Dating shows should exist for people who aren't straight. They're

When Olly Alexander said, “Dating shows should exist for people who aren't straight. They're out there, there aren't enough of them. Whether you try and squeeze a format that already works into something else, I don't know,” he was not merely speaking of entertainment—he was speaking of representation, belonging, and truth. Beneath his words lies a yearning older than fame, older than television itself: the longing of every human being to see themselves reflected in the world around them. His call is both gentle and revolutionary, for it demands that love—in all its forms—be honored, seen, and celebrated.

The origin of this quote comes from Alexander’s life as an artist and advocate. Known for his music and his open identity, he has long been a voice for those who live at the edges of visibility. In his reflection on dating shows, he highlights the quiet injustice that arises when society’s stories of love are told through only one lens. When every public image of romance assumes heterosexuality, those who do not fit that mold are left to wander in the shadows, unacknowledged yet deeply human. His words carry the weight of centuries—of hearts that have loved silently because the world would not make space for their song.

To call for dating shows for people who aren’t straight is not a trivial request. It is a cry for balance in the tapestry of storytelling. Since the dawn of performance, humans have told tales of love: in poetry, in music, in theatre. But for too long, those tales have reflected only a narrow vision of affection, one that excludes as much as it celebrates. The ancient Greeks, who understood the complexity of love better than most, once wrote of passion in every form—between man and woman, man and man, woman and woman. Their poets and philosophers, from Sappho to Plato, saw love as divine, not bound by gender but by the meeting of souls. What Alexander seeks, then, is not novelty but restoration—the return of a truth that the world once knew, and must now remember.

When he says, “Whether you try and squeeze a format that already works into something else, I don’t know,” his tone is contemplative. He recognizes that representation must be authentic, not forced. It is not enough to merely insert difference into a formula made for sameness; what is needed is the courage to reimagine the form itself. The same applies to society at large: progress cannot come from merely reshaping old structures—it must come from creating new ones that honor diversity in their foundation. Just as new instruments must sometimes be built to play new melodies, so too must new stories arise to express new truths.

Consider the tale of Emperor Hadrian and Antinous, one of the most enduring love stories of the Roman world. When Antinous, the emperor’s beloved, died young, Hadrian mourned him with such devotion that he founded cities, temples, and statues in his honor. Though history tried to erase their bond, it endured through art and memory—a testament to love’s defiance of boundaries. Their story reminds us that love is eternal, but visibility is fragile. Without voices like Alexander’s to call for inclusion, love stories like Hadrian’s and Antinous’s risk being forgotten again, buried beneath the silence of convention.

In his statement lies a moral both human and heroic: that no one should feel unseen in the world’s great chorus of affection. Love, after all, is the one language shared by all—yet if only some are allowed to speak it openly, its harmony is broken. To deny visibility is to deny dignity; to offer it is to affirm existence. Alexander’s words, though spoken about television, strike at the heart of civilization’s moral duty: to tell every story, to lift every voice, to reflect the fullness of what it means to be alive.

From his reflection, we draw this timeless lesson: inclusion is not a luxury—it is truth. If we wish for a world where love is pure and fearless, we must create spaces where every form of love can breathe. Let the storytellers of this age—writers, artists, and dreamers—take up this sacred charge: to widen the mirror of humanity until all who look into it can see themselves whole. Begin where you are—listen to stories unlike your own, celebrate love that challenges your comfort, and honor the diversity of the heart.

So let Olly Alexander’s words stand as a torch for the generations to come. To “make room for every kind of love” is not merely to change media—it is to change hearts. For when every person can find their reflection in the stories of the world, then, and only then, will we truly understand the ancient truth: that love, in all its forms, is the most universal and divine expression of the human soul.