Ex on the Beach

Yes, that’s really the name of the programme.
These people don’t even know what they’ve signed up for.  Makes me wonder what the ad must have said in the first place.  Gullible freeloaders required, perhaps.  Ability to behave like a rational human being a disadvantage.  Don’t get me wrong – I can see the attraction of an all expenses paid holiday in Mexico in a luxury villa, but shouldn’t at least a few of the applicants have the brains to wonder what exactly the payoff might be?   Apparently not.  Or maybe they don’t care, as they are young and single and up for anything.
And why, you may ask, would I want to watch this kind of messed up stuff in the first place…
The easy answer is that I like to do a bit of exercise biking in front of the TV.  And, yes, I tend to watch programmes that I would probably not watch in the normal course of events.  Things like, The Chase or, well it’s usually The Chase, actually.
This week, however, my husband is away and I’ve shifted my exercise regime to the evening.  It just seems more convenient.  The truth is that the satellite decided to stop receiving signals from any of the terrestrial stations and I was forced to use the cable option, which was also more or less on the blink – I hate BBC iPlayer at the best of times, but when the irritating red bobbles continue to circle ad infinitum, I hate it even more.  With my viewing options plummeting, I was forced to consider something new – and there it was – the complete set of seasons of Ex on The Beach.
Why not?  I thought.  No one will know. 
I soon realised that it didn’t matter which episode I watched as they were all the same – how could it be that a crowd of narcissistic swimwear aficionados with very little common sense and far too many silicone-enhanced body parts could allow themselves to be filmed making complete arses of themselves.
For those who have never watched this programme, which I presume to be most of the thinking British public (a harsh indictment of yours truly, I know), the premise is this:  jet off to a fabulous beach villa with a group of people you’ve never met in order to have as much sex as possible and (surprise, surprise) expect a visit from a random series of exes during your stay.  Be prepared to tell the world how many hundreds of people you’ve slept with, wear no knickers, get rat-arsed, and become aggressive when the new love of your life stabs you in the back and romance turns sour.  And I really do mean aggressive.  The swearing to ordinary vocabulary ratio is absurd.  If there isn’t an ‘f’ or a ‘c’ in it, it’s not worth saying. I’ve watched Eastenders in the past and I can tell you that the loudest and most frenzied shouting match between Angie and Den would be considered poetic in comparison.
The ‘men’ are all ‘players’ and the girls are either ‘slags’ or ‘babes’. And, horror of horrors, the more you watch, the more you become part of their world.  You begin to  have favourites.  For me, it’s Bear – a cheeky chappie who in real life is a roofer.  

He knows how to charm the birds, rip off a pair of panties and, dip his wick.  He’s also adept at subterfuge, and a friend to infidelity (if a crafty snog in the bathroom followed by an illicit shag with a neurotic Welsh girl counts as infidelity).  Bear also adores dropping his fellow housemates in the proverbial.  Doesn’t like it when the joke’s on him, though.  Who does?
So, I’m off to watch just one more episode before the arrival tomorrow of another fully sentient human being, who will never know how low I have sunk in his absence because he never reads my blog.
Happy Days.