“Welcome back to Love Island!” Iain Stirling reads off his iPhone into a huge microphone. The 33-year-old comedian and narrator of the cult British reality TV show finished his voiceover for the evening’s episode an hour ago. But now he has to add a last-minute line needed to stitch in a clip in which a contestant said ‘feel’ seven times in a minute. “We’re doing a Sesame Street bit… are you sure it’s alright if I do this now?” he says. With assurance, he rearranges his thick Scottish accent into the punchy, stilted register that instantly transports audiences to the green astroturf of the Love Island villa, continuing: “In an exciting new marketing tie-in, this part of the show’s been sponsored by the word ‘feel’… not that you’ll notice.”
It’s bizarre to see Stirling, blonde and scruffy, seated in his home office under framed soccer jerseys and awards, rather than hearing him as a disembodied voice, suspended above a luxurious Spanish mansion. Like many Americans, I’ve spent maybe a hundred hours with Stirling in my ear over the last year, narrating the movements of a dozen or so attractive twentysomethings, plucked from all over the UK to spend two months in a Mallorcan villa dating on camera.
It might sound like a generic reality TV premise, but Love Island UK exploded with a force in the US around 2018 after Hulu picked it up. (An American version of Love Island flopped, and Netflix and HBO Max have since launched two hot-people-on-an-island-with-comedic-voiceover shows in homage, Too Hot to Handle and Fuckboy Island; Netflix’s Sexy Beast also has narration from the comedian Rob Delaney.) Although the show was on hiatus last year, the old seasons became a go-to quarantine binge watch, and the new season finally began airing in July. With its loudmouthed cast, mind-boggling accents and horniness, the show is a breath of fresh air for viewers used to Bachelor Nation’s milquetoast contestants and stuffy self-seriousness. Stirling technically isn’t the show’s host (that’s his wife, Irish TV presenter Laura Whitmore) and he never appears in the flesh, but his satirical voiceovers are the glue that holds the show together.
While most dating shows bend over backwards to make you believe in the romantic fantasy of televised dating, Stirling deliberately deconstructs it. Each episode begins with his pseudo-sexy growl of “ToniiiiiiiIIIIIIIIiiiiiight,” like he’s doing an impression of a reality TV host. He proceeds to affectionately roast not just the contestants, but the show itself. He calls attention to all the clichéd, awkward and unsexy elements of a reality TV dating show—like the premise, the tacky decor, the chintzy dates, the repetitive twists and the producers lurking just outside the frame.
Sometimes Stirling’s bits are slapstick: jokes about food in someone’s teeth or someone fidgeting with their shorts. But he can also be incisive, calling out an obviously insincere, “Yeah, absolutely,” or the lack of chemistry between two people pretending things are going great. From a different comedian, this approach might seem cruel. But Stirling is unfailingly affable — more a David Attenborough-type observer of the villa’s ecosystem than a wrathful God. He avoids fake tan or boob jokes, preferring to luxuriate in the ridiculousness of it all rather than single anyone out. “We were never told to make fun of the show,” Stirling tells me. “We just thought, it’s a lighthearted reality TV show. So let’s just get out in front of everything people will say about it.”
The effect is that Love Island feels like an inside joke, especially if you’re someone who finds reality TV insufferable. But the voiceovers are a psyop. As Stirling puts it, “You can only make fun of something for being bad, if it’s actually quite good.” And the show is good: the heartbreak compelling, the drama delicious, the contestants charming and the settings salivating. Hence the nightly Twitter storms dissecting each episode, glowing reviews in the New Yorker, odes to the show’s catharsis from the likes of Lena Dunham and Cat Cohen, and its role in public discourse as a microcosm of every topic from mental health to consent to diversity.
Reality TV was never a part of Stirling’s plan: He left law school to become a stand-up comic, but found his friendly, self-deprecating schtick was out of step with what he describes as a “rude and offensive” time in UK comedy. He was doing children’s TV voiceovers and a BBC program with a puppet dog when the Love Island producers called him; now he has a big enough following to tour his stand-up and create his own show, a semi-autobiographical sitcom about a children’s TV host called Buffering which airs on British TV this week. “Look, I thought I was going to change the world with my comedy” he says. “I’ve realized that, as long as you’re making stuff that you can stand by, that’s better than making bad stuff that falls into this wheelhouse of things that are supposedly artistic.”
GQ sat down with Stirling to talk about the art of voicing Love Island, his own story arc, and his all-time favorite Islanders.
GQ: So you’ve just wrapped the narration for tonight’s episode. What are you up to now?
Iain Stirling: Yeah, I’m done recording for today but I could get called at any time. I normally finish at about 5:30pm, and then between 5:30 and 9:00pm, I’m on call for edits, like a very unimportant doctor.
A producer will call you and say, “fix this joke”?
In previous years, it might have been, “Redo this joke, please.” That’s pretty uncommon these days because the producers trust us more [laughs]. Me and Mark, my writing partner — he works for ITV Studios in development and he’s the guy who actually came up with the Love Island format, 50-year-old Scottish vegetarian, really interesting guy — we’ve just really got the tone down. We’ve also just started asking them beforehand, like, “Can we say this?” Saves us a lot of time. Now, it’s things like, “Can you say these people’s names in a different order because they’re sat on a bed in this order?”
Normally, you’re at the villa in Mallorca this time of year?
Yeah, this is my first year narrating from the UK. Normally, I’m always there. I get put up in a porta cabin in a cement factory that goes vacant for July and August because it’s so hot that the cement sets too quickly. So the factory shuts down and Love Island moves in. It’s about a five, ten minute drive in the villa. I spend most of my day in the cabin, and then I drive 20 minutes to the nearest town, which is mainly affluent, retired Germans enjoying the sunshine and then just 200 British people in lanyards and matching shirts with no tan.
When you began narrating Love Island in 2015, were you worried about how it would affect your career in stand-up?
100%, yeah. I was panicked. I didn’t want to do it at first. You know, I always thought, “I’m going to be the next Bill Hicks, and do important comedy” This sounds… I hate that, “I nearly turned it down” story. But it was on ITV2, which was just a small digital channel in the UK, so I thought, “Chances are, no one will watch it and I can just get a paycheck and no one needs to know I’ve ever done it.” But then it just went mad.
How long did it take for you to embrace the show?
God’s honest truth — the very first coupling. When I saw the footage of the very first, original coupling on Season 1, I was like, “This is unbelievable.” I couldn’t believe how much I cared about everyone instantly. The first time a boy came down and they said, “Step forward if you like him,” and no one stepped forward I was like “I can’t not watch this, it’s madness.” Especially then, they were all such characters. Like there was this girl, Hannah, who was from Liverpool — and for an American, now that is a fuckin’ linguistic journey. Her accent was unbelievable. And she was a former Playboy bunny, and she had this insane swimsuit on, and had had a lot of work done. There’s a big thing with women in Liverpool, Scouse girls, on a Saturday you walk around a mall in Liverpool, every woman has got rollers in her hair, getting ready for a night out. She just had this massive blow dry, her hair was huge, platinum blonde, and she had these glass heels on. A builder from Essex got coupled up with her. I was just like, “I love this.” I loved it. I honestly loved it.
So you got over yourself pretty quickly.
Do you know what, yeah, got over myself is exactly right. This has come with age, and it’s the same with kid’s TV, but I would genuinely say that I got over myself. Especially as a comic, I’ve just stopped taking myself so ruddy seriously. Like, the stuff from the kid’s TV back in the day, yes it’s for children, but it’s really good, man! I wasted so much time wishing I was Sarah Silverman or Bill Burr or something. And now it’s like, “Actually, I’m doing some really good stuff here. And enjoying it.” For some reason, this show is perfectly in my skill set. If you asked me to do a comedy roast or something, I’d hate it. I’d feel so awful! It’s the same with reality TV.
You don’t just make fun of the contestants, you also make fun of the show. Was that self-awareness always a part of the pitch for Love Island or something you came up with?
No, never. We were never told to make fun of the show. [Mark and I] figured that out ourselves. We just thought, if we make fun of the show first, other people can’t really. Also, the only reason it works is because the show’s actually quite good. Like with making fun of the dates, the Islanders can be at a rubbish table or whatever with plastic champagne glasses, but they still have to be on quite a nice beach. If they were just in someone’s shitty backyard and it looked terrible, and I said “that’s terrible,” it’s not funny. It has to come from a point of actually being quite good. If the show ever actually gets bad, we are in a difficult position, because it’s not comedy if you’re just saying something’s bad that is bad. I think self-deprecation is also a very British thing. I’s very British to say, “This is bad. Isn’t that funny?” You’ve got to say “I’m shit,” and then everyone will go “Oh yeah, I’m shit as well.” That’s what Love Island does really well.
Do you think your sort of nerdy, self-deprecating, schtick is why the producers picked you? Or was that something you invented for the show?
If I’m being honest, they really just needed someone to help write it. That’s why they wanted a comedian rather than a normal TV person or celebrity. Then the other big thing was my accent. They didn’t want a generic south English accent, like the queen’s English. And the presenter of Big Brother UK is from the north of England. So they were like, we need Irish, Scottish or Welsh, so they won’t sound like other TV narrators. It was that simple. To be fair, I’ve got a pretty unusual accent because I’m from Edinburgh, which is quite an affluent city, but I grew up in a town called Leith, which is where Trainspotting was set, so it’s quite a specific, rough area. And generally, there aren’t many working class Edinburgh people who go down to London and work in telly. So literally no one had heard my accent before.
As far as the schtick, I liked the idea that “Iain the voiceover” would be obsessed with the Islanders. He’s quite starstruck by them. But at the same time, if any contestant walked into a room, he just wouldn’t know who they are. They’re like aliens. He can’t even comprehend that they are people. Because the cast members really are characters on a show, not people. You are seeing such a small percentage of how that person acts in a villa. I always say you can’t love or hate anyone on that show. You can like them or dislike them as a character, but you don’t know who they are. I think that’s a mistake that’s made on social media quite frequently.
A lot of reality TV relies on humiliating the contestants. But you’re actually pretty gentle when it comes to making fun of them. Are you conscious of being funny versus being cruel?
Mark really saved me with that. Because when I was starting out as a comedian, in my 20s, watching this show, obviously my default was, “This is bollocks and they are all fucking idiots.” But Mark was like, “You can’t do that. One, because it’s telly. And two, because, if you start from there, where do you go?” If you say the show’s a load of shit on day two, when you get to day 50, you’ve got no material left. Except to flip and become nice and then everyone’s confused, like what happened to the mean guy?
There’s this narrative that I really rip into the Islanders. But if you actually listen to it, there’s nothing… It’s pretty PG. I don’t even swear. You’ve got to start up here [gesturing high] and pick your moments. You’ve got to be justified to go down there [gestures low]. I’d never have a go at someone’s appearance. If they have a funny accent or a weird inflection, like if someone speaks quite slowly or their sentences are disjointed, I’ll maybe have a go at that. But I’ll never single someone out. If you’ve annoyed me on the show, you’ve really dropped the ball, because I’m quite a forgiving person. I only make fun of stuff where they’re gonna watch back and go “Ugh, what was I thinking, what stupid or awful thing to have done.” Mainly, because I really don’t have an opinion on anyone. I have an opinion on what happened in a scene, but not them as people. They’re just characters on a show that I love.
Do the producers ever ask you to stop insulting the show so much?
Occasionally. We did one the other day, where the joke was, “I mean, this is a low-budget, lowbrow television show with an annoying voiceover.” The punchline was, “Which is ridiculous, because this show doesn’t have a low budget!” The producers asked me to not outright say it’s low budget. But the reason the joke is funny is because budget is the one thing we’ve got going for us here.
Joking that the dates are tacky and low-budget has really become a calling card.
At this point, it’s a full-on joke with the dates team, that no matter what they do, we’ll find a problem with it. One of our favorites recently was when they put up all these handlit tea lights. It looked so nice, they were like, “There’s nothing Iain can do with this.” We made a joke about a production runner having to blow them all out later.
But the reason it’s so funny is that the dates actually look really nice and a lot of effort goes in. Have you ever seen a sunset and thought it’s beautiful and then taken a picture of it and it looks rubbish? In real life, the dates look really great, so when the contestants come back, they’re sincerely like “It’s sooooo beautiful, this place is incredible.” But I’ve just made fun of it for being low-budget or in the driveway or whatever, so we create this little inside joke or this secret with the audience that the Islanders aren’t in on.
The whole show is really one big inside joke with the audience. Which is, I think, why a lot of people love Love Island. You don’t have to buy into any of it to enjoy it.
No! You don’t. There’s a myriad of ways you can enjoy the show. You can absolutely hate reality TV and love Love Island. For instance, I genuinely think it’s often a pretty interesting exploration of the human psyche. There are characters on there who go on really beautiful journeys. My favorite bit is, it’s so interesting to me that they’re all so beautiful. Since I’ve worked on the show, people have been telling me how amazing, or how much better, the contestants look in real life. Which is because, on the show, they’re all stood next to other good looking people, so it’s not until you put them into the normal population that you realize how unbelievably attractive they all are. I find it so interesting to watch these people, a lot of whom have built their entire personalities around the fact of being the best looking person in their school or work. And they go into the villa and that’s just taken away from them. They’re like, “What’s my thing? I don’t know what my thing is.” It’s like when I walk into a room of comedians and I’m like, “I’m not the funny one. What am I then?”
So, let’s talk about the current season. Jake, Liberty, Faye… who or what stands out to you about this season?
I love that the folk in there at the minute have really just bought into the whole idea of finding a person — they’re so committed to the romance, the idea of being on a TV show has really melted away. I think that Love Island works, maybe better than other reality shows, because when you add these relationships, it really brings out people’s genuine emotions. Because even if you are with somebody on the show for convenience, if that person then decides they don’t like you, it’s still annoying. It still hurts. It brings out a visceral feeling. As far as people, I really like Kaz a lot. I really like Liberty. Millie and Liam were really lovely together, I think Millie’s really grown on the UK public. Essex people just make good telly. I don’t know if there’s an equivalent in the US.
For the first few weeks, the guys just didn’t like the girls. They weren’t going for them. No one was getting along. Were you freaking out?
Me and Mark, who do the voiceovers, we don’t really have to worry about that. But also, that has happened before. Often it’s the girls, especially when they’re older, they’re just like, “I can’t be bothered babysitting these idiots.” But that does happen a lot of the time, that you only ever really get a couple people hitting it off. And every year, people say the same stuff: “Oh, they’re not as good this year, they’re not as attractive this year, there’s not as many good contestants.” This year, a lot of people were saying, “There’s no Maura Higgins this year.” And I thought, Yeah, but she came at week five in that season! People forget this. I feel like now, you can see big personalities coming out and people going on journeys. But for me, straight from the start, I could see Faye going on this sort of journey, I could see these people going places. So I felt this is fine, we’re all good.
Would you say narrating Love Island is more of an art or a science?
I feel like it’s both. That’s why me and Mark work so well. Mark does the science of it, he’ll be like, “Here’s the idea for a structure, this is a perfect ‘rule of threes’ joke or a perfect ‘rug-pull’ joke.” And then I figured out how to spice it up. It’s the same on Buffering, which I wrote with Steve, my writing partner. We’re both stand-ups, but he’s a brilliant writer and I’m more of a speaker, I just pace around when we write.
What’s a “rule of three” and a “rug-pull”?
If you listen to the narrations, there’s a rule of three, where you list three things, but the third thing is something weird or out-of-order. I’m trying to think… I’ve got the script here. I wrote one today. [Pulls up the script]. A really crass example would be a shot of three lads talking. I’d say, “They’re talking about politics, climate change and Megan’s bum!” and then the conversation would cut to “Ah, she’s got a great bum, man.” A “rug-pull” is when we describe something the Islanders are doing, but then we cut to them, and that’s not what’s going on at all. There was one today where we said, “Something’s been causing Liam a lot of inner turmoil and he just needs to let it out.” And then obviously, he does a fart.
What is your relationship to the contestants? Are they like your children? Your crazy friends?
I like… love them, I think. Not I think, I do. I think they’re brilliant. I think they’re amazing. I’m sort of obsessed with them. But I also can’t quite comprehend them. They’re from a different world from me. And when I’m doing the voiceover, that’s what it is. I’m sort of envious of them in the way where I think the voiceover guy would love to give it a go, like he’s a footballer that got an injury when he was 16, and thinks he could’ve given it a go if he was given the chance.
When I started out, I was young enough to be an old contestant on the show. I was seeing them more as my peers… They were like the jocks, the guys who would bully me at school. So weirdly, I think I’ve created a character that will get funnier as he gets older and more detached from them. When the voiceover guy’s 50, he’d be like, “Lads, you’re doing it all wrong, give me half a chance.”
At this point, you’ve watched hundreds and hundreds of hours of Love Island. Do the contestants ever manage to surprise you, or have you seen it all before?
No, genuinely every time!This season, Toby has now broken up with the most girls I’ve ever seen anyone break up with on the show. Watching a man think he’s learnt a lesson, and then immediately forget it over and over again. Watching him say the same thing. He’s got this thing in his head about “testing” and “being chilled” and he doesn’t seem to comprehend that other people also have feelings and they’re different from his. He blows my mind.
Even watching Hugo in there — someone that’s clearly not good at dating. Every single time there’s someone in there that struggles, it always goes the same way. They can’t find anyone and we all feel sorry for them. Then, a couple people like them but they don’t like them back. Then you start to think, what are you doing, and you realize, oh, they’re just bad at this. With Hugo, we all should’ve seen that there’s gonna be new contestants he won’t like, then he’ll meet someone he likes, then they’re not gonna like him back, but it still takes you by surprise every single time. And there’s always just new ways people try of going about the show.
Do you have an all-time favorite couple?
Has to be Series 1, John and Hannah, who I mentioned earlier. They were just unbelievable. There was an amazing bit where we sent butlers in the buff round to the villa when the boys weren’t there. Hannah got really drunk and was licking cream off them and spraying cream into her cleavage and they were licking it off her. And at this point, they were dating. They got engaged in that series, so I think they might have even been engaged. They showed John the video, and she was literally going, “What’s your fuckin’ problem?” [mimicking a thick Liverpool accent]. They were amazing those two, truly caricatures. It was brilliant.
Love Island’s comedic format has become pretty influential in reality TV. There are a lot of dating shows coming out now with comedians as hosts, which wasn’t something really being done a few years ago.
Yeah, the whole world’s changed. And I do think I’ve played a bit of a role in that. Before, there were some reality shows known for having funny hosts, but I think Love Island was the first time, where they said, “We’ll get a comedian to do a funny thing.” The whole idea of comedians being associated with voiceovers and reality TV is quite a thing now. Like, the whole bit of the date being rubbish, everyone does that now! It also keeps us on our toes. We’ve got to sort of think outside the box a little bit, which is lovely to do. I’m proud that we sort of accidentally created this template for a way of doing things on telly. It’s mad.
You’re an anonymous voice on Love Island. Now on Buffering, you’re playing yourself and writing autobiographically. Has that been like the polar opposite of writing Love Island?
Yes and no. It is a completely different skill set, but the set-up is quite similar in that I write with my friend Steve, and it’s similar to me and Mark on Love Island. I pace about while Steve puts things into a formula. We are very drawn to classic American sitcoms, like Brooklyn 99 or Modern Family, where you’ve got A, B and C storylines and a scene is never longer than 40 seconds. But we’ve also got the British, more longform, heartfelt narrative at the core.
Did making Buffering feel like moving on from Love Island, or do you see staying on the show for many years?
Not at all. I like having many different cogs going. I always want to have Love Island, stand-up and something else. Whether that’s a book, or a tour, or Buffering at the minute.