Let me read for you.
I really try to avoid reality TV, as if I watch one episode, I become addicted. The over-produced conversations and the fake relationships turn my brain into a spud, and yet I can’t help but keep watching more and more. That was what happened this month with a show called Let’s Marry Harry.
The premise was simple and disturbing: Twenty women compete to win Harry’s love. The lucky winner gets to marry the guy. During the competition, they all live in a Californian ranch; the women are squashed into bunk beds, while Harry enjoys his king-sized room. It had a cult-chic feel about it.
I did not know who Harry Jowsey was, but the introduction montage did a pretty good job of summing him up: a notorious playboy who had taken part in a variety of ab-flashing dating shows, including Too Hot to Handle and Heartbreak Island. Real high-brow stuff. We were shown Harry, driving along the coast in a black Mustang, his white linen shirt flapping in the wind, a big old grin on his face. I rolled my eyes at the TV. Oh, come on, this man is not ready to settle down.
The first scene saw the women arrive at the ranch. They strutted down a path in heels and found an engagement ring waiting for them. They were now engaged to Harry, despite not meeting him. This didn’t seem to matter; he was tall, famous and rich, after all. Nor did they mind that nineteen other women were engaged to the man. Did I mention he was tall?
Over the eight episodes, I watched in horror as Harry flipped from one gorgeous woman to the next, dangling the carrot of commitment. He kissed each one with as much passion as a leading man in a romantic war film. (It would have been a terrible time to get a cold sore). His glory moment was when he had sex with a contestant in his ensuite, as the other women hovered nearby, feeling like mugs. This is a ghastly way to treat people.
Okay. Maybe I was too old to be watching what was meant to be “light entertainment”. Chill out, old lady and let the man find his wife, CHRIST! But I couldn’t help but be a little concerned that Netflix seemed to be hero worshipping a professional fuck boy.
It gave me flashbacks to when I was dating my very own fuck boy. Actually, I dated a few. It was surprising how many I accidentally fell for. It always ended with me staring at the unanswered message on my phone, thinking, damn it, not again.
I found the ones who treated me to a lavish dinner on the first date the worst offenders. It was like I gave the guy permission to be a twat because he had paid for my baked aubergine. No aubergine was worth feeling like an abandoned cat scratcher – even the baked ones.
It was depressing how many times I had to listen to Aretha Franklin to pump my self-respect back up.Should I still have to be doing this over a 36 year old man?
When I landed back on the dating scene, I thought it would be smooth sailing, but it was God damn maze. There was an ever-growing gap between men and women which I hadn’t prepared for. I was aware of misogyny, but was clueless about the manosphere, and more so, how popular it was.
That’s not to say every man who offers to pay for a meal is doing press-ups outside Andrew Tate’s prison, but the line between control and chivalry was becoming blurred. What I thought was a gesture of someone really liking me turned out to be a power move. In the end, I found it was easier to just split the bill.
So, back to Harry. We got down to the final two women, and the lad became stressed and sleep deprived.
‘I’m in love with two women, and I can imagine my life with both of them,’ he moaned to the camera.
He spoke to his mate, toying with the idea if he should go through with the wedding at all. His mate reassured him that there was zero pressure to get married.
I screamed at the TV.
‘But there is pressure! The show is called ‘Let’s Marry Harry,’ not ‘Let’s Get Led on by Harry Until the Final Episode!’’
It was as if he liked the part of the show where he had twenty women to fondle, but now he had to commit to one; it wasn’t so exciting anymore. Funny that.
Eventually, after a lot of moping around, he chose his “winner”. They got married on the last episode. As they said their vows, I think I was meant to feel warm, gooey and full of love. Isn’t it so nice to see this man get what he wants? Instead, I felt like I had spent hours watching a spoilt kid in a candy store, sucking on all the sweets, and getting to leave with his favourite one.
And his “wife” – did she really want to marry this man? Who knows? Who cares?
At least with the other dating programme, Love is Blind, there’s an equal power balance, and insight into each contestant’s personal stories and their growth. Whereas in Let’s Marry Harry, the women were as insignificant as trees in a pantomime.
Anyway, I binged it and probably shouldn’t have. I’ve been ranting about it ever since, convinced I had watched some sort of trad wife propaganda. CONSPIRACY! I was on the phone with my Mum about it just this afternoon.
‘Can you believe they made this in 2026?’
And now look at me, writing a Quack about it.
My brain is a spud, a very angry spud.
I wrote a fuck boy character in my new novel, Bad Dates Club. His name is Nic; he’s an account director and insists on paying for the dates. You can read about him on September 10th . Please preorder here!
THE QUACK 