Like a burned-out paramedic gazing tearfully at a blazing pile-up, it's time for me to sigh, roll my sleeves up, and lurch towards Celebrity Love Island - the show that makes the score from Requiem For A Dream start playing in your head.

I was going to write something damning but I changed my mind because there's little point getting angry about Celebrity Love Island (Sat, 10.15pm, ITV1). It's just a rehash of I'm A Celebrity, minus the elements that made that show successful (ie the older participants, the bushtucker trials, and Ant and Dec). That's all. It's just depressing. So don't get angry. Get sorrowful.

Start by shedding a tear for Abi Titmuss. Although described on the show as a "tabloid babe" (which is as low as a human being can sink short of gargling sewage for a living), she's actually rather homely - a bit like a neighbourly dairymaid. This, apparently, is a crime: because she's plumper than earlier Nuts photo-shoots had suggested, the programme openly sneers at her for being "fat". Let's hope she sees sense and develops a serious eating disorder at the earliest opportunity. Until then, weep for her.

Weep too for Rebecca Loos, the woodpecker-faced Posh-botherer who was presumably hired on the understanding that anyone who's previously masturbated a pig on television might be prepared to stoop slightly lower and perform the same act on ex-Hollyoaks actor Paul Danan.

Sob for Danan, who is a bell end of considerable magnitude, and the ugliest person on the island - ugly in a unique fashion, like a man whose face was heading toward "handsome", but took a wrong turn at the last minute. He looks like Jude Law crossed with the Crazy Frog, and he's an absolute aching backside. The only way the producers could possibly justify his presence would be to spike his cocktails till he goes mad and has sex with a melon or something. But that's not going to happen, because that would be fun, and Love Island isn't about fun. If it was about fun, they'd go the whole hog: call it Celebrity Fuck Hut and send paratroopers in to force them to form a grunting, humping human daisy-chain. It's not about fun, it's about despair, remember?

Bawl for Fran Cosgrave, whose "celebrity" status is so low, he doesn't actually exist outside shows like this. This is his reality: when the last edition finishes, he ceases to be, like a character in a videogame when it's switched off.

Blub for the remaining islanders - blub as they loll about like dying sea-lions in a failing zoo, accompanied by the sound of gentle lapping as waves of public indifference break upon the shore.

Sniffle for Patrick Kielty and Kelly Brook - a man you wish would shut up before he even starts speaking, and a woman who can scarcely talk in the first place, marooned before an unimpressed nation. Curiously, Brook is listed in the credits as "Presenter & Consultant Producer", which is a pretty impressive job title for someone apparently unable to read from an autocue. Cry for Kelly. Cry for her.

But mainly, cry for us all. If Love Island has left you entertaining dark notions, I understand. And I have a plan.

Here's what we do. We charter a boat. We sail to Fiji. We drop anchor offshore and we light candles and sing songs. And as dawn breaks, we stand on the deck and slit our own throats and splash wordlessly into the ocean. For the next 48 hours our bodies wash up on the beach, one by one. Our lifeless cadavers knock gently against Michael Greco's ankles as he goes for his morning paddle. Bloated, fish-pecked carcasses slap against the sand throughout the evening barbeque, souring the mood. Our non-violent suicidal protest turns the show into an unfolding Jonestown massacre for the 21st century, and ITV's ongoing ratings crisis is averted.

Alternatively: switch off the box, walk into the garden and stare at the stars while tears shine in your eyes. Celebrity Love Island: wish hard enough, and God might make it stop.