Forget under-the-duvet-but-you-can-still-see-the-feet-rubbing intercourse. This year it was all about a shared, platonic romance
Rare I disagree with Molly-Mae, a sort of human cherub with a sentient hair knot above her at all times – looming, glowing, doing all of her non-lizard brain thinking for her, anything beyond horniness and emotion dealt with entirely by The Knot. But during a particularly dramatic recoupling two weeks ago, I had to pause the TV and shout: “Wrong!” at it in anger. “It’s Love Island, not Friend Island,” she told good, thick Tommy Fury, as he nodded sweetly. “Yeah,” he said, “yup.” I know the man can knock me into a coma that would last two presidential terms with a single punch, so I’m loth to rile him up too much via the pages of a broadsheet supplement, but: you’re wrong, Tommy. You’re both wrong.
The winner of this year’s Love Island (revealed live on Monday, ITV2, 9pm) has been not love-love – not romantic love, anyway, or anything that results in any significant shagging – but rather friendship, and its adjacent love. Previous years have focused on couples, love triangles, and night-vision–under-the-duvet-but-you-can-still-see-the-feet-rubbing intercourse. This year is, instead, a show where an ever-changing lineup of 16 gym bunnies and Instagram baddies slowly form lifelong friendships while underpinned by a constant, never-fulfilled sun-hot sense of horniness.
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