A certain sort of person likes to show how relaxed he or she is about sex. The current vehicle for such displays is Love Island, a reality show in which supposedly attractive young people are nudged to pair up, swap partners and so on.
These people claim to find it refreshingly frank, anthropologically fascinating, harmless fun, a guilty pleasure, a kitsch cult hit they love to watch with their teenagers, whatever, who cares – the point is they puff it up.
I find this a bit objectionable. These people would be utterly ashamed at their own privately educated teenagers taking part. They are gawping at the lower orders, enjoying their crude mating habits. The artificial setting heightens the crudity, cancels any chance of individuality, authenticity – these people are forced to impersonate plastic dolls, lusting after each other.
How honest, say these people. No, how dishonest of you to claim to watch with moral and cultural disinterest. How spineless, to pretend you are not shocked by such a soulless version of sexual life. In reality you are thanking God that your money separates you from such folk. That’s your real guilty pleasure.