Love Island (ITV2, weekdays, 9pm) isn’t a reality show, it’s a wildlife documentary. Take six horny girls, put them with six horny guys and whichever couple proves to be the horniest wins. It’s mostly tongue-in-cheek, but sometimes touches upon important issues. During a saucy game of “I have never”, the host asked: “Who here has had sex on a beach?” One girl, who had been having a splendid time up to now, suddenly turned very serious and said: “I have and I got arrested. It was a family holiday. I spent a week in a prison cell.” Free the Magaluf Two!

I don’t know why I watch this rubbish, except out of respect for the fact that it pushes the reality genre to where it was headed anyway and because it tells home truths about the sexes. The host asked the girls: “Who here wants to meet a husband and who just wants to have a romp?” All the girls said “husband”, except for one, who instantly turned a bright shade of red. The men, meanwhile, have no more interest in meeting a wife than they have in discussing the operettas of Offenbach. Women consistently choose short, ugly but funny men over the bodybuilders. The men queue up to get busy with the girl who is all bottom and bust. One lass from Essex has a cleavage that looks distinctly flammable. It’s fun, OK?

That’s why I tune in. By contrast, House of Cards (Netflix) has become so boring that I now watch it rather than take Nytol. I’ve lost track of who is scamming who; the dialogue is artless; the plot is dreary. Both music and location are soporific. Why does no one turn the lights on when they enter a room? And by this stage in their drama, Frank and Claire Underwood must have forgotten why they’re so desperate to hang on to the White House. Why did anyone vote for them in the first place? Frank is plainly a liar. Claire is so uptight that she comes off as a robot trying to pass for human. Maybe this series gets better, but I don’t know because I can’t stay awake beyond episode one. I hope the Republicans win, just to bring it to an end.

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