I calculated exactly how long I, a normal man, would last on Love Island

Love Island is back on again this month, and I’m so excited I could punch a cement mixer. It is one of the greatest television shows in history (in its current iteration anyway) and its return has had a serious impact on my to-do list, namely it has: destroyed it.
 
Most people watch it as pure escapism – a way to vicariously live through a bunch of preening, screeching, cock-of-the-walk square-jaws and hair-flickers. Not me though – when I watch it I’m actually on it, hanging out by the pool, getting a bit too pissed for television, hiding from arguments and resolutely not shagging.
 
But how long would I genuinely last on Love Island if I went on it? How long before I was ostracized by the the large men and the sexy women? How long before the public truly recognised me for the fraud that I am?
 
Well, luckily, I know exactly how it would go. Here is precisely how long I would last on Love Island.

Week 1 of 6
 
In my current guise, I would be the first to go home. None of the girls would pick me, and there is one very important reason for this: I would have to have my top off and I do not have a six-pack.
 
“Who’s going to pick Gary? You know, the pasty one with the really upset-looking body? The one with the bloodshot eyes holding his breath?

“Nobody? No? Sorry Gazza, I’m afraid we must catapult you off the island. You are too disgusting for sex.”
 
Thing is though, if I knew I was going on Love Island and the entire country would be judging my goodass body and sculpted pecs, then I’d be in the gym every single day in the run-up, so I’d be fine with my body. I’d be cool taking my top off – I wouldn’t be in Alex Bowen territory, but I’d look OK next to Scott Thomas. I think I’d get by with a creepy wink and my winning smile (I brush my teeth every morning, try it), providing I didn’t get my flip-flop caught in a grate by the swimming pool and face-plant in my first scene.
 
Then I would do what I have definitely done on nights out in the past: I would speak like Danny Dyer. This is the only way to stay in the running on Love Island, because if you don’t have a regional accent or speak like a TOWIE cast member, then you are immediately excommunicated and rejected from all friendship groups. (See: Zara Holland. Related: Maisie in Ex On The Beach). Luckily, I’m a hard man from London, and nobody on the show will be aware of the hashtag #thatsnotgarysrealvoice so I’d be in the clear.
 
So I’m safe with the girls, but what about the massive blokes? How could I possibly get a foot in the door of their pen? How could I duck their wildly swinging elbows and powerful outward-pointing knees? How could I prevent my faint voice from becoming lost in the sea of booming, chest-beating mating calls? Well, it doesn’t look good, unfortunately. I don’t like football and all men like football, so I think I’d find it hard to ingratiate myself with The Lads straight off the bat. It is how most men first bond – I have experienced this first-hand many times – and I would be left in the cold. Nobody wants to talk about which Power Ranger would be best equipped to beat Jason Voorhees from the Friday the 13th films (Tommy). They want to talk about ‘Wenger’ going out or whatever it is he does. 
 
Luckily I’m quite good at jokes and I can do this really funny walk that always gets the big laughs in, so I’d have to try and coast by on that.

Week 2 of 6
 
Why, when all the blokes look like they’ve stepped straight out of a Universal Soldier sequel, would any of the girls want to stick with me? I mean, yeah, I sound like Danny Dyer and I’ve got the body of Val Kilmer in Top Gun, but how long can I keep up the bluff? I’d have to try and go down the “I’m the funny one” route.

This doesn’t always work though. Case in point: I once slid down the Old Street escalator handrail whilst on a date, lost control and smashed into a crowd of people really hard at the bottom. People were actually screaming. My date went home. I genuinely thought it would be funny.
 
So I’d have to hedge my bets, and there ain’t no escalators in the Love Island villa. Saying that, there are benches, and I did once pretend to slip on a puddle for a laugh, but ended up cracking my head open on one and going to hospital. Did get a laugh though. Either way, I’m not safe.
 
But maybe if I smacked my head on something, I’d get the sympathy vote. Yeah, that’s it. I’ll pretend to fall down the stairs but actually break my wrist. People aren’t going to vote me out with my hand in a cast. And I’ll stick with the girl that picked me in the first episode, demonstrating my commitment. Also, I’m starting to fancy her. This is good. I might win it.

Week 3 of 6
 
OGDEN GOT A SHAG IN. Somehow I managed to have sex with a fellow contestant. I was the third person to have a rut this series, but it’s still a great way of staying on the show. Love Island is fantastically low on morals: it is a television show that forces people to fuck on camera otherwise they have their free holiday cut short. 

How did I manage that? Well, firstly, I broke my wrist, remember? I was a figure of sympathy – poor Gary, we are now as upset as his pre-Love Island body. The men are unable to make fun of me for fear of looking inconsiderate, and the ladies feel sorry for me. My date not only pities me, but also wants to stay on the show, and the best way to stay on the show is to have an under-the-covers shag.

This agreement was almost telepathic. We both want to win and I’m the best chance she has. Might as well do the dirty for fame.
 
Only thing is, I’ve done myself a right disservice by doing that. You know that bit last series where Zara Holland was licking her lips in the dark like a girl on her first ever porn shoot? Well, that was me. The cameras captured my wide-eyed, frenzied night-vision bonk, like a gecko on a sub-woofer. A sub woofer that had its mains cut after two minutes.
 
The camera also captured my love match’s exasperated eye-roll, as I slid off onto the floor: a sweaty accordion deflating on the carpet, with a pixelated blur hovering over its groin. If only whoever was in charge of the censoring hadn’t accidentally let slip two fleeting frames of my actual arsehole as I turned over. Twitter went mental. How did they let that slip through? It’s like they did it just to spite me. #thatsnotgarysrealvoicebutitishisrealarsehole
 
This is where it all goes wrong. The rumours spread round the pool the next day, while I cower in bed upstairs, too frightened to come back down. The girls mock me, the blokes berate me. I have unavoidably distanced myself from the group.
 
“He’s not actually from London, is he?”
 
“He doesn’t even like football.”
 
“Of course we didn’t have sex!”
 
“He’s a VIRGIN VIRGIN VIRGIN SACRIFICE THE VIRGIN.”
 
“He keeps eating all the crisps.”
 
My cover has been blown. I am not the shagger. I am not the lad. My arms are too small, my stomach not toned enough, my back is peeling, my wrist stinks, I let slip I went to grammar school, I complained to Tom about Levi eating with his mouth open and he grassed, I don’t know how to shuffle, I don’t have a single tattoo, I pissed in the swimming pool and it fucking turned blue and I slid down down the banister on the spiral staircase and accidentally landed on a girl’s foot at the bottom.
 
The public have lost interest in me too. People are bored of me banging on about Malcolm In The Middle and that funny walk got old in week one. Also, it’s really tiresome watching someone lie in bed staring at the ceiling, licking crisps off his chest, and that’s all I’m offering anymore.
 
Obviously, I am not picked by any more girls, because two new men have come in now, and their giant, hairless pecs and arses have trampled my bright red forehead and puny shoulders into a sexless dust. I am no longer relevant.
 
No matter though, I lasted three weeks, had a free holiday and even attempted some sex. I can return home with my head relatively high. At least until I get back to work and am called into the office and sacked for showing my actual arsehole on national television. Kinga has nothing on me.
 
Still, there’s probably a student night in Loughborough that needs someone to be spat at, so I’m available for that. Anyone? Spit on me? SPIT ON ME I AM WORTHLESS.

Love Island starts on Monday June 4 at 9pm on ITV2. Best believe that cement mixer’s gonna get a good hiding.

(Images: ITV)