HUNGRY PEOPLE ARE SIMPLY RATTY AND LETHARGIC. I DON'T BLAME SPIRAL, GLYN OR IMOGEN FOR LOSING THE PLOT.

My big, obnoxious housemate

I'm not really embracing the "Jayne is a mole" conspiracy theory. I was humiliated on day 6 when I declared, rather bumptiously, that Shahbaz was an actor. Obviously, he wasn't. It was just me trying to ease my anguish that the pitiful, slightly demented Shahbaz could possibly be a real person, genuinely being tormented into a breakdown for my reality-TV delight.

It's a similar situation, I think, with Jayne Kitt. It's comforting to cling to the thought that Britain hasn't produced anything so foul; that Jayne beneath the prosthetics is actually Marc Wootton from E4's My New Best Friend, who's spent weeks perfecting his Richter-scale belch technique and the optimum way to itch private parts through cotton shorts while examining crisps pulled from the back teeth. Sadly, I've known many Jaynes before. They're all too common.

They're in my local supermarket, chucking their baskets on the floor of the checkout, then marching off to do the rest of their shopping and causing fights on their return. They're on ITV daytime telly being admonished by Jeremy Kyle for attacking their sister with a Dustbuster and a Staffy during a row over who slept with the hen-party limo driver.

They're working on the customer service call-centre helpline of the store I bought a sofa off 56 weeks ago, and every time I call to complain I get a Jayne who is so bamboozlingly belligerent, unreliable, assertive and thick I end up arguing myself into a beetroot-faced tizz and appearing on yet another "Best of the Nutters" Christmas party compilation tape.

If Jayne isn't real, she's certainly a real reflection of Britain. "It's not that I don't know stuff. I just don't know it in me 'ed, like!" shouts recruitment consultant Jayne, "No point me tryin' to learn it! Cos it won't go in. Wot does 'ejected' mean?"

Later, Jayne admits her inner ambitions, "I'd love to be a tour rep!" she shouts, "Can you see me doing it?" Yes, Jayne, you're exactly the type of person cut out to bully people all day long into parting with 50 euros to visit a rubbish parrot park or watch an egg fry on the side of a volcano. Actually, they need tour guides to lead people through war zones right now - pack your brightest bobble hat and get out there.

I like Imogen a lot more these days. I like the way she accepts her role as house bore and doesn't attempt to trouble the producers by suddenly having an opinion

With Jayne in mind, ITV's Love Island needs to play harder ball. OK, they've brought in Danan…Danan Shmannan… He flew in two days ago and is behaving himself perfectly. In fact, Paul's acting like a man whose agent stood on his chest with a pitchfork before he boarded the plane to Fiji shouting, "Don't let me down, Danan! Keep your pants zipped up and your pockets in. No-one wants to see your elephant trick! Any behaviour like last time and you're spending Christmas in Workington town hall dressed as Widow Twanky!"

To beat Jayne Kitt, who is essentially Monty Python's Mr Creosote in kohl eyeliner, Love Island needs to cast its net wider. They certainly struck reality-TV gold with Steve-O from MTV's Jackass, who jet-skied into the show last night!

Never mind Jayne's belching, Steve-O is a man who spends his life with his ankles perpetually around his ears with a lighter hovering by his bum hole waiting to turn himself into a human methane firework.

A quiet night for Steve-O includes tying raw meat to his downstairs bits then being chased by drooling hounds, or stapling something dangly and vital to a plank with a nail gun then fighting Johnny Knoxville, blindfolded, with harpoon guns. But what Steve-O has that Jayne Kitt doesn't is raw sex appeal.

Oh, yes, Steve-O might have huge lumps of his head missing and the stilted speech patterns of a man who is regularly dropped on his head for a living, but once us lay-deez see him setting light to his own chest hair, we just can't help ourselves. "Marry me, Steve-O!" we pant, "I could be the one who changes you! You're just misunderstood!"

Back in Borehamwood, events in contrast are rather tedious. Food rations are at an all-time low. Glyn is reduced to making primitive wallpaper paste from flour and water, burning it, then attempting to eat the lining of the scraped pan while retching up white goo. It's not much fun to watch. Hungry people are simply ratty and lethargic. I don't actually blame Spiral, Glyn or Imogen for losing the plot and shouting or crying. Cutting off their food is just cheap manipulation, especially if you then force people to do two hours of solid exercise.

Spiral is a young boy with a lot of testosterone and a perilously short fuse. Winding him up is simple. If we've come to the point where starving people into fighting with each other is the best option, let's cut the bloody show short now. "Don't worry, I've got secret emergency biscuits!" coos Susie. She's such a devil! Cunning Susie, a bourbon cream jammed in each ear and she won't hear Jayne at all.

"I'm so bored," says Imogen to Glyn sadly in Welsh, "I'm going out of my mind." Imogen looks quite depressed at the moment. Drawn and distracted. I like her a lot more than I ever did these days. I like the way she accepts her role as house bore and doesn't even attempt to trouble the storyline producers by suddenly having an opinion or a quirk. It's quite refreshing. "I'm just here," Imogen says, eternally mystified by her weekly survival.

"I have a system I go through," Glyn tells her, "It cheers me up." "What is it?" asks Imogen. "Well, when I feel down, I sort out my drawer. Then I have a walk about. Then I wash my armpits with cold water. Then I take a small piece of tissue and remove the dust from the drawer's bottom. And then I fold my socks. And then I fold my T-shirts. And then I fold my jumpers. And then I fold my trousers…" Imogen doesn't laugh or tut. She listens to Glyn's whole "system" intricately, like this is something really exciting for her to get stuck into.

And compared to the walking about, standing on a box, the dancing on the spot and the other brainless tasks, it probably is.

Are hungry housemates entertaining housemates? Mail me on grace.dent@bbc.co.uk.