Your value is not measured on your productivity…and other truths I am trying to learn

One of my favourite things to do, when I have been in work and my mum has been on a training course in Manchester is to meet up afterwards, grab a flat white (I had to get my caffeine addiction from somewhere) and get the train home with her. This is a rarity but dear god does it bring joy to my life. See I hate commuting with a living passion. The trains are delayed or cancelled, I always just miss one and specifically on the days when I look a little bit like a 12 year old boy I will bump into someone I went to school with…yay! But when I am with my mum it is a whole different kettle of fish. Whilst the train is merely the hell carriage that very slowly and inefficiently gets me from A to B, to Stella- who gets the train maybe once every six months, it is a big adventure, full of new sights. For the few journeys we take together I have a sufficient distraction from how the infrastructure in the North of England is falling apart and just enjoy the ride.

I got to enjoy one such journey earlier this week. After working a night shift into a day shift and getting a grand total of about 3 hours sleep I was ready to go home. Usually on a day like this the commute would have broken me but not today. Not with Stella. As we sat on the platform and she asked me about my day I mentioned I had had a meeting with my mentor at work (the nicest gal to grace this earth). As she asked how it made me feel and where it leaves me now I started to get teary. I am not one for big, public displays of emotion unless it is tears of laughter. But apparently being so exhausted that I cry on a train platform at the prospect of the future is my life now.


I remember a time when not having your shit together was cool. Not caring about things was the way you were supposed to feel. Now it feels like a competition of who is the busiest? Who has the most side hustles? Who is working the most hours without breaking down?

Last weekend was the bank holiday weekend and I spent it with family, helping my brother move out of his house and generally mooching around Leeds. It was heavenly. I cannot express to you how delightful it was to not be sat at my computer or constantly be looking at my phone (I did work bank holiday Monday but who takes Bank Holidays anyway?) But how wrong is that? We are switched on constantly even to the extent of when we are given time off we feel guilty.




I am insanely impatient. Not to toot my own trumpet but if, this time last year you had told me what I would be doing I’d be buzzed. But as we, sadly live in the present I am so blind to what’s in front of me because I am constantly looking for the next thing or the end goal.

If I don’t spend my evening off pitching to another publication or applying for a job then I feel like I have wasted time. I am constantly preaching that you should be intentional with how you spend your free time and down time is so important but do I practice it? Absolutely not. Hell, I am sat up writing this at 10:30 at night after working 16 of the last 24 hours.


Someone somewhere along the line pushed the idea that your worth is in direct correlation with how productive you are. If you are running yourself into the ground then you must be a better person or more deserving of success but that so isn’t the case- so why can’t I believe it?

Whilst having a ‘no days off’ attitude can be really motivating, it can also wreck any sort of work life balance that you’re managing to maintain (please tell me how?) So over this week I am going to try and start practising what I preach and who knows- I might actually sleep a full 8 hours…


Budget Little Mix Go To Barcelona

I am sorry, where did summer go? I know we all complained when it was the temperature of the sun that we had forgotten what rain feels like and we were all going to shrivel up into little raisin beings but we weren’t… I want the sun back. I have had enough of this sub-30 degree weather already.

I feel like this summer has been crazy hectic anyway. Picking up an extra freelance gig and deciding I actually need hobbies outside of drinking wine in peoples gardens turns out to be quite time consuming/ knackering.


I wrote about my trip to Budapest earlier this year which I loved. It was like nowhere I had been before and it was nice to just to get away from my laptop for a few days. If you haven’t been I recommend you get yourself on skyscanner immediately! However, coming back to work only made me want another longer break. So a couple of weeks later I booked Barcelona with four friends (the fore mentioned Budget Little Mix- not a self-given title but one given by an older man in an attempt at a compliment…)

As I said, after picking up extra work and the heat wave which meant I essentially spent every waking moment either in work willing to be outside or outside melting into a puddle of sweat and residual wine (sexy, I know) I was very much ready to not be in the country for a few days. And oh my god Barcelona did not disappoint!

Rather than splitting up the trip into days/ nights I thought I would split it into activities instead, starting with the first and most important…FOOD.


I would go back to Barcelona just to eat. Seriously, just leave me there with the funds to get obese. I knew before I left that the tapas was going to be nice but wow. What became abundantly clear within 24 hours of us being in the city was that we were ordering WAY too much food. Now, I didn’t go away with girls that can’t eat- funnily enough I don’t seem to attract those people. However, we were ordering the amount of tapas we would at home- three or four plates each. No no no. I have never seen so much food in my life. We were stacking patatas bravas on calamari and chorizo. It was a mess and I would like to say we learnt our lesson but we didn’t and there was never that much left at the end of the sitting. I just spent most meal times feeling physically unwell.



Whilst everything we ate was delicious we were given a couple of recommendations. Stay off las ramblas for food and drink. It is SO expensive, the vibe is weird and it is touristy as hell. My favourite tapas was in the district of El Born although, being greedy and rubbish I now can’t remember the name of it. On one of the afternoons, knowing a storm was coming Becky and I wanted to grab some food and like the holiday organisational wiz that she is she found this little tapas place. It was INSANE! Pictures don’t do it justice and I can’t even begin to describe how good the sardines and tuna we had were.



Basically, I want to go back to Barcelona just to sit in a restaurant and eat tapas and drink sangria.


In the same vein the nightlife in Barcelona was so much fun. Same recommendation applies, don’t go anywhere near las ramblas unless you’re walking to somewhere else. We made the trip down there on a couple of nights and once you wade through the men asking if you’re going to the beach in your dress and heels or are looking for some coke you can’t get seated and have to spoon your bag for dear life in fear that it’ll get stolen. I had one friend get picked up and carried off- apparently her ‘husband’ decided he was laying claim on her and whilst the offer of ‘jiggy jiggy’ dancing is tempting, it was surprisingly always a no from me. We had one drink on las ramblas on the first night- we were tired and completely phased by the reps. I had some sort of syrup water posing as a strawberry daiquiri which I would put my limited life savings on the fact that it had no alcohol in but gave me the biggest sugar rush I have had since I drank Capri Sun as a child.


On one of the nights Becky and I ended up heading out alone. We were in the Gothic Quarter which was great for little bars. Although it was a Thursday it felt super busy and the vibe was really good. We ended up talking to some people who were living in the city and going on to a techno club and whilst I have limited appreciation for techno I do appreciate attractive, tall German men and cheap drinks so off we went. It was so much fun, we both felt completely safe (unlike the creeps of Budapest) and we left to stuff our faces with paprika lays/ scatter crumbs all over the bed and then pass out.


Alternatively, Barca also has the bigger clubs along the beach. Entry was fairly expensive but on one of our last days we were all lay on the beach, trying to sweat out a hangover when a very attractive Swiss guy approached. If you have seen Mamma Mia 2 young Bill then you know! He literally could have sold us our own sun cream and we would have bought it. We ended up buying some wrist bands for a roof party and club entry for that night.


Now, the roof party had a bit to be desired- it reminded me a little bit of a networking event I had been to a few weeks previous. However, we were all together, on the beach front and looking our best so it was fine (a bottle and a half of spirit was also thrown in with the wrist band which eased being stranded on the top of a building with the cast of the inbetweeners). However, paying for the wrist band was made so worth it when we went down to the clubs later on. After drinking Charlotte’s concoction of rum, gin and cloudy lemon (it tastes how I imagine the black water that Dumbledore has to drink would taste) I was ready for a dance. We ended up in Catwalk (because I am not fully confident we could have found Pacha at that point). The music was so good and I haven’t danced like that in so long!

Before we left everyone I spoke to said there was always a party in Barca and they were so right. It was so much fun and everyone was so nice. For some reason a pint in the local doesn’t quite match up to Sangria with the view of the sea.

Day trips

There is literally a million and one things to do in Barca during the day. I usually come to the end of the trip and don’t feel the need to visit again but I don’t even feel like I scratched the surface this time. It combines lazy beach holidays with city breaks so you’re spoilt.


On the first day Becky organised us a walking tour and I maintain these are the best ways to see a new city. Armardo, our tour guide was the most enthusiastic man I have ever met…in my life. It was grinding at first but once I had coffee in me I appreciated that very few people could make describing the hundreds of saints of Barcelona quite as interesting as he did. There was so many photo ops, it helped us get our bearings and he was fairly useful for food recommendations.




We also did an art tour and I now know more about Gaudi than I ever wished to. Whilst we did it on the hottest day of our stay which was slightly unpleasant we did get to see a lot of his work, including the Sagrada Familia. I also got to frolic about in a tshirt and not much more in the sun outside the café/bar that Orwell wrote 1984 so a girl can’t complain.




Obviously, the beach in Barca is stunning and the weather while we were there was perfect. I am not very good at lying still on the beach. For about 10 mins I am happy, then I try and read, end up wriggling to find a comfortable position, get distracted by a hot person down the beach, realise a boob is making a bid for an escape and end up burning a weird bit of skin I have missed with lotion…it’s all a bit stressful. However, the couple of beach afternoons we had were so nice, it never felt too busy and there’s men that go round with bevs and doing henna. The henna is probably a no but I can thoroughly recommend the Sangria (as always).


On the one day that it rained (I did not sign up for that) there was loads to do too. Whilst we shacked up in a restaurant whilst the storm passed we then donned some very fetching pink ponchos (when a tourist) and made our way to the Picasso Museum. It was heaving and there was a 40 minute wait but once we were inside it was awesome. There is no way I would have gone if it hadn’t been raining and I am so glad we did! After wandering around and regaining the feeling in my very wet, sandal clad toes we found a really cute little indie coffee shop to grab a flat white and cake. Because no matter where you are, did you go to a museum if you didn’t have a coffee and a cake?




I am going to keep this section really short because a) it is boring and b) I have only just come up for air and realised how long this post is. Everyone will tell you- I am talking your family, friends, neighbours, work colleagues, friends of friends, relatives you haven’t spoken to in months, strangers on public transport- Barcelona is the pick pocket capital of Europe. My parents, obviously always have a chat with me before I go away about safety etc but I have never seen anything like this. My dad came home from work a few days before I left and said his colleague’s daughter had some of her hair chopped off and stolen in the street….

Whilst I can’t tell you how to hold onto your hair it is so clear how people get things stolen- it is busy, you’re hot and distracted and on holiday so your inhibitions are already down. After a VERY stern talking to and a demo on how to hold our bags from Albert, the man who owned the apartment we were staying in, we were good to go and whilst we laughed I am thankful because we all came away with all of our possessions (and hair).

So that is it! As you can tell by the sheer length of this post and I so badly want to go back to Barcelona. It has been on my list for such a long time and I have no idea why I didn’t take the plunge and go sooner. If you have a bit of time and need some sun and fun I couldn’t recommend anywhere more!



This Summer Wear Whatever The F You Want

WARNING: Rant ahead!

Oh hey girls and boys! How’s things? I was thinking of reserving this as a bit of a ‘Girls Talk’ kind of post but since I have just spent the last hour battling tears in Boux Avenues changing rooms we’re going to jump straight in.

I have always had fairly big boobs. This isn’t a brag, it baffles me that people get surgery only to make their lives more inconvenient. I remember going to Marks and Spencer’s with my mum, age 11 to get my first bra and I went straight into a B cup. At the time this meant literally nothing to me and I just wanted to get out of the changing room with the old lady who kept measuring bits of my body I spent 99% of the time ignoring/ hiding away.

Skip 12 years and I am going to Barcelona in a couple of days which means the annual ‘walk around the shops to only try on bikinis that would get me arrested for indecent exposure’ was due.


The woman came in to measure me. She looked at me and was like ‘Oh I can measure you by sight’. I wonder how much she uses this when she is out and about- gets served in Costa- 34C, goes to a bar- 32D. After I got out of my own head and realised she was looking at me in a way that made me think something was horrendously wrong, she gave the verdict. Patting my arm like she has just given me a terminal diagnosis she tells me I am wearing the right size bra and do I need a minute. Hunny I am already wearing a 32G, not much else you say to me in this cubicle is going to surprise me.

She returned with a range of what can only be described as lace parachutes and I whip my top back on and leave. Because that’s the thing when you have a chest that is anything over a D cup. Unless you are willing to wear underwear and bikinis that could double up as lifesaving bungee equipment the high street would make you think you are a bit stuck.

When you are younger you’re told to wear baggy clothes that would in some way conceal the fact that you have a body underneath. Then you get to an age where society deems it acceptable to be visible and you’re told that a good option for you is a wrap, skater dress… I am going to a bar… I am not a fucking middle aged supply teacher. I don’t know who started the vicious rumour that wrap dresses were curvy girls only option (I am looking at you Trinny and Susannah) but they’re cancelled.


We are so obsessed with what we can and cannot wear. No- you cannot shop on ASOS for bikinis if you’re DD+ because you don’t know what the bikini will look like… It will look like my body in a bikini- something I have, shockingly, bore witness to before. No matter how hard you try if your tits are big, you have thick thighs, a tummy or a big bum that is how it is and that’s perfect.

Everyone has the right to shop where they want, wear what they want and feel sexy. No matter what anyone would have you believe sexy isn’t reserved for people with certain measurements, skin colours or signifiers. I work two jobs so when I am not chained to my laptop I think I am allowed a pizza or a glass (bottle) of wine.

I am not talking about being unhealthy. I know going to the gym has really helped me in not only slimming down a little bit physically but my entire mind set has changed. We have come so far and, whilst Instagram definitely has its pit falls, it is a platform where people can show off their different bodies and give someone somewhere that push to know that they’re okay.

Buying that bikini that you thinks a bit scandalous but you feel hot in, or wearing the shorts that you think you can’t wear because your thighs touch or you get a bit of bum cleavage in is a good thing. We internalise so much trash that if you can go through the day feeling a little bit better and loving yourself a little bit more that is really important.

After making a (obscenely expensive) order on ASOS I have just spent the evening eating a Dominos Chicken Feast and dancing around in my new bikinis to old school Jojo and you better believe I will be doing exactly the same down the beach in Barcelona, Sangria in hand.

Mixing Work And Play In A None Messy Way


“If you do something you love you will never work a day of your life”- well that’s just not true is it? If you do something you love you will work every single day of your life because you have turned your favourite hobby into paid work.

I don’t know if it is just me- if I am just the kind of person who doesn’t deal with change well, or if we all hate change deep down but I really feel like I am in a period of transition at the moment. It is a bit uncomfortable and uncertain but on the whole completely positive (I hope).

So, last week I got the email to say that as of today I will be freelancing on a weekly basis for Bustle. This was a big deal for me. It means I will get to write, and write about things I care about (from Love Island to social affairs) for a publication that I feel seen by. Also, because of the hours I will still be able to stay at the BBC (and never sleep or take weekends but who needs those anyway?)

Jobs and careers have changed and I love speaking to older relatives and family friends about what I do. A couple ask me on a fairly regular basis if I have had anymore shifts at the BBC (anymore after my trial shift in October). No, I have adopted the life of a lady of leisure. After two degrees and accumulating over £60,000 (gag) worth of debt I decided working life just isn’t for me. It does get a little bit old apologising for not being able to give people a clear cut answer as to where exactly you work without sounding vague, evasive or unemployed.


As I spent this week pouring over tax websites and trying to conjure up new and inventive pitches on why Dr Alex is the worst and he should be cancelled (thank god he finally was last night) I started to think about jobs I have had in years gone by and how I have actually got to this place.

When I was 16 I worked in a pet shop which, obviously I loved. I was essentially paid to stand there and stroke doggos as their owners picked from the 100000 brands of doggo food. I feared I had peaked too soon and in reality, I will never be paid to cuddle pooches again so I probably have.

Because I was a little grafter/ needed money to fund a serious ASOS addiction I also worked in a primary school after school club. Unorthodox for someone who isn’t completely au fait with speaking to children (the only way to speak to them is like small adults right?) but being paid to break up savage children fights, eat toast and speak to a boy I had a horrendous crush on wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

I did the usual bar and retail work during uni (the less said the better) and then I had the horrible three months between finishing my degree and realising it is adult time.


Going freelance was never the plan. I am naturally a worrier and I like certainties. In freelancing there are no certainties. I have written about it before but I had so many plans during my undergrad (work for a national newspaper by 25, married at 27, kids at 30- the usual) but it has become abundantly clear there is no one route.

I spend at least two nights a week scrawling through social media, green with envy at friends who appear to be busier than I am or progressing quicker. In reality they are in completely different fields to me and if social media is to be believed I drink a smoothie every morning for breakfast and definitely don’t spend three hours a day scouring the internet for Love Island memes.

I think if the last nine months have taught me anything it is that starting your career/ your entire career is a process and there is no one traditional trajectory. We are allowed more portfolio careers than ever before which is really difficult to explain to someone who has been in the same job for the last 30 years and trying to work out tax is a bitch but you can have your fingers in all the pies (and who doesn’t like pie?)

Being a little bit scared is a good thing because it usually means you’re living outside of your comfort zone. I am a big believer in speaking things into existence. If you find the jobs that you genuinely want to do, don’t compromise your own boundaries or moral compass and believe that you can actual do it, it usually works out. It just might not look how you thought it would originally. I 100% do not follow this all of the time (or even most of the time) but it is about learning to go with the flow and actually enjoying it.



Self Love Club

Oh Hey! Long time, no speak (shock). Since England went into full on heatwave/ football mania I have to say I have been taking some time to see friends, top up my vitamin D levels and become the bronzed goddess that hibernates within for the other 360 days of the year. Hence minimal screen time and no blog posts.

Peak heatwave I was sat outside in the garden with my parents of an evening. We don’t do this (ever) so it was nice just to sit and chat. Conversation somehow wound up on my exes and past relationships. As we called into question nearly every life choice I have made since I was 16 and fondly remembered a couple (very few) of the people I dragged into their lives my dad piped up and said, “yes but you have to be nicer to yourself, it is good to see that you’re back to doing you.”

I just sat there. Usually, if we are talking relationships the only things my dad contributes are slightly sickening anecdotes from before he met my mum and became a tamed man or the outrageous nicknames he has for my exes which ‘coincidentally’ only surface when things fall apart. This was a deeper insight.

I remember the first boy that really broke my heart. We were 13, and he had a Bieber cut and rode a skate board. It was a real 2008 Avril Lavigne dream. I thought he was far too good for me- a god amongst men (boys). Then he cheated on me and I vividly remember sitting on the kitchen counter in tears with my mum and vowing I would never like another boy again. If only that were true.

I would like to think I am okay in myself. I definitely need my own space, am somewhat comfortable in my own head and wouldn’t say I am one of those people that prefers to be in a relationship. However, I know I am still cripplingly terrified of disappointing people, of losing them when in reality they are making no effort to try and keep me.

No matter how self-confident you are, how many girls nights you have or how many Slumflower threads you read we still live in a society that dictates that women have more cultural and sexual currency and worth if they are pleasing to men and change themselves for their partners. If ITV2 is to be believed, so long as you’ve got a peachy bum and perky tits the world is your oyster and you can try and unlearn all of the misogynistic ideals that we have forced on us from date dot but it is really fucking hard.

It is so easy to compromise your own self love to impress a person who isn’t adding value to your already amazing life. I have sat for hours with my insanely intelligent, empathetic, kind, beautiful friends analysing why some trash guy hasn’t text them back and what that has to do with them (the answer is always nothing by the way).

An insecure persons idea of wonderland is tearing down a women they thought was too good for them in the first place. If you are going out there, operating on a standard that you know you deserve in full knowledge of what you bring to the table that is really attractive. It isn’t bitter, it isn’t aggressive and it is only intimidating to those that are too weak to handle you. Take up as much space as you want!

We like to think that we go through life unscathed. I know I have gone into relationships with the belief that I have zero baggage from the one before. Yet I still think about someone I broke up with two years ago on a weekly basis and am still working through fall out from my last relationship now. Just because someone hurt you doesn’t make you weak.

We need to stop screwing ourselves over. Saying that you are a self-saboteur and you’re not good at relationships without considering that the people you dated might not be totally healthy for you is so easy. Why blame someone else when you can talk yourself into a corner?

Growth has taught me that nothing and no one out there is worth me getting out of character for and you don’t owe anyone pretty!

Wine Wednesday: Talk Dirty

We literally live in a society completely obsessed with sex. So why do we still find it so hard to talk about it?

I am not sure at what point I am going to have to start paying Love Island for the true enrichment it brings to my life. Not only is it quenching my inner thirst for gossip it is essentially writing my blog. A couple of nights ago the islanders played a lovely game of Mr and Mrs- harmless enough. This is one of my favourite drinking games- it is always nice to find out what your flat mates favourite sex position is so when you’re shouting through the wall at them you can make your off putting comments really specific.

Whilst watching Wes call Laura ignorant (and then wonder why she was so upset) and Danni and Jack come out on top was all very amusing, Eyal and Megan gave me the most food for thought (not a sentence I thought I would write about either of them).

When Jack asked ‘how many boys has your girl slept with?’ and Eyal wrote 37 Megan looked a little beyond offended. We’ve all been there. Either you or your partner has one too many vinos, gets a bit brave and asks the other about their past. It is a bit awkward but why wouldn’t you want to know? Because you genuinely don’t care? Or because you enjoy living in denial that your partner hasn’t actually been with anyone else?

Eyals assumption and Megans reaction are both really problematic. Eyal assumed that Megan would have slept with 37 boys because she is open about sex- that by the fact that she felt comfortable talking about it would mean that she is ‘up for it’. Similarly, if Megan is so open and comfortable talking about doing the deed then why was she so offended?

It doesn’t matter how enlightened you consider society or your inner circle to be- slut shaming is still very much alive and well. The attitude that it doesn’t really matter how many gals a boy has managed to sleep with (Adams curt 200-ish), there is still meaning ascribed to a girl who engages in casual sex. And being sex positive isn’t synonymous with sexually active.

I rather enjoy a chinwag about sex. I don’t see the embarrassment behind it and, yes, there is a time and a place i.e. in a bar not your Monday morning briefing at work, but on the whole I think it helps people bond. There is nothing like hearing someone say me too after you have admitted to doing something truly mortifying over the weekend. Yet just because you’re sex positive doesn’t mean you don’t have any verbal barriers (contrary to what my friends might say). I find this happens a little more now I have come out but no Darren from IT I don’t want to tell you what I did in bed with my ex-girlfriend and if scissoring is ‘a real thing’. Go back to Google you perv. Just because someone feels comfortable talking about sex to their friends doesn’t give you the entitlement to ask them filthy invasive questions. The normal codes of social conduct still apply- we have not entered some sexy void (lol) where behaving in a socially acceptable way has been thrown out of the window.

I am also really confused as to why people struggle to take sex positivity seriously, socially or professionally. Being comfortable doing you does not diminish your worth or your ability to get a job done. When I tell people at work that a lot of the freelance writing I’ve done has centred around dating and sexuality I have been asked why I don’t choose to cover ‘real’ topics or seek out ‘real’ journalism. Similarly sex work is often seen as dirty and lazy. On the whole- not ‘real’ work. You can’t enter into ‘real’ relationships as a sex positive women without people calling out your intentions because you’re just the girl who is looking for a good time.

Sex is a part of our everyday lives. If you aren’t doing it, you’re talking about it/ avoiding talking about it or it is being used to sell you yogurt (Nicole Scherzinger I am looking at you babe). Sex positivity is about creating safe spaces to start conversations about consent, something that in this day and age is more pertinent than ever. Just because you like talking dirty over a beer with your mates does not devalue you or make you lesser.

Adam is Frankenstein and we are his creators…

It’s that time of year again folks. Like clockwork as 8:45 rolls around, I sit battling the feminist voice in my head and my need for a bit of mind numbing guilty pleasure. By 9 o’clock I will have succumbed to putting ITV2 on but ‘only until the first break’ and by 9:10 I am fully engrossed. Like millions of other people this year’s Love Island has got me gripped. As I am reminded on a daily basis at work that ‘it was the most watched thing by young people last year’ and it appears this year is heading in the same direction. Four million people tuned in on the opening night.

It isn’t just an hour of my life every day that Love Island has taken over. No, no. If I am not in deep heated group discussions about how to pronounce Eyals name or tagging people in Adams wandering eye memes, I am trying to convert my parents/ co-workers/ people on the train to join the cause with me.

And the worst part about this fixation is I have no idea why I enjoy Love Island so much. It stands for everything I generally avoid. It is just a poor excuse for a social experiment where women are packed into an evil villa and encouraged to run around in bikinis in the hope to impress some horrid jacked-up man boys who are really more interested in sucking up to the worst one in the pack (yes Adam we are looking at you).adam1

Despite, obviously, tuning in every single night this year feels a little different. Whereas in years gone by we have had the light relief of Marcels references to Blazin Squad, Camilla explaining feminism to Johnny or Cara and Nathan being…Cara and Nathan, this year seems to have centred solely on Adams mission to be the smuggest fuck boy that has ever graced our screens.

At times it has made for really uncomfortable watching because, yes these people have applied to spend 6 weeks with people they pretend to like (or love) in a bid to win £50,000 but emotional manipulation isn’t fun to watch.

Maybe I am being over sensitive because I know a lot of us have been there. Adam is every guy you first started seeing when you moved to university. You had just moved away from home. You had are in a house full of strangers and the only other person you thought you had loved was your childhood sweet heart. ‘Adam’ swoops in all shiny and new on the outside looking nothing like the boys that you know back home and he knows all the right things to say. Then, when he inevitably joins the rugby/football/ hockey/ water polo team and realises he’ll have girls on tap at the sports night out he freezes you out, tells you you’re the crazy one for being paranoid and you never hear from him again. In fact the only thing different between Adam and your first uni boyfriend is Adam wouldn’t actually have time to go to lectures because time learning is wasted when he could be pulling girls.

The way Adam treated Rosie- smirking at her as she told him that she felt used by him all but reminded me of how Zara was treated after Alex slept with her and look how that ended up. He is getting a wedding spread in OK and she has disappeared. As much as we may not like it, we excuse these boys behaviour because they’re nice to look at.

It is for all of these reasons that Adam is the perfect Love Island contestant. And his family are playing it right too taking #teamRosies side. He has started a national debate- as if we weren’t already talking about Love Island enough. Whilst I love Alex- and believe me I really do, a whole villa of doctors just like him would make for very polite, respectful TV. That isn’t why we watch Love Island. You can’t sell the premise of a 6 week free holiday in a luxury villa with obscenely attractive housemates and not expect the slimiest, best looking snakes to be attracted. Adam is Love Islands Frankenstein. He is not a nice person- regardless of the fact of whether this is all an act. But whilst we need Love Island (and I really do) we will continue to create and excuse more people like him.