I so wanted to enjoy White Lines but it’s spectacularly uninvolving

If I could live my life over again my plan used to be that I’d make my fortune very early, spend my winters fox hunting through the season and my summers taking loads of ecstasy in Ibiza and having meaningless sex with beautiful strangers. But having seen the first two episodes of White Lines I’m not so sure about the second part of that equation: it all looks a bit sordid and depressing and really not much fun.

‘Do you know this is not making me want to live in Ibiza AT ALL,’ said the Fawn, as we watched, morosely. And I have to admit, I agree. I so wanted to enjoy this series. Dance music, pills, violence, intrigue, gorgeous locations, my lovely mate Laurence Fox as a ridiculous hippie guru with his personal sacred cow… it has so many of the right ingredients. But watching it feels strenuous and frustrating — not unlike when you’ve dropped an E and you’re waiting for ages for it to kick in but nothing seems to be happening.