I had been hiding in the toilet cubicle for 15 minutes when I got the message that would change my life forever.
It was March 2019. I was 22, fresh out of university, and working front of house at a production company in London, which is a fancy way of saying that I was the office dogsbody. As far as entry-level jobs went, it was par for the course: long hours, mindless tasks, minimum wage – so you’ll understand why I spent long yawning stretches of the day hiding in the dark stalls.
Then I received a message request from an enthusiastic stranger named Lewis. ‘Hey there! I’m the senior casting producer for Love Island – I found your page and I thought I’d reach out as we’re always on the lookout for hot new talent! Are you around for a quick call?’
In 2019, Love Island was the biggest show in the uk. The opening episode of season four had smashed itv2 audience records. When a cinema in Derry announced they were showing the series finale, they sold out two screens in 45 minutes.
And the show was more than just a ratings monster – it was a golden ticket to fame, fortune and millions of followers. Or at least it was in those halcyon days of the early seasons.
Instantly I imagined all I could do with Love Island fame. Sponsorships, book deals, spin-off shows, charity singles, action figures, theme parks. But there was also another reason I found the message so compelling. At the time, my own sexuality felt like a mystery that needed solving.
Although I believed I was the kind of boy who liked bums, boobs, and Megan Barton-Hanson, I wondered why sex left me cold, and why intimate relationships with women filled me with dread.
Back then, those feelings were too scary to acknowledge, let alone verbalise. I would have done almost anything to prove I was straight – and what could be straighter than going on Love Island? So, I gave the producer my number.
