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For those who have seen my ‘lives’ on Instagram and IGTV it would come as no surprise to state that I hold a profound contempt for reality TV. This reality is unreal. It is the sewer pit of entertainment. It has morphed into multiple formats from the desperate and dateless to toxic housewives, to the dormitories of the braindead and to its most recent and popular format the competitive quest for love whereby a harem of gaggling goons stampede toward the demigod or goddess in the quest to stay relevant and to find ‘reality’ love.

In its most recent iteration there are now programs taking the discarded contestants from the Bachelor and Bachelorette, flying them to exotic destinations and unleashing them in an environment of sensuality, quasi nudity and alcohol fuelled partying. Cynical producers and contrived plot structures create an emotional soup for the marooned morons to devour. A new offering entitled ‘Bachelor in Paradise’ now screens in Australia and will be released to a world waiting in anticipation. No doubt these cultural ambassadors will take their place amongst the immortals of the sewer pit. Perhaps, as it were, floating to the top.

After watching one episode I can honestly attest that if given the choice between drinking bleach and being compelled to watch another episode I would seriously consider the former. Such was my degree of revulsion that I actually turned off the television half way through the episode and sat in silence exploring my emotions and why I was so appalled. I hesitate to make personal attacks upon the various characters participating in the tribal rituals, but this was half my problem. Most of the “men” were metrosexual man boys, some obscenely tattooed to my sensitivity and all had seemingly deposited their brains in safe keeping at the custom’s office before entering the program.

The “women” also displayed, in my opinion, every attribute of shallowness, mean spirited bitchiness and gossip mongering to a level that reached art form.

The one element of the program that moved me to write this blog is the complete debasement of the romantic ideal.

And this is the tragedy of programs such as this. Mishel Meshes a reality TV survivor of Married at First Sight put is so eloquently when she stated “people are not over blood sports”. And her comment seems to justify the extraordinary popularity of these programs. Have we moved to a society which is now so stratified by class and the UNEQUAL distribution of intelligence? Have our educational institutions failed so drastically producing young men and women who are so linguistically and grammatically challenged that they are only now capable of communicating in a primitive and debased dialect for “drongos”?

The “look” is now body enhancement on steroids. Faces don't move, lips are pumped, man buns roam, breasts require structural certification, bodies are chiselled and spray painted. It is this generation’s “Lord of the Flies”, and the paradox of this convention of narcissists is the reality of dreadful personal insecurities. The self indulgent expense to maintain the “look” must be eye watering; a proposition not lost on the sponsors of beauty products and cosmetic procedures.

All of these thoughts raged through my head as I sat in silence. I would love to undertake a survey of these participants and ask them “Do you understand the concept of love?” These self confessed narcissists and “would be” insta stars and influencers of the future are now the role models for even younger people watching.

How can young people appreciate the concepts of real beauty; of spiritual and emotional attractiveness, of selfless acts and romantic adventure when constantly exposed to the sewer pit? The network promoting the program thundered its rating triumph in local marketing media heralding the viewer numbers and age demographics. This added to my sense of despair. Meanwhile, in another galaxy far far away, Emily Bronte’s classic pride and prejudice stands out like a beacon on a forgotten channel waiting to be discovered by a new generation who might make their escape from the cultural sewers and bask in the sunlight true romanticism and culture.

I am Don Quixote, and the world may laugh at me. But someone has to stand up and say “enough”.


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JD Watt, author of the book “BURNT”; the shocking true story of a woman’s deception and a man’s broken heart, is a divorced, devastatingly handsome, affluent single 51-year-old professional. He lives in the wealthy Eastern Suburbs of Sydney Australia. He is also a blogger giving his advice on love, relationships, sex and dating from the perspective of a middle-aged guy having learnt so much from his decade long search for “the one”.

Intelligent, established, sophisticated, cultured, honest, kind, loving, generous, tall and handsome, JD is every woman’s dream.

He offers advice on relationships and how to read the signs, so you never get “BURNT”. JD believes in love and so should you. BURNT by JD Watt is available on Amazon, Kindle and on online Booksellers globally. Download or buy your copy today.

JD Watt is not a psychologist or therapist; he bases his advice and opinions on his own life experience.


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