Love Island's sex-mad imbeciles are, like, killing me – and I feel so sorry for Michael Owen, says Piers Morgan | The Sun

LOVE Island is killing me.


When your brain cells die, cellular garbage collectors instantly mobilise to get rid of the corpses.

If the deceased neurons aren’t removed fast or fully enough, a human brain suffers neurodevelopment disorders that can impair cognitive abilities and ultimately hasten your actual death.

I’m sure that’s what happened to me when I accidentally stumbled across television’s most moronic show and found myself so transfixed by the horrifying imbecility on my screen that I was unable to switch away from it for 13 minutes.

They were the longest 780 seconds of my life, and I fear, by far the most destructive.

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This happened on Wednesday night, when I mistakenly tuned in to find two tattooed, zombie-eyed young men named Luca Bish and Andrew Le Page sitting on a sofa arguing.

The catalyst for the dispute seemed to be that Bish, a stupefyingly gormless 23-year-old fishmonger from Brighton, believed Le Page, an equally dim real estate agent from Dubai, had stabbed him in the back by telling Love Island’s first deaf contestant, Ms Tasha Ghouri, that Bish doesn’t have her in his top three list of female villa-mates to fornicate with, when he apparently does.

(Even reading that sentence back has murdered a few more brain cells…)

Like everyone who’s ever appeared on the show, Le Page uses the word ‘like’ as a persistent, grammatically unnecessary, and insanely irritating punctuation mark, spewing it out like a machine gun as he protested his innocence: "I didn’t, like… I wasn’t even thinking straight, like.." etc.

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It was a terrible mistake, he wailed.

But indignant Bish was having none of it.

"A mistake, mate," he said, staring at him like Michael Corleone telling his treacherous brother-in-law Carlo he’s not going to whack him (which he then does…), "is like spilling f*cking apple juice on my trousers."

Then he delivered a stern moral lecture: "Tasha was upset, you should never f*ck with a girl’s emotions."

Watch Piers Morgan Uncensored weekdays on Sky 526, Virgin Media 627, Freeview 237, Freesat 217 or on Fox Nation in the US

"That was never my intention," Le Page replied. "My point was never to do that in the slightest."

It was at this point that morbid (braincell-killing) curiosity got the better of me, so I went back over the whole episode to see whether any of this was true.

Needless to say, it wasn’t.

Le Page had been in bed with Ms Ghouri talking about Bish when he told her: "I had a chat with him today and he told me his top three."

"Am I in it?" she asked, desperately.

"No," he replied.

Then Le Page smirked, sighed "I shouldn’t have said that", and put his arm around her.

So, his whole intention and point was indeed to deliberately screw his mate’s chances of success with Ms Ghouri. Though I’m quite happy to believe Le Page wasn’t thinking straight given I doubt he has the mental capacity to ever think straight.

As for Bish, when Ms Ghouri repeated the top three allegation back to him, he retorted with comically disingenuous disbelief: "Of course you’re in it! You’re up there – don’t worry! In the promotion spot!"

Last time I checked, this blatant lie would most definitely qualify as f*cking with a girl’s emotions.

But the truth is, I wasn’t surprised by any of this.

It’s what Love Island is all about.


Take a collection of Britain’s biggest attention-seeking sex-crazed imbeciles, lock them in a villa for a few weeks in front of 24/7 cameras, and amuse the nation with their cretinous bed-hopping antics.

What’s not to love, right?

Well, try everything.

I hate it.

If the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee was a wonderful celebration of all that’s great about this country, and our inherently decent, dignified, humble, dutiful and intelligent Monarch, then Love Island is the opposite – a morally bankrupt infestation of crassness, stupidity, arrogance and debauchery which shames both those in it and those watching at home who enable this annual degradation of Britain’s reputation with their remote controls.

As part of my research for this column – an experience which I can only describe as being like a juror forced to read up on lurid details of a disturbing mass sexual harassment case involving people with IQs lower than a village idiot – I also watched some of the first episode, and it swiftly confirmed my worst fears about this year’s cerebrally challenged intake.

I accidentally stumbled across television’s most moronic show and found myself so transfixed by the horrifying imbecility on my screen that I was unable to switch away from it for 13 minutes

"I thought Elton John was two blokes for 20 years," said Welsh fitness instructor Liam Llewellyn. "I just thought it was like 'Elt and John', just like it’s Ant and Dec."

He later asked how grapes turn into raisins and thought equestrian Gemma Owen – daughter of ex England footballer Michael, who has my deepest sympathy for having to endure his teenage girl participating in this ritual humiliation – keeps her 12 horses inside her house.

Incredibly, Llewellyn is currently studying for a masters degree, albeit in strength and conditioning.

I suggest he starts urgent work in strengthening and conditioning what lies above his eyebrows, and I mean inside his forehead not outside.

In fact, I might start marketing a Botox for the Brain to help him and other Love Island veterans.

"It’s always the ones with brain worms that win your heart," one fan tweeted about this gurning halfwit.


If they do, then it says more about you than them.

Yet at least I can understand why dunces like Liam go on Love Island.

It’s a chance to meet like-minded individuals and will almost certainly be the pinnacle of their intellectual achievement in life.

What’s far more staggering to me is why people with actual brains want to be part of this mind-numbingly vacuous parade of denseness?


For example, Dubliner Dami Hope, 26, is reportedly a ‘senior microbiologist’ so he must, de facto, be a smart guy.

Yet rather than quietly get on with impressing the world with his science skills, he’s chosen to publicly parade himself on reality TV, mumbling jaw-droppingly dumb inanities with a nanny named Amber Beckford and then snogging her so noisily, sloppily and unedifyingly that it was like they were munching giant marshmallows from each other’s mouths.

You don’t need to be a scientist to know this is toe-curlingly embarrassing, so why the hell would he do this to himself? 

It’s as inexplicable as it’s depressing that someone whose day job is to help save lives willingly craves being immersed into a world of ‘sorts’, ‘banter’, ‘spoons’ and being ‘mugged off.’

But then the lure of influencer Instagram fame over a real job is increasingly potent.

Why bother saving lives for a meagre salary when you can make an a*se of yourself on TV, become a low-rent celebrity and make £10,000 a pop opening new branches of Aldi?

My other complaint about Love Island is that it’s also spectacularly fake.

Take the self-styled ‘Italian Stallion’, Davide Sanclimenti, who we’re told ‘works in business.’

Hmmm. So do porn stars.

The more Davide lays it on with his dodgy ‘romantic’ Roman drawl, the more suspicious I’m getting.

There’s a waiter at one of my favourite restaurants in Beverly Hills who jabbers away in English with a theatrically heavy Italian accent, and one night I told my wife Celia, who speaks fluent Italian, to speak to him in his native tongue.

He instantly froze, turned puce, ran off without responding, and has never served us again since that day, though I still hear him pulling his Venice gondolier act on other less cynical diners.

I’m not saying Davide isn’t actually Italian, but I’d love someone to ask him to count to ten in it, not least to see if he can count to ten in any language.

The ultimate desecration came when Luca Bish replicated Cristiano Ronaldo’s famous ‘Siu’ goal celebration (the one when he runs, jumps, swivels round mid-air, and lands with his arms outstretched by his side shouting ‘Siuuuuu!’) when it was announced that ‘actor’ Ekin-Su Culculoglu– who to my horror, was described in the papers last week as being ‘linked’ to me, because my eldest son follows her on social media – was coming in for a ‘date’ with Liam.

(This after she’d announced she was ‘looking for someone with brains’!)

 It’s not that he didn’t even do it properly, just charging forward like an over-excited panting lobotomised Labrador on heat.

It’s that he had the brazen audacity to pretend to be a billionaire footballing genius with supreme world class talent, a razor smart business acumen, and ferocious work ethic, when by his own admission, he’s a ‘class clown and idiot’ whose fish delivery business was reported by The Sun to have just £183 in the coffers after two years.

Nothing so perfectly epitomises this ghastly, fraudulent, breathtakingly ignorant assault on our senses that sends such a diabolically damaging message to Britain’s youth about how to behave and succeed in life.

It’s all siiiuuuuuuuuuu stupid.

Now, I must stop writing about Love Island, because with every new word I type, I feel yet more of my brain cells giving up the will to live.

PS. Liam has now quit the show. It was too damaging even to his brain cells.

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