Ex On The Beach

After an earnest few weeks on the blog, it’s time to return to the world of trash TV and my conflicted opinions about not being able to stop myself watching it.  At the heart of this will be the fact that I wish I was more like the people on these shows (more muscular, better at going out, on a free holiday), while simultaneously enjoying a smug feeling that I am better than them (I am not taking part in desperate reality shows).  Ultimately, switching my brain off while this nonsense is on is my version of meditation and mindfulness, so we can pretty much guess my level here anyway.

Ex On The Beach is back for an eighth series.  No, really.  Those who thought that the 2014 concept couldn’t live on through the years has been proven wrong.  It’s a bit strange really, as the central hook of that first series all those summers ago was that the contestants had no idea what show they were actually taking part in.  They thought they had been whipping their bodies into shape for a beach-based dating reality show, only to find out that, one by one, their exes would be washing up unannounced on the beach, leading to the same feelings of regret as brought on by the sickly sweet cocktail whose name forms the hilarious pun of the show’s title.  In all subsequent seasons, young folk in bikinis and short shorts have willingly turned up to have the dirty laundry of their tawdry love lives dragged out of the sand for all to see.  Honestly, you really can’t believe what personal things people will share in order to gain attention.  It’s a bit like an unwanted blog about TV shows I suppose.

Sharing its home channel with Geordie Shore, I knew this MTV format was right up my alley.  Forcing the housemates in the boys’ house I shared in Brixton at the time was less certain, but by hook or by crook I managed to keep up with those first eight episodes.  I had to find out whose ex was next.  They were placated by the stringiness of the bikinis on show, as the programme’s casting team ensured sure that only the most spectacular bodies made it in.  But all the contestants somehow looked better than they deserved, as their behaviour was in turn the appalling factor that, once drawn in by gratuitous footage of bikini bottoms being hoiked out of sandy bum cracks, kept viewers like myself hooked as the drunken car crashes played out one after the other.

And the show really does need something to keep you viewing, as you are wading through a lot of flannel.  The average one-hour episode is split into four quarters by advert breaks.  Once you’ve taken out 15 minutes of commercials, the remaining time is bulked out by each quarter beginning with a recap of what’s just happened and ending with a throw-forward to what’s happening next.  So not only are you watching trash once, but each occurrence gets three airings until thoroughly burned into your bleeding retinas.  Attempts at tension-building are also manifested by the ever-present countdown to the next ex, which can be in T-minus 48 hours or ten minutes or anything in between.  Traditionally, the Tablet of Terror (which seems to be the only communications device the contestants are allowed) pings in the least terrorising way possible to summon three housemates to the beach on which these exes simply won’t stop appearing.  You’re asked repeatedly whose ex is next until you can’t think about anything else.

Obediently, the three chosen ones wait on sun loungers getting increasingly anxious about whose psychotic ex-bird or possessive jilted boyfriend will emerge from the surf to ruin their free holiday.  You can bet your bikini bottoms that someone will make a comment along the lines of “my anus is twitching like a rabbit’s nose” which really helps non-viewers understand the tone of the show (in case they hadn’t gathered this already).  Cue some very drawn-out editing and probably a cut to a commercial break before, finally, some drowned rat appears in the surf trying to look sexy.  I’m not sure if we’re supposed to believe that they’ve swum all the way from home.  I always imagine the production team helping them get waist deep in the waves while trying to prevent the three on the beach from noticing.  Presumably, somebody else is also attempting to stop bemused holiday-makers from wondering into shot.  Somehow, the ex doesn’t drown and makes their way to the sun loungers, and high drama immediately ensues.  Invariably, one half of the ex-couple wants to get back with the other, but the other has already been through all the contestants like a steam train, or cheated on them 36 times with a minibus of singles from Sheffield.  Either way, at some point, they’ll still claim to love each other.

And so it goes on.  More exes appear.  Alcohol is used to goad arguments.  The Tablet of Terror sets up dating opportunities designed to drive the most jealousy possible.  Lads try to crack on.  Girls get pied.  Each situation can only climax in one of two ways.  Either there’s actual fisticuffs which erupt after cocktails get flung poolside in outbursts of rage.  Or enough adults finally consent to a bit of rumpy-pumpy, in which case you can readjust your undercrackers watching a duvet quiver through night-vision lenses.  If this doesn’t fulfil you, then you don’t deserve to watch.

I should point out that nobody wins the show.  Some contestants get booted off at arbitrary moments, all with an irreverent voiceover that’s genuinely glad to see the back of them.  More recent series have included twists to liven things up, such as exes appearing at surprise moments rather than just on the beach.  And there always seems to be a Geordie Shore cast member in the mix just in case the real people don’t know how to drink too much and then let loose with their bottled-up emotions.  It all reminds you why encountering other British people abroad on holiday is so embarrassing.

Series 5 was a particular hoot where the best exes from the previous seasons showed up again to prove they had learned nothing from their own behaviour the last time around.  In fact, they had actually worked out that the more outrageous their behaviour (in terms of womanising, man-ising (is that a word?), fighting and throwing tantrums), the more likely they were to get invited onto other reality shows, such as Celebrity Big Brother, to draw out full media careers from a skillset that basically boils down to having colourful sexual histories and enjoying a bit of camera attention.  Cue my jealousy again.

This is because, in this day and age, both genders can do whatever they want, with or without each other, and I am only too happy to see it broadcast across my screens.  All you need is a sizeable social media following, a big presence on the nightclub scene of a regional city and oodles of wild abandon, and you too could be slopping your way into a show that’s repeated in MTV’s schedule as often as what seems like ten times a day.  And with series 7, filmed in Thailand, appearing to unveil a deep lowering of the standard in physical appearances for the contestants (I don’t want to call people fat or ugly, so I’ll just beat around their bushes instead), we’ve all got a much better chance.  Maybe the more beautiful folk are on Bromans or Survival Of The Fittest.

I’ve already gone on too long, but I can’t bear not to mention the spin-off show, called Ex On The Beach: Body SOS.  In it, Vicky Pattison (love her) and her celebrity trainer mates help real people get bodies worthy of emerging from the sea as if they were an ex on a beach.  You don’t actually need to have been a love rat to be on this.  An episode typically has a slim lad looking to bulk up with his first muscle, and a girl with wobbly bits from too much drinking who’d like to wear a bikini without people poking her with sticks and chasing her from their village with pitchforks.  Each victim is cruelly forced to strip down in their raw state and walk into the British sea, before finally emerging transformed from the sea somewhere much sunnier, where their friends and family have gathered to approve of them more than they did before.  I fast-forward everything in between as it’s just people whingeing and crying, but worth a watch if you like that sort of thing and don’t expect any helpful information about how to live more healthily.

From my position on the self-diagnosed autistic spectrum, modern dating is hard to understand.  Suffice to say that Ex On The Beach sheds no further light on why people do certain things, just that they do them while ranting and raving.  Sex and affection are used as weapons in a battle of the genders.  The only winner really is me on the sofa, wilfully numbing my brain so I no longer feel the torment of office life in London, titillating myself with all the emotional highs and lows of a drunken holiday without having to worry about sun-burning my shoulders or how much liquid I can take in my hand luggage on easyJet.

Survival Of The Fittest

Winter Love Island, they said.  It will fill the gap between series of your favourite Balearic-based flesh-fest, they promised.  And so, ITV2 unveiled Survival Of The Fittest, from the same people that brought you reality TV’s breakout formula.  This blog was going to be a highbrow guide to the quality boxsets that vie for your attention on Netflix and Amazon, causing you the inertia I referenced here.  Instead, I’ve been unable to hide my addiction to trashy formats, especially if those feature attractive young people in beachwear.  I’m saving Love Island for this coming summer, and Bromans has already been covered, but I’m very happy to say that Survival Of The Fittest falls in the same vein.

It could not be better timed.  Something about 2018 so far means it’s not only been cold and wet, but it’s been consistently the coldest and wettest year since records began (and by that I mean since I last paid attention, which might be linked to the fact that I got used to 35 degrees during my South Africa trip).  It therefore follows that an hour of telly each night that’s set in a place so hot the contestants visibly glisten in front of the cameras is the broadcast equivalent of vitamin D.  Coincidentally, the show is actually filmed in the shadow of Table Mountain, so it’s serving a dual purpose of reminding me about how much I enjoyed my fantastic holiday (did I mention I went to South Africa?) and reminding me that hot weather exists.  The African theme is impossible to avoid.  The only prize on offer to the contestants seems to be safaris, but that’s not a prize to be sniffed at.  And indeed, the African heat somehow makes Love Island’s Majorca setting look like a rainy caravan park in Blighty.  It’s clearly as hot as old balls.

So what on earth is this show?  Its prime purpose, aside from filling a gap in ITV2’s schedule, is to answer the age-old question: which is the better gender, males or females?  This is a battle between the sexes to find out who comes out on top.  The fact that the fighting typically involves timed assault courses with puzzles at the end gives you some understanding of the academic and scientific rigour on hand in the formula.  We have six boys and six girls, with each team desperate to prove theirs is the sex that is better at assault courses and puzzles.  Whichever team loses a challenge is then vulnerable to the opposite gender selecting one of their ranks to be sent home from the free African holiday.  Don’t worry though, as a replacement (in beachwear) is brought in the next day to even the numbers back out.

But what about the shagging?  Well yes, you can’t have nearly naked beautiful people in extreme heat without some shenanigans twitching the duvet covers while we watch through an infra-red camera.  The whole twist of the show comes from the expectation (which is quickly proven correct) that relationships will spring up between the genders and cause team loyalties to be questioned.  So be warned, it’s more complicated than Love Island’s premise of get in a couple or get out.  It’s a case of fight for your gender but also see if you can diddle someone of the opposite sex so they don’t vote you off in case you are slower at assault courses and puzzles.

Some other things you should know, handily arranged in bullet points to speed up your decision-making process about whether these three weeks of titillating telly are required in your life:

• The Flack role is covered by Laura Whitmore, who copes well with the wobbly bridge that leads to the savannah lodge the contestants inhabit, though she does seem to view the boys and girls themselves with irritation
• There is an irreverent voiceover, but it’s not with a Scottish or regional accent, so is around 35% less funny.  This means it’s still quite funny
• Sometimes, little monkeys raid the kitchen, reminding you that this is Africa, just in case you had forgotten among all the shots of hippos and giraffes
• As with Bromans, the bodies on display are banging, and you’ll be torn between arousal, and self-hate that you should be in the gym and not shoving your face with Crunchy Nut Cornflakes on the sofa while watching kids half your age have the time of their lives
• Danny Dyer’s daughter was in the first line up and was just embarking on her own “don’t tell anyone, but I was in Blazin Squad” moment before she smashed her shoulder in on one of the, er, assault courses
• There’s an app.  You know, for your smartphone.  So you can be a millennial while you watch

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This is all capped off by a bewildering sponsorship by Beauty Bay, though their best idents do feature Alex and Olivia from, you guessed it, Love Island.  I assume Beauty Bay is some sort of online make up jumble sale, but I refuse to give them any more attention here.

To conclude, we must ask ourselves, is this Winter Love Island?  And the answer is a resounding: sort of.  It’s set somewhere else, so it’s more like Winter Love Island In Africa.  Plus, it’s a battle of the sexes, rather than a battle to have sex.  So it’s actually Winter Love Island Gender Battle In Africa.  And finally, there are assault courses and puzzles, so the most accurate name is Winter Love Island Gender Battle In Africa With Assault Courses And Puzzles.  But that’s a ridiculous name, so they gave it the lame name of Survival Of The Fittest.  But I’ll finish on these three words: feast your eyes.