one of the blokes prefers the sexual position apparently known as “the eagle” (look it up). The eagle position, by the way, is a lot easier to do that my own favourite, “the grebe” (look it up).

So, week two of Love Island, and we’ve hit the point where four blokes are sitting on a sofa gossiping and drinking chardonnay. Very sensible, but a bit too sensible for compelling viewing. As the chaps say incessantly on the show, “It is what it is”. It is, too: Utter cobblers.