The 'Love Island' Week That Was

You know the deal by now: the week of Love Island recapped, good tweets embedded in. I'm hot, you're hot, neither of us need me to over-sell this intro – shall we not just get on with it:

We forget that they've only been in there four weeks. And I acknowledge that time moves differently in the villa – every hour like a concentrated squash version of real time, every day with a partner In There a week on the outside world, so that eventually these dumb fuckers will tell each other they love each other; in fact Tommy, is probably going to do it to Molly-Mae within the next four days, dragging all the dumbbells out into the garden and arranging them in the shape of a heart – but we forget that, despite all that, all the forces, all the continental pressures, despite our investment in all of them, they've still only known each other, like, a week.

Jordan and Anna had some good full-on snogs, but then went to Casa Amor and the villa respectively and realised: actually, they fancied each other a bit, but not that much. Curtis was planning four years' worth of holidays with Amy but then got a bit carried away when six girls literally desperate to stay in the show longer than a weekend called him "husband material" and he threw his brain in the sea. We see these beats played for drama, but if we zoom out and look at the reality of it: these people have known each other a maximum of five weeks. We all need to calm down.

Is it childish? Yes. Is it good? Also yes. Amber calling Joanna a "dead ting" was the one lapse in judgment in her otherwise cool and calm takedown of Michael, but at least it bred some language change in a villa largely stagnant since the "factor 50" stuff of a fortnight ago (or Lucie and her wretched "bev"). "Dead ting doesn't necessarily mean dead ting," Amber explained over tea, and I sort of respect that: it can be a noun, a verb, an adjective. It's not necessarily about whether Joanna, as a ting, is aesthetically dead or not. But her spirit? Her spirit is dead. Her spirit is DNR. The long game to all this is thus: your sister is going to get you a Primark T-shirt with this written on it in a neon font for your birthday, and you're not going to know if it's ironic or not.

Here is my theory: simple angel Tommy is flourishing in the villa because he is under the advice of Curtis, who is smart and human and emotionally mature; Curtis has absolutely fucked it in the villa because he is under the advice of Tommy, who fundamentally means well but whose insight boils down to "listen to your gut, bro. Bro: that's why we have guts." This is not why we have guts, Tommy. Intuition is useful, but so is thinking about things for literally one second.

Casa Amor is an exercise designed to turn heads – just look how Michael turned into a vicious little lizard after a mere four days away from Amber! If you bite your tongue so much, mate, why does it flicker out your mouth every time you get snide and angry! – and it did so in spades this year, when Curtis somehow got his head turned by, like, the concept of getting his head turned, then projected in turn onto the flesh-and-blood form of Jourdan, who had to take time out from quite obviously getting off with Danny* to elegantly friend-zone him. I’m confused, you’re confused, Curtis is confused, Amy’s sobbing so much she’s gone pink and can’t read her list. Only way out of this is if, somehow, another Curtissier Curtis gets sent into the villa to coach Curtis through his crisis of being Curtis.

*If anyone on Earth can explain the allure of Danny, who has somehow bagged three consecutive babes in the villa despite never really ever saying anything and looking like an (admittedly handsome) rock, my DMs are open. My man is 90 percent mineral and keeps wearing denim jackets with the collars popped. How’s he fuckin.

Got to spare a thought for Lucie, don’t you: Week #1 she was the most sought-after babe in the villa, with Joe and Anton and Tommy all in a race to bag her; four weeks on and she’s locked in a love triangle with a sort of handsome cornflake and some pink lad who was created when three estate agents did an ancient blood ritual on the sacred grounds of Clapham Common. Do you want to get off with a mute extra in a film about sexy Nazi guards? Or do you want to snog a Foxton's Mini cursed by a witch to live a life as a human man? Tricky, isn’t it.

At the pinnacle of Thursday's episode it looked like Ovie – slam dunk me, king – was about to get fucked over: Anna 560'd from "he's from London, so the conversation is next level" ("What Zone u live in? What non-branded cab app do u use to get home and does it have a voucher code? Which is ur most and least favourite dark energy south London Wetherspoons? Have u literally ever been to a museum there? I keep meaning to go museum but never do—") to "actually Jordan is quite fit. forgot that", and now the villa’s most powerfully attractive man is somehow locked in a love triangle.

But the Ovie thing isn’t just about Ovie, how tall he is, and calm, and how soothingly deep his voice is: he’s a protector, too. The quiet and armour-like arm around Amber in the midst of the Michael fracas. The moment he, when Anna went to go and tear a strip off him, lurked powerfully on the cusp of her fight with Michael, not intimidating, not getting involved, just there (rewatch the footage and you’ll see, in the distance, Danny assessing Ovie from the kitchen, glass in hand, near-audibly thinking 'fucking hell'). Ovie knows Anna’s head’s a mess, and he’s still being respectful of her history with Jordan ("I’m not going to throw salt on his name") but clear enough about his intentions not to lose this one. And he only talks in basketball metaphors. I love you, mate! In quite a weird and intense way!

After Hell Week (I’m calling it "Hell Week") there’s basically only one strong couple left: Tommy and Molly-Mae, who are only ever one "new girl in a bikini comes in and says 'hello' to Tommy, Tommy says 'hi' back, Molly-Mae has a psychotic break and ties her hair into an even higher, even more powerful topknot and yells until she cries" away from breaking up. I can’t vote on the app for this! Give me something to vote for, you idiots! And for the love of god, will someone! Please! Shag!

@joelgolby