I always dreaded this time of year. No, not because the sporadic summer period leaves my inner organs bloated by Piriton or because every beer garden is replete with the kind of people who would only usually set foot in their local boozer if their heavily pregnant wife’s waters had broken outside the entrance. In actual fact, my sun-drenched despair actually stems from the show Love Island, which dominates our screens and conversation for months on end and sees unnaturally muscle-bound boys pursue a succession of scantily-clad women. When people would ask me, which they inevitably did, if I followed Love Island, my answer would always be the same – ‘not so much follow, as flee.’

            This year, I decided to give in and surrender. After all, there’s nothing worse than someone whining about a show he’s never actually watched. Plus, owning a Fiat 500 meant I was automatically signposted as some sort of raving Love Island zealot – most passers-by were visibly disappointed when they saw my slouching frame saunter out the driver’s side, as opposed to an ample-thighed receptionist from Chelmsford.

            In two weeks, I became everything I’d ever hated. You see, I have what doctors have yet to define as RRSS – relapsed reality show syndrome. The signs are there – a prickly disposition around reality TV that can almost be attributed to seething jealousy. A yearning to find out what happens, usually by scoffing about the show to a colleague before innocently asking what became of the floppy-haired one. I have suffered with it for years. It began with Made in Chelsea. It’s trashy, I would say, it’s an escape from the hedonistic highs of part-time Starbucks work and the dizzying delights of a BA in English literature. But as the series progressed, I regressed – I’d miss social outings to catch Spencer at his. I fumed at Francis and joked with Jamie. Now Made in Chelsea is in its eightieth season and I’m the only able-minded male outside of Surrey still watching. Why? Because I was there at the beginning and I feel almost duty-bound to stick it out to the bitter end. Even if by the time the show has ended, I look as plastic and as disinterested as Mark-Francis.

            I feared the same plight with Love Island. As I became engrossed, I had to keep shaking myself to remember the sheer stupidity of what was unfolding in front of me. ‘I love it when it’s a slow-burner,’ said one of the contestants about a burgeoning relationship. Of course, this is Love Island, so a slow burner is when you’ve been speaking to someone for three days. The inevitable flight attendant with wonky lips and even wonkier accent proudly proclaimed that she had a ‘half-boyfriend’ in such a short amount of time you’d be scared to announce them as a business colleague.

            The de-facto star couple of this season are Tommy and Molly-Mae, names that make them more sound like Tennessee outlaws. The former has adopted the nice guy hardman oxymoron, a boxer outside of the island but a sensitive man-hunk while within it. However, for all his redeeming qualities, he is as heavy-set in his mind as he is in his trunks, unable to switch on a kettle or speak in anything other than pugilistic references (‘this is my title fight,’ he announced precisely 28 minutes after meeting a surfer chick).

            But they suck you in. If it’s not the housewives’ favourite Caroline Flack ravenously receiving an Uber Eats delivery (dressed in the complete opposite clothes any human being would wear when receiving such a bounty), its narrator Iain Stirling gently reminding you in his loveable Scottish burr just how silly and ridiculous it all is. Once you take note of these, you watch without guilt. You find yourself immeasurably immersed and spend the next morning speaking emphatically about the Irish one’s trouser tremors. And as the weeks go on, once the guilt has well and truly returned, it’s too late to do anything about it.

            I got out just in time. But watching Love Island has the potency and pain of a sexually transmitted disease. It then courses through your veins but, just like an STD, you enjoy it whole-heartedly.