#1. July 3, 2018: I hate the Love Island because of the pink boy. I hate him with my life; he does not leave the hairdressers alone.
#2. I, like you, am tired of Pink Alex from Love Island now. (We must differentiate the Alexes because a new Alex has come into the villa, and instantly in his inherent alphaness has become the ascendant Alex, and so now we have "Pink Alex" – stuttering Welsh doctor – and we have "Glasses Alex", Jeremy Piven-looking lad who is coiling like a snake to shag the absolute soul out of Megan in two to three episodes' time) (We also have two Jacks, but who cares about the other Jack? Come back to me when you're a flint-eyed stationery prince with a heart of perfect gold, mate!).
I was tired of him before, and I have always been tired of him, but there was a Pink Alex narrative that was thrust over the top of him: that Alex is unlucky-in-love, that he is goofy and forlorn, that he just needs The Right Girl to come into the villa and make a fairy tale happen for him. And I have to say this narrative is false, and bullshit, because of one very fundamental fact: Pink Alex Does Not Fuck.
#3. We talked about Big Dick Energy last week, a phrase that boomed-and-busted and then busted and busted again, an ethereal thing that basically gave wording to the fact that: some people just have a vibe about them, something that cannot be seen or quantified in the same way other typical relationship markers might be (loyalty, humour, 8/10 attractive, polite), and that’s what makes them fuckable. This is important because many men are not, on paper, in any way fuckable, but then you pull the veil of Big Dick Energy over them, and suddenly – like the lenses focusing up during an eye test – you see again: ah, you go, I get it now. He fucks.
Pink Alex from Love Island has whatever the exact inverse of Big Dick Energy is.
The only other equivalent of this I can think of in wider culture is Prince William, who has three children now but has never, ever fucked. I have never seen a man with less sexual energy about him. The man does not fuck, sorry. Perhaps he has had sex, yes, with a gaggle of royal handlers watching on – they are armed with warm soapy sponges, and ornate pots of water, and William is dressed head-to-toe in a special linen fucking suit – but he has only done this three times, and he has never fucked. Do you understand what I’m getting at? There’s sex (the act thereof, the thing they teach you about in a curiously bloodless way during a Year 8 PSHE lesson) and there is fucking, which is like sex with a turbo installed in it and Vin Diesel ragging it into the sea. So by the definition of the law – hello, VICE legal department – yes, I'm sure Dr Cuck has had sex. But he has never – ever in his life – fucked.
#4. Then why is he on my summertime show about horny people fucking.
#5. There was a get-to-know-you game in the first few episodes of the series, where cards were drawn and personal sexual secrets about the islanders were read out, and the boys had to guess which of the girls the secrets were about by kissing them, and the girls had to kiss the boys, and &c. &c., and Alex's secret was, inexplicably, that he'd had a threesome once with one of his friends. And here I am to say: absolutely no way that happened, sorry. Alex was filling out the Love Island form, sweating slightly, knowing the naughty secrets section was going to be slim-to-impossible for him because he'd never fucked. And then he googled, like, "what is erotic" (I am convinced Alex is so sexless that he doesn’t even know how to keyword search porn, he just types in, like, "soft breasts" on that one time a year he gets anything near horny), and it came up with the Wikipedia page for three-way sex, and he pencilled that in instead. Watching Love Island unfold this year is watching a prank-gone-too-far by one of Alex’s friends, who told him, "Yeah mate, you should definitely apply for it!" while laughing into a pint, and only realised he’d taken it seriously when he saw him turning slo-mo to the camera with his chest waxed, awkwardly wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Alex’s existence on this show is someone else’s fault and I will find out who did this to him.
#6. My main beef with Lobster Boi is the way he chooses the women to target with his peculiar brand of anti-game, which essentially always boils down to, "Who, currently, is available right now?" On Day #1 he coupled up with Laura in front of the pool before she cucked him onto the bench by choosing Wes: the first of many cuckings for the boy. Then he coupled up with Samira, ostensibly to keep her on the island and increase both their chances of meeting someone to vibe with, a decision halfway between tactical and sweet: this I will forgive. Then he attempted to move on to Megan – Megan! A pure and undiluted lightning bolt of sexual energy! Megan! Mate! Are you mad! Work your way up! You could graft for a hundred-thousand years and not be ready for Megan! – but got cucked into oblivion when she moved to Eyal because Eyal was actually handsome and actually had chat. Then he coupled with Ellie, the sweet Geordie who – with Georgia, Dani and Samira – quickly began to make up the inherent fabric that makes the rest of the Love Island group work (this move was more tactical than many people realise). And now he’s four weeks in and he’s not delivered a single line of game since entering the place. He had a whole picnic with Megan, and Glasses Alex eclipsed him instantly by just walking into the villa "quite confidently". He got moved to an entire house stocked with girls desperate to couple up and make it into the villa proper and he fudged around for two days squinting and not wearing SPF in front of the two extra blondes. He spent 48 straight hours telling Charlie, "Your accent’s funny where’s that from?" then retiring to the larder to tell the camera, "Yeah, we have a laugh," despite neither of them visibly laughing once throughout any of their interactions – then, when Grace woke up yesterday from her apparent two-day nap, he moved to her instead, telling her, "You know you’re not like people think" a lot while she stared at the exact centre of his forehead and wondered how far she was willing to let this smooth fish of a man go with her in exchange for a charcoal toothpaste discount code contract. (Cut to an extended montage of ravenously horny people making out under night vision in bed while Alex hugs Grace in a way that suggests he's never even hugged anyone before, their crotches actively winced away from each other).
Since the series began, around 20 women have been silently tasked with the question, "Would you, physically, have a relationship-leading-to-intercourse with this man in exchange for eight months of nascent fame and 400,000 minimum Instagram followers?" and every single one of them, when faced with that conundrum, has silently mouthed back: "No."
#7. His sweetness has worn off now. Pink Alex is a doctor but his vocabulary seems to extend to stuttering the word "obviously" out a lot and tilting his head down to scratch it, and while at the start I could sort of see that as a kind of Hugh-Grant-parody-porn version of English charm, I am done with it now. Alex was thrown into the villa to be this year’s Camilla – fish-out-of-water who slowly wins the trust of the models and semi-pro footballers around them by being really sound, and finds love in the end after a number of devastating hurdles – but while Camilla was earnest and sweet in the same way Alex supposedly is, she was also capable of talking to other people. I can already see the eulogies for Alex at the end-of-season afterparty show – Jack, with his bronzed champion arm wrapped around Dani, blue eyes glinting beneath his perfect waxed eyebrows, searching the room ("Where is he? Alex, stand up. This geezer kept me sane in there," and the idiot crowd applauds), the islanders, locked in fleeting and not-so-fleeting romantic couples, take turns to tell Caroline Flack and the world how truly sound Alex was. And Alex, still lurid pink from not wearing sunscreen for six straight weeks (my guy, you are a doctor, know the risks), glowing nuclear beneath the studio lights, tilts his little head and acknowledges the applause.
#8. Go home, mate. Shagging’s not for you. You had a go but it turns out you’re crap. Get off my show, you’re ruining it.
This article originally appeared on VICE UK.