It’s not natural.
Those who know me well will confirm that I am not a fan of so called ‘reality’ TV. I genuinely don’t give a flying fuck what happens on Love Island, or which faded ‘celeb’ wants someone to get them out of there. I have belly-button fluff that means more to me than all the Kardashians put together, and I neither know nor care who is singing or dancing from under a mask. Whatever goes on in Chelsea leaves me cold, and the only way in Essex is out onto the east coast, to the glorious open marshlands and river where I grew up. And as for Big Brother and Married at First Sight – if I wanted to see plastic people pulling on each others’ strings, then believe me, I would find an episode of Thunderbirds. At least the cast look more realistic.
In the office where I used to work before I became a full-time author, Love Island dominated the conversation when it was on – something to do with who was seeing who, and what the other contestants thought – although I will admit I did try and tune out the chat, so I may be wrong. But it was a standing joke that as soon as this topic of conversation started, then Jonathan would roll his eyes to the ceiling and type very loudly on his keyboard as a form of diversionary tactic (although excessively loud typing is actually a core skill of mine – I even manage to get occasional blood blisters under my fingertips).
What has happened to our society, that we have become so obsessed with people who have nipped, tucked and tattooed themselves into identikit grotesques? [more]
