EVERY new series of The Island With Bear Grylls heralds an unwanted twist from the all-knowing powers at C4.

The first two runs, with separate male and female groups making a hash of the survival game, were unmissable.

Then last year they plonked the two sexes within sniffing distance to find each other and inevitably the show lost its appeal.

So I had concerns going into the latest meddling that has given us a bunch of 18 to 30 year olds and a team of middle-aged warhorses on neighbouring desert islands.

On first impressions, though, it works.

The older contestants are reliably too long in the tooth to care about anyone’s opinion but their own.

The young ’uns are equally reliably self-entitled, easily offended, thin-skinned cry babies.

That in itself creates a powder keg of a show, even more so that it took three days before the groups met, long enough for each tribe to bond against outsiders.

And the oldies especially want little to do with the 18-30s. You can’t blame them.

By the second night, the eight youngsters had reached “crisis point” and were “slowly dying”, having failed to light a fire, purify water or find food.

Then their camp became a quagmire and they were forced out, rocking up at the older base unannounced with the cheerful message: “We’re going to come and join you.”

The aghast look of shock was like a parent realising their offspring was back to reclaim their old bedroom after three years at university.

Individually, club 18-30 do themselves no favours either.

Gap-year student Freddie has already radioed off the island, leaving the camp with the gift of diarrhoea after getting bored boiling the water and going off with the girls limpet-hunting.

Kaggy and “unemployed graduate” Jordan were simply too hot and bothered to collect firewood, so had a nice swim instead.

And man-child Ben declared: “I’m the alpha, the man, numero uno,” before leading the young group on a four-hour wild goose chase for a beach, what with him being the man, numero uno.

So far, however, it’s all about one man — the eldest, Frank.

Every decent series of The Island, apparently, needs a professional northern stereotype, like Vic and Simon before him, whether he’s guzzling from a coconut and declaring it’s “better than John Willie Lees’s bitter” or admitting there’s “serious bother” if his dinner isn’t on the table when he gets home.

A law unto himself is Frank. A show-stealer who goes wandering off regardless, to the point that he got carried away by the tide before the rest of his party was ready to move and needed rescuing.

And you just knew what was coming when they played his VT: “My best qualities are my ability to train others and enthuse others to get involved.”

Cue Frank ahead of a hunting trip: “I need an assistant. Kaggs I want. Somebody less able.”

Kaggy: “I’m not less able, FYI. That’s a bit patronising.”

Bear Grylls: “With Kaggy turning down the role of apprentice, Frank recruits Freddie.”

I see. And your worst qualities, Frank?