We barely had a chance to pull the bunting down on the Jubilee – the nation’s occasional celebration of slightly deranged patriotic fervour – when Love Island began.
You could almost hear the gears being shifted between the nation’s two moods, from chaste royalism to cheering on sun-kissed singletons in the space of a few hours.
The queen of hearts, Laura Whitmore, kicked off this year’s festival of rutting by pairing up the couples based on viewers’ votes rather than letting them choose.
Immediately the old trick of introducing a spoiler was played, in the form of muscled Italian hunk Davide. How on earth are us Brits supposed to compete? Davide appeared with a wrestler’s physique, olive tan and Italian accent. Super Mario lied to us and is not representative of the nation of Italy.
Aghast was Brighton fishmonger Lucas Bish, whose surname I genuinely thought was a minor Scottish sweary word when I first heard it.
That’s right, Lucas Bish sells fish, much to everyone’s hilarity. Perhaps he could change it to Keith, as in Lucas Keith has fluorescent teeth.
He’s clearly been on the Crest whitening strips recently as mountain rescue could see his gnashers from a helicopter in a snowstorm.
Not that Bish was doing much smiling after Davide’s introduction.
Love Island ITV2
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