As a grumpy middle-aged man, Love Island's terrifyingly perfect specimens make me fear for the future of humanity

The fact that Alex, an A&E doctor, is the only one with a bit of brains appears to be of no consequence; the other hunks possess slightly more contoured six or eight packs. His abs are a deal breaker

Watching Love Island for the first time, during the occasional longueur, my mind drifted to what it reminded me of. Previous reality TV shows, such as Big Brother and the thing with celebrities in the jungle, yes, obviously - but what else…?

The answer, of course, is Woody Allen’s sketch-based classic movie Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex *But Were Afraid to Ask (1972). Specifically, that is, the segment entitled "What Happens During Ejaculation?” in which Allen “plays” a spermatozoa, complete with tail. As he lines up for penetration, the Allen sperm is scared to go out there, not least because he’d heard tales of previous comrades suffering a lonely death in a sock, but his friend reminds him that he took an oath to fertilise an ovum or die trying. And so he does, in fierce, terrifying competition with hundreds of other spermatozoa. That’s Love Island.

And so the first episode ended with Alex, as it happens, having unconsciously assumed/been allocated the role of the nervous Allen sperm, just waiting to be elbowed out of the way by the over-developed Adam, who apparently all the girls fancy. The fact that Alex, an A&E doctor, is the only one with a bit of brains appears to be of no consequence; the other hunks possess slightly more contoured six or eight packs. His abs are a deal breaker.

For 90 minutes or so, then, boys are pitched against boys to mate with the most physically alluring girl; the girls flutter their eyes and simper to achieve the same goal, though numerically the odds are skewed in the girls’ favour.

One day a baby will be born on Love Island, the event may be even broadcast live, a moment in history when light entertainment finally merges with eugenics. In due course more Love Island babies could be reared, and, in time, interbred. It’s the sort of thing Himmler would have approved of: a farm dedicated to create a physically perfect master race. As a demonstration of practical Darwinism, Love Island can’t be faulted, though you do fret a bit about the future of humanity.

Maybe Love Island would be complete, and send itself up just a little more, if the male contestants were dressed up, Woody Allen-style, as sperms rather than poncing around in beachwear, narcissistically comparing each other’s identikit pert botties, their tanned, weirdly pre-pubescent hairless torsos and unnaturally white teeth. Without wanting to provoke a feminist uproar, I’d argue that the parade of these primped and primed male love-dolls, prototype sex bots, is just as demeaning as the accompanying parade of girls in their swimwear. So Love Island can’t be sexist, because it treats young human beings of either gender with an equal disdain. Their desperation for easy fame is an equal opportunities one. Then again, as my Catholic teachers inculcated into me long ago, two wrongs don’t make a right, a handy piece of analytical equipment that has served me well.

There were moments gloriously beyond parody. The blonde girl (can’t remember which) who asked the Love Island meta-question – “What does ‘superficial’ mean?”. There was a discussion, all too brief, among the boys about whether teeth can ever be “too white”. Dani Dyer, daughter of soap actor Danny Dyer, if I’ve got those the right way round, telling a prospective mate that “I’ve never seen a boy cream”. That sort of thing.

Love Island, then, is a meat market, a sexual laboratory, an exercise in mass voyeurism, a phenomenon. It is, though, marooned away on ITV2 for a very good reason: It’s not for all. Most of Britain’s ageing, knackered population preferred to be parked in front of The Queen’s Coronation in Colour (ITV1), Versailles (fruity enough for most, BBC2), 24 hours in Police Custody (Channel 4), and, poignantly enough, Suffragettes with Lucy Worsley (BBC1). Love Island has an intense appeal to a certain slice of what Tony Blair used to call “Young Britain”, but its proceedings are a matter of utter indifference to the rest of us.

So far as can be seen, there is no LGBT element, not much BAME representation, and definitely no-one with a paunch, varicose veins or gum disease has been granted a visa to settle there. There’s no angst, no poverty, no Brexit. Love Island is another country; nice to visit the odd time, but you really wouldn’t want to move there.