Love is blind

I can't remember exactly how long ago it was I binned the telly (big bin, small telly....) but it must be some 20 years plus. I've no regrets. That's not to say I don't watch stuff. Hell, I'm as prone to a brain-dead binge as the next over-worked, perma-nackered, middle-aged (fuck, that's the first time I've associated that term with myself...) 21st century pleb, but I generally curate what I watch.... with a little encouragement from our algorithmic overlords.

I don't miss television's perpetual spewing forth of ads. I'm from bohemian Brighton yeah - don't try to sell me on anything other than peace, love and hummus.

I don't miss forking out an annual license fee for a meagre five channels, something which seemed almost worthwhile whenever Attenborough bestowed on us a new Planet Earth or Blue Planet but inexplicable with each new festering instalment of televisual gammon-bait like Mrs. Brown's Boy (Never actually watched it admittedly. They say you shouldn't judge a book by its cover but it's not a book)
I certainly don't miss the quagmire of reality TV, from the mundane reality of Airport staff and vehicle Clampers to the barely-in-touch-with “reality” of Real Housewives and the Jersey Shore. The cavalcade of screeching, fighting, egomaniacal, vapid and celebratedly dumb wannabe somebodies lining up to let Big Brother share their every shame became a literal turn off for me.

Bring me Sopranos, Breaking Bad and the best of the silver screen. A laptop, projector and middling broadband connection have been more than adequate replacement for the long-gone idiot box.

I don't think I've really missed much in the intervening years. Certainly nothing I couldn't stream at my leisure and minus the sporadic sales shorts. Whilst I'd be all too happy to pay a license fee to see Matt Hancock reduced to eating cockroaches (kindred cannibalism if ever there was), the fact that I'm a C-word apparently saw him do it willingly (and for a massive appearance fee) would've removed all the satisfaction. If he doesn't drown or plummet to his doom on the current series of Celebrity SAS: Who Dares Wins, perhaps he'll lose a couple of fingers on his inevitable Dancing on Ice debut. Please, just, something....
Anyway, all righteousness aside, everyone has their poison of course, and mine is MAFS (Married at First Sight) a hopelessly addictive “social experiment” where pairs of “ordinary” strangers and wannabe influencers do the thing wot the title says. Originating in Denmark in 2013, the format has subsequently been shipped around the globe to great success, with multiple series of MAFS Australia, UK, America and Germany all joining the quest for love / peak trash.

Selected from pools of thousands, the participants are psychologically profiled by a panel of tanned, TV-teethed therapists, sex and relationship experts, then matched with a stranger purported to be their perfect fit and the antidote to the stream of domineering bad boys or aloof princesses they've been making the same mistakes with over and again.

Knowing nothing of their betrothed but their name, participants must first inform their occasionally aghast, often delighted (“Wooooo, she's on the telly!!!”) friends and family of their imminent nuptials before hitting the aisle and MAF-ing themselves senseless. Honeymoons, homestays and co-habitation follow as the new couples navigate their feelings, attractions and relationship triggers for the cameras and captive audience. Some appear to breeze through with instant, even lasting connections whilst others, frequently paired against type, clash or fizzle in confusion. The common refrain is to “trust the experts” and “follow the science” but the guilty pleasure of MAFS is the “science” clearly errs from time to time towards the formula for gossip-worthy TV, not lasting love, and whilst the show does not bask in the high levels of toxicity of so much other “reality” content, there are definitely a few, errr, plonkers dropped in the petri dish to keep things spicy. Life's full of all types, so whilst it may be representative to include assholes, it smacks of at the very least, professional irresponsibility to saddle a gaslighting narcissist on their perfect mark, as the “experts” appear to have done from time to time. (MAFS Australia's Bryce Ruthven a particular series lowlight) At least this type of arguably exploitative social engineering catalyses a public discussion around negative personality traits, behaviours and abuses. Social media is certainly alight in the wake of each episode.

In response to some inevitable backlash, later series have seen the experts more clearly admonish poor behaviour, though their criticisms generally fall well short of the roundhouse kicks most audience members would have them dispense to some of the more emotionally abusive or deluded participants. Armchair catharsis more commonly occurs through the interactions of the baddies with the other participants, the frequent dinner parties (reportedly over-long and well-lubricated by producers...) often descending into vitriolic chaos and satisfying social reckoning. Unfortunately, the sense that we don't always get the full picture and that even some of the apparent lovebirds are here for the wrong reasons pervades, but what do you expect, it's popular television in the age of the influencer?

At its best, MAFS can be genuinely enlightening, anthropologically entertaining television. Some of the couples exhibit real growth, breaking the patterns of their failed relationships, recognising their triggers and blind spots and reminding us as voyeurs that we can do the same. Amongst the inevitable car-crashes and dead ends, there have been several success stories over the years, with lasting marriages and growing families. It's intoxicating to watch genuine affection bloom and ride along for the love, laughter and friendship....

Just as long as someone gets pissed and throws a drink in a dickhead's face soon after.