Maya Jama returns to Love Island for savage dumping as fans ‘work out' who goes home
Her return traditionally signals a major dumping in the ITV2 series.
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Maya told Aftersun viewers last night that she was heading back to Majorca this week.
Taking to social media today, Maya told fans: "Legit three hours sleep and I'm off again."
Viewers have already begun speculating which Islanders may be at risk of being dumped from the villa.
One penned on Reddit: "I think people leaving could honestly be Emma & Boris.
"Because the favourite people are gonna be thinking that Angel has just entered & hasn't had much time on the show.
"Whereas, Emma has explored already. I see more chemistry with Angel & Ty instead of Emma & Boris. Why Boris?
"Dont think they will dump Dejon even after how he's acted since he does have an exclusive relationship."
Another said over on X: "From all The votes so far I fear it's Emma and Boris that'd be dumped, haven't seen anyone voting for them. Meg and Dejon live to fight another day sigh."
One more speculated: "I have no doubt in my mind that this is probably going to be a vote where Dejon will be in the bottom BUT he won't leave.
"It's absolutely a vote to get rid of the ones who aren't going anywhere - Emma & Boris watch out."
Love Island fans demand 'get her out' as they slam girl as 'liar' after she's confronted in tense scenes
Casa Amor stud Boris won his place in the main villa after striking up a potential romance with Billykiss Azeez, who brought him back with her.
However, now he's moved on with fellow Casa bombshell Emma Munro – with the pair even sneaking off to the Hideaway for some private time and a snog in the pool.
He also officially broke things off with Billykiss, and she's moved on with Cach.
But fans have become convinced that Boris deliberately used Billykiss to get into the villa, using his charm on her only to ditch her once he had secured his spot.
Branding him "horrid", viewers have been saying for more than a week now that he should be on the "next plane home" as they vented on X (formerly Twitter) and Reddit.
"Boris used Billykiss. I was never falling for that propaganda. Get him out. #LoveIsland" wrote one.
"Boris wym finally… imma make sure ur ass is on the first flight back to Slovenia," said another.
"Send both boris and emma home,they made it easy for the viewers #LoveIsland" noted a third.
"Boris literally pretended to like Billykiss. Horrid," noted a fourth, while a fifth said: "Boris playedddd Billykiss to get into the villa icl [I can't lie] #loveisland"
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Metro
8 minutes ago
- Metro
I didn't know much about Oasis - I still left Wembley in tears
When I found out I was going to see Oasis, it felt like winning a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory – only to remember I've never had much of a sweet tooth. Growing up in the U.S., Oasis were 'those guys who sang Wonderwall,' a song so overplayed and parodied it barely registered as music anymore. I honestly thought they were a one-hit wonder – a British meme band people pretended to like for the bit. So when I moved to the UK and realised that Oasis aren't just a band here, but a cultural institution, I was baffled. How could something so massive not have translated to the States, when we're famously greedy for British exports? We'll take your Shakespeare, your Love Island, your Paddington, but somehow not your Gallagher brothers? Every time I tried to listen to Oasis, it felt like walking into a house of worship for a religion I didn't belong to. The symbols were familiar, the rituals recognisable, but the meaning escaped me. I always concluded the same thing: Oasis is so rooted in its Britishness that it struggles to stand alone outside that context, and unlike the Arctic Monkeys or other UK exports, the music itself isn't quite strong enough to overcome that cultural specificity. But if Oasis is a religion, then Friday night at Wembley was my spiritual awakening. It began with Liam and Noel Gallagher walking on stage hand-in-hand, a moment that sent the crowd into such a frenzy I genuinely thought I was witnessing a world-historical reconciliation – 'Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall, ' but with more bucket hats. Behind them, a montage of media headlines played, charting the road to their reunion. As I tried to read them, I noticed with genuine shock that the men around me – mostly in their forties – were openly weeping. I felt like an imposter. Like a lifelong, Buddhist receiving a blessing from the Pope: Was this moment wasted on me? Liam – bucket hat pulled so low he could've wandered through the crowd unnoticed – was relentlessly on-brand: tambourine in his mouth, mid-song gestures for someone to fetch him a drink, radiating pure cheeky swagger. But it wasn't the chaotic bravado that's landed him in trouble before. It felt authentic, playful, and even self-aware. His voice was strong, precise, and melodic. I'd never found him impressive on record, but in that moment, I got that this is how he's meant to be heard: backed by a tidal wave of fans scream-singing every word back at him like a battle cry. Astonishingly, all but three of the 23 songs played came from a blistering 18-month period between 1994 and 1995, making the evening a concentrated portrait of a hyper-specific period of time. Noel's solo section was unexpectedly moving. The Masterplan and Little by Little reminded everyone who the melodic architect really is, while Half the World Away, dedicated to The Royle Family ('not that royal family, the real f***ing Royle Family,' he clarified), lit up the stadium in a sea of swaying phone lights. Liam returned for Live Forever, dedicated to the late Ozzy Osbourne, whose face was projected on the screens in an unexpectedly touching acknowledgement of the shoulders Oasis stood on to reach such great heights. The crowd – who started at energy level 10 and ended somewhere around unhinged – was the friendliest I've ever encountered at a show. There was a jittery, reverent alertness to them, the energy of people who had spent too much money, waited too many months, and weren't going to miss a single second. In front of me, a group of forty-something men who proudly told me they'd known each other since secondary school in Leeds had reunited from all corners of the UK after fighting tooth and nail for tickets. They cried. They hugged. They threw beer. One of them, too drunk to stand still, barely faced the stage. Arms flung over his head, head tilted back, he grinned like a man reborn. It was as if to say: I don't need to see it, I just need to feel it. And he did. But did I? Oasis's music is inseparable from the moment it emerged: mid-'90s Britain, all swagger and denim and cigarettes in the rain. If you were a teenager then, I doubt you can see them objectively, and if you weren't there, I'm not sure you ever truly get it. I accept that. They captured a version of Britain when things felt possible: Cool Britannia, Blair before the disillusionment, Britpop dominating the charts, football in renaissance, and an economy that still promised upward mobility. They were Beatlesy, but stripped of the naivety. Less dreamy, more laddish. They felt like the natural continuation of something proudly, specifically British in a moment when globalization was eroding cultural edges. Still, most of their music sounds… fine to me. Competent. Catchy. But not great. Then again, I love plenty of music that sounds unremarkable to others. Nostalgia is a hell of a drug. And if I can't see past my own biases, I certainly can't fault anyone else for theirs. At one point, the man next to me noticed I was taking notes and asked what I was doing. When I explained I was reviewing the show, he appointed himself Oasis's unofficial spokesperson. 'This one's a B-side,' he said semi-defensively during Acquiesce, 'but it's for the real fans. It might be hard to understand… maybe even boring to you but…' I reassured him I was having an excellent time, which was true. But more than that, it felt borderline disrespectful not to have a great time while witnessing a night many people would remember as one of the best of their lives. So I gave in. I leaned into the energy. And before long, I was on the shoulders of a father of three from Newcastle – whose name was either Tom or Greg – scream-singing Rock 'n' Roll Star like I, too, was from Northumberland and had shared my first kiss to it in 1996. As I began to understand – physically, emotionally, viscerally – the big deal about this band, things only ramped up. Liam called Wonderwall a 'wretched song' but sang it anyway. The communal roar that followed felt like the ghosts of 90,000 people's youths materialising for four minutes and sixteen seconds. Tom or Greg cried without embarrassment, clinging to the neck of his lifelong friend ('This bloke right here, since we was ten!') who beamed so hard I thought his face might split. Then came Champagne Supernova, fireworks exploding over Wembley. More Trending Liam closed the night with: 'Nice one for making this happen. It's good to be f***ing back.' Somehow, in the context, it felt like a Shakespearan monologue. I left Wembley exhausted, elated, and – somehow – converted. Still, if you weren't a teenager in 1996, I'm not sure you can ever fully understand what Oasis means to their fans. They're too embedded in a specific moment, a particular British mythology that doesn't translate easily. But on Friday night, I brushed up against it and realised it's not that Oasis's deep entanglement with British culture holds them back from being one of the world's greatest rock bands – it's precisely what makes them so special. Got a story? If you've got a celebrity story, video or pictures get in touch with the entertainment team by emailing us celebtips@ calling 020 3615 2145 or by visiting our Submit Stuff page – we'd love to hear from you. MORE: Oasis honour late rocker Ozzy Osbourne with sweet Wembley show tribute MORE: Aldi permanently changes name of store in a move shoppers are calling 'biblical' MORE: Oasis hit London this weekend – here's where to buy the reunited band's official merch
The Guardian
26 minutes ago
- The Guardian
More sex please, we're bookish: the rise of the x-rated novel
When the judges awarded Yael van der Wouden's brilliant debut, The Safekeep, the Women's prize for fiction last month, they weren't just garlanding a book that happens to have a few sexy scenes in it. They were responding to a work that engages with the current levels of literary excitement around sex and marries this with sweeping historical vistas and a distinctive sensibility. It was joined on the shortlist by Miranda July's exuberant odyssey of midlife desire, All Fours, and Fundamentally by Nussaibah Younis, a smart, quickfire account of a young academic's work for a UN deradicalisation programme, which juxtaposes the world of Middle Eastern religious politics with a closeup relish for female sexuality. While younger generations, at least, have said in recent years that they want to see more platonic friendship and less sex on screen, reading appetites appear to be going in the other direction, with a huge boom in romance and 'romantasy' – the romance-fantasy hybrid driven by TikTok and the success of authors such as Rebecca Yarros and Sarah J Maas. We all have strong, mixed feelings about sex, and the cultural landscape reflects the whole spectrum of kinks and hangups. But that means that we have all the more need for writers like Van der Wouden, July and Sally Rooney, who push the boundaries of how explicit the literary novel can be while also giving us new ways of imagining how desire works within lives today. Ours is a dual age of identity politics and porn. We get our identities from sex – queer or straight, pansexual or 'incel' – but it's also the white-hot arena in which identity melts down. In the wake of the #MeToo movement, when pornography is everywhere and Gillian Anderson is collecting thousands of sexual fantasies with anthropological zeal, it seems we still need literature to tell us new things about sex. What I found, reading recent work by authors including Rooney, Van der Wouden, Jen Beagin, K Patrick and Eimear McBride, were unpredictable fusions of the two impulses. Lovers, dutifully preoccupied with questions of identity by day, find that in bed they can transcend selfhood, outstripping their identities. To surrender individuality and accept the dissolution of the self, to lose sight of who is in control – these possibilities have preoccupied erotic writers since the early 20th century, when sex first became representable in literary fiction. Back then there was DH Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover, staking the redemption of humanity on sexual transformation. In Lawrence's wake came Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin and Georges Bataille – all about abjection and breaking taboos. Then the outrageously argumentative Norman Mailer and John Updike, whose frank delight in the female form called out for a feminist backlash. It came in the shape of Kate Millett's wittily polemical 1970 Sexual Politics and a new wave of sexually explicit novels by women concerned less with celebrating than with demythologising sex. Erica Jong's epochal 1973 Fear of Flying ushered in the 'zipless fuck' – sex without strings – and allowed a generation of feminists to experiment with promiscuity, but for all its brilliance on psychoanalysis and marriage, the book is pretty terrible on sex. It took another backlash – within feminism itself – to make sex great again. In 1967 Susan Sontag had written The Pornographic Imagination, an essay defending writers such as Bataille from prudery and fighting to classify pornographic writing as literature, even or especially when it exceeded realism. 'Tamed as it may be, sexuality remains one of the demonic forces in human consciousness,' she wrote – so why not make it a resource for 'breaking through the limits of consciousness'? Angela Carter took on Sontag's ideas in her 1978 study, The Sadeian Woman, arguing against feminists concerned to outlaw porn, and making the case for the 'moral pornographer' – an artist who 'uses pornographic material as part of the acceptance of the logic of a world of absolute sexual licence for all the genders'. Sontag and Carter saw that the power of sex lay in opening selfhood to otherness with extravagant force. Otherness and innovation go together, so great writing about great sex always has radical potential. The parameters they set out still define the best possibilities of what sex writing can be, though plenty of men – from Philip Roth to Michel Houellebecq – came along in the meantime to try to prove that male desire was still fascinating. Reading in our contemporary era, I find myself most riveted by writers who continue Carter's tradition. Published earlier this year, Sophie Kemp's Paradise Logic tells the satirical story of a young woman's attempt to make herself into the ideal girlfriend and, in doing so, exposes the patriarchal nature of porn culture. But precisely because it's so clever and sassy it reveals the limits of satire, whereas other contemporary novelists are bringing together the pornographic and the transcendent in a more transporting way. It's telling that these writers are more often writing gay than heterosexual sex. Garth Greenwell, who has described himself as wanting to write scenes that are '100% pornographic and 100% high art', is more trammelled by questions of identity than Alan Hollinghurst was when he wrote The Swimming-Pool Library – a book Greenwell credits as an inspiration. Greenwell is writing sex in the age of consent and dutiful identity politics, but arguably it's these constraints that power his existential quest. There's a scene in Greenwell's 2020 Cleanness where the pornographic and the transcendent explicitly entwine. The narrator has a BDSM encounter with a Bulgarian man he calls Svetcheto, 'the little saint'. The usually submissive narrator has agreed to dominate. It's a brutal scene, all the more frightening because it mirrors an earlier encounter when the narrator was dangerously violated. We're worried both that he'll reenact that violence and that he won't carry off this new role. But then it becomes clear he's enjoying himself. Suffused by mutual, unexpected transcendence, the couple's porn-inspired identities simultaneously break down and burst into flower. Laughing, Svetcheto licks away the narrator's tears. 'Do you see? You don't have to be like that,' he says. 'You can be like this.' Jen Beagin, K Patrick and Yael van der Wouden write moving, powerful portraits of lesbian desire, full of anatomical detail. Beagin's Big Swiss is a large-hearted tale of a love affair between Flavia, an absurdly beautiful gynaecologist, and Greta, the more klutzy, down-at-heel writer who's paid by Flavia's sex therapist to transcribe her sessions. 'Her pussy looked like advanced origami. A crisp pink lotus flower folded by a master. Greta briefly rearranged it with her mouth.' The sex scenes in Patrick's Mrs S are less metaphorical and more breathlessly desiring, though the prose is taut in its lyricism. It can feel like the plot – a love affair between the 22-year-old new teaching recruit and the headmaster's wife in a girls' boarding school – is an excuse for the sex scenes, but in a way that's the point. In both books, it is striking how quickly sex reveals the existential need for transformation. Even in that first sex scene, Greta feels as if she's reached a place 'she's been visiting in her dreams for years and forgetting'. Mrs S is casually historical – set in the 1980s or 90s – which means its identity politics can be implicit: the narrator wears a chest binder but the book doesn't raise questions of trans identity. Instead it is preoccupied with the loss of identity, as the narrator feels herself remade as the 'You' she becomes in her lover's mouth. 'It is as if she has always been waiting for this arrival, of me into my body. You. I don't have a name. Isn't it so much better, to not have a name, to be dropped straight from the clouds?' The sex scenes are more shocking in Van der Wouden's The Safekeep because the subject matter is so serious. This is the story of a violently sudden passion that becomes a love affair between Eva, a displaced Jew, and Isabel, a gentile woman who has unwitting power over her. The book is set in the aftermath of the second world war and, given the gravity of the material, some reviewers have wondered if the sex scenes are necessary. But this is to miss the point, which is that the book only works if the relationship throws both women entirely off-kilter – using the edges of porn to show sex derailing not only their lives but their selves, and indeed the conventional novel form itself. Isabel finds herself vulnerably, joyously powerless in an unfamiliar body: 'At Eva's mercy, trapped between the cage of her teeth, she had grown a new shape.' Van der Wouden insists that her complex sense of character development justifies sexual explicitness. But she has also been clear in interviews that no justification is needed: 'The girls deserve to have some fun. This was my mantra while writing: Let them have some fun!' So what about those writers daring to write explicit, ecstatic heterosexual sex? The most compelling are Eimear McBride, whose The Lesser Bohemians makes the reader feel as though they are almost inside the bodies of the protagonists, and Sally Rooney, who is casually magisterial at writing sex scenes that are at once radiant and minutely observed by her overthinking characters. Like Greenwell, Rooney balances a commitment to a contemporary vision of identity and consent with a willingness to explore the pull of dissolution and abjection. Sign up to Bookmarks Discover new books and learn more about your favourite authors with our expert reviews, interviews and news stories. Literary delights delivered direct to you after newsletter promotion In Intermezzo, the young chess genius Ivan checks repeatedly that his lover likes what he's doing, while his brother Peter half-exploits Naomi, a young woman who has sold pornographic images of herself and remains too willing to abase herself for men. But beneath these exterior sexual identities are their private bodily lives, and sex is the best means of growth they have. Rooney follows McBride in dizzyingly contorting her sentences: 'Deep pressing almost hurting and she felt him throbbing, wanting to, and she wanted that also, wet inside, image of silver behind her closed eyelids, jetting, emptying into her …' Rooney is surprised that people don't ask her more often about the place of sex in her novels; 'the erotic is a huge engine in the stories of all my books,' she has said. But it is in All Fours that the full possibilities of Carter's 'moral pornography' are realised. July's novel manages to be at once an ethnographic account of women's perimenopausal sexuality and a more darkly anti-realist tale of a woman living out her sexual fantasies. The narrator spends vast sums transforming a small-town hotel room into a sumptuous dreamscape, where she tests her capacities for love and lust with Davey, a beautiful, potent but determinedly chaste young dancer she meets at the gas station. The encounters with Davey are brilliantly, exuberantly realised – all the more so because July never loses sight of their comedy. In the absence of sex, they seek consummation elsewhere, and at one point Davey changes her tampon. The scene is both bathetically comic, intensely erotic, and unexpectedly moving. But it is once she and Davey part and the narrator has sex with sexagenarian Audra that the novel becomes incandescent. The narrator is home now, adjusting to her former life, but has negotiated a weekly night in the hotel. She seeks out Audra, who had a relationship with Davey years earlier, desperate to compare notes. 'Fantasies are all good and well up to a certain age,' Audra says, 'Then you have to have lived experiences or you'll go batty.' And so Audra describes her sexual past with Davey, while both women masturbate, an experience that, for the narrator, 'lit up new neural pathways, as if sex, the whole concept of it, was being freshly mapped'. As a sexual encounter, this is moving and original. As a vision of womanhood undergoing feats of change and confronting mortality, it's extraordinary. This scene takes us beyond realism. In her life at home, July's narrator is casually, matter-of-factly bound up in the sexual questions of her contemporary world: she has a nonbinary child and is anxiously aware how limited her sex life is by motherhood. But July uses the narrator's experiences in the hotel room to bend and test our sense of novelistic, psychological plausibility. It is a place where identity can be discarded and remade. Sex remains at the centre of much of the best fiction, and we need powerful fictions to show us what sex is or can become. This is where realism comes up against something stranger, and body and consciousness undo and affirm each other, because it can be at once so ordinary, and so transcendent. Lara Feigel is the author of Look! We Have Come Through! – Living with DH Lawrence (Bloomsbury).
Scottish Sun
39 minutes ago
- Scottish Sun
Love Island star demands co-star be sent home after shock comments are exposed in emotionally-charged Grafties
Click to share on X/Twitter (Opens in new window) Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window) LOVE Island's annual Grafties award ceremony has led to relationships ending, friendship fallouts and battle lines being drawn. Harry Cooksley's antics were exposed on-screen in last night's episode as his partner Helena Ford found out what he's been saying to other girls behind her back. Sign up for the Entertainment newsletter Sign up 4 Helena has demanded Harry to go home after his antics were revealed Credit: Eroteme 4 Harry was exposed during the Grafties awards Credit: Eroteme 4 Helena told love rival Shakira that Harry should leave after playing them both Credit: Eroteme In one clip, Harry told his ex Shakira Khan that he wanted to take her out on a date when they leave the villa as he flirted up a storm with her, much to the dismay of Helena. The two women have been at odds this series after finding themselves in a love triangle with the footballer after he played the two of them off against one another. Harry admitted he still had feelings for Shakira but nothing would happen between them because she's not interested. Deciding enough was enough, Helena finally ended things with Harry, despite the pair only going exclusive a few days ago. As the islanders got ready for bed, the two women had a bonding moment as Helena relayed what Harry told her. She expressed: 'I said, 'Do you still like Shakira?' and he said, 'I have some feelings for her but I'll never be with Shakira and she would never be with me. 'And I went, 'I'll never be with you,' and I stood up and walked off.' Shakira gushed: 'You go girl,' as Helena gushed: 'Standing on business tonight girls.' Just moments later, Helena told the girls: 'He needs to go home,' as Shakira cheered in unison and said: 'You go hideaway Helena.' After he was exposed, most of the villa shunned Harry as he was seen sitting on his own before taking his pillow out to sleep on the day beds. Love Island star Dejon comforts Helena and reveals shock over best friend Harry's actions after explosive Grafties Earlier on in the evening, the villa inhabitants dressed up to the nines as they sat in front of a huge projector screen in the garden for the glitziest night in the villa. Viewers voted in a number of categories as the islanders watched back nomination clips before one nominee was awarded. In several clips, Harry was seen flirting with a number of women including Shakira, his ex Emma Munro and latest bombshell Angel Swift. In one of the clips, Harry was seen discussing going on a date with Emma as they joked about coupling up and taking home the cash prize. Helena retorted: 'You're a f*****g joke Harry,' as he asked: 'Why am I a joke?' She hit back: 'Every single time you get up on the screen, you just embarrass me every time, I feel stupid. 'After every single conversation I have to watch you have with people,' as he responded: 'We've been doing that for six and a half weeks.' Helena fumed: 'I didn't expect you to be sitting with your ex-girlfriend and saying you'll get back into bed with one another on the outside. 'You just don't shut things down, you entertain everything and everyone.'
