Ant & Dec Exposed: The Stress, Therapy, and Turkeys Behind the Smile

Max Sterling, 1/20/2026 Britain’s cheeriest showman, Dec Donnelly, drops his affable armor to confess the quiet hum of anxiety beneath the spotlight—reminding us all that even TV royalty can crave a breather (and yes, even therapy appointments can join the British queue). A rare, wry peek behind Saturday night’s velvet curtain.

But even the brightest faces sometimes betray a flicker of something less showy. On a breezy episode of Fearne Cotton’s “Happy Place” podcast earlier this year, Declan Donnelly—our familiar, quick-witted host—let slip a rare glimpse behind the curtain. Sat alongside his perennial partner-in-mischief, Anthony McPartlin, Donnelly tipped the scales from glossy primetime frivolity toward something unmistakably human. “I struggle a bit with... it’s kind of a low-level, constant anxiety about ‘should be doing this’ or ‘I’ve got to be doing...’ I never feel I can sit down and just watch telly, I always feel like I should be doing something else,” he admitted. This wasn’t a confession drenched in melodrama or primed for a heart-wrenching solo to camera—just an honest, almost shrugged-off admission. The anxiety Donnelly describes isn’t the stuff of Netflix docudramas or tabloid exposés; it’s the quieter, more persistent beast, the one that murmurs from behind half-closed doors: shouldn’t you be getting on?

Funny, really. The king of effortless entertainment struggling with the very notion of guilt over downtime. It’s a hangdog feeling—distinctly British—that’s haunted living rooms for generations. One could almost hear a nation of biscuit-dunkers nodding along in recognition. The voice in Donnelly’s head, gently prodding at his sense of worth during any idle moment, echoed the same relentless hum in so many others' lives.

Addressing such restlessness, Donnelly turned to therapy about half a decade back—a move he recollects with a gentle warmth, brushing aside the old tropes of stiff upper lips and therapy reserved for crises. “I really got a lot out of it. I really enjoyed it,” he remarks, with a tone that almost dares others to see therapy not as grim penance but as an oddly pleasant detour. Yet, in a turn even Dickens might have admired, when Donnelly tried to book another session after a hiatus, he found himself politely rerouted: his therapist wasn’t available, but—cheer up, mate!—here’s another name to try. “I’ve still got those details, I just haven’t managed to make an appointment yet.” There it is: even self-care lines up single-file, British-style.

The sincerity of it all feels, frankly, refreshing, especially when measured against three pulsing decades under the national spotlight. Rewinding from the Byker Grove days to Britain’s Got Talent, zigzagging through Takeaway and finally landing on Limitless Win, Donnelly and McPartlin have continually chased that almost-impossible aim: keep grandma, grandkids, and everyone in between entertained. “To entertain the whole family is no mean feat, and you’ve got to try and grab each generation and entertain them. It’s entertainment, it’s fun, but we take it incredibly seriously,” Donnelly continues, artfully balancing that perennial tension—a laugh must always be worth the effort it conceals.

Ant, for his part, doesn’t miss a beat: “We do the best job in the world. We have a laugh every day. We’ve hosted some turkeys over the years. It hasn’t always been a success. It’s a privilege to be in someone’s living room on a Saturday night hosting a big show.” If there’s humility buried in that admission, it’s easy to miss beneath the showman’s smile—but it’s there, shadowed by the awareness that stardom doesn’t come with a lifetime warranty.

The conversation drifts, as these things do, towards parenthood—no small subplot in either man’s life these days. Take Donnelly’s seven-year-old, Isla, who’s itching to watch dad wrangle D-list celebrities through jungle hellscapes on “I’m A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here!” But Dec hesitates, pointedly: “I’m not sure my kids should be watching my TV show.” There’s a different sort of scrutiny at home now, apparently. Meanwhile, Ant finds himself policing his vocabulary under pressure from a toddler stern enough to give Simon Cowell pause.

Not everything has gone smoothly. When the duo attempted to launch their new podcast—hatched over pints fifteen years back, finally conjured to life in 2025—a promotional video inadvertently struck the wrong chord, echoing “suicide imagery” with an ill-advised shot of dangling feet. Their response? A brisk, unfiltered apology. “We did not mean to cause any offence with this promo video and we are sorry if it upset anyone.” No PR gloss, just a straightforward admission of getting it wrong.

Looking back over their career, it’s tempting to conclude that a bit of vulnerability, especially now, is itself a kind of performance. Or maybe, on second thought, it’s a quiet challenge—a dare to everyone glued to the next big tune or telly spectacular to actually stop, somewhere, and take a breath. Donnelly’s admission doesn’t read as a tabloid sob story; instead, it feels more like a mirror, reflecting that collective pressure to be “on” even when nobody’s watching. The urge to keep hustling, to never let up, stalks even those who appear to have mastered the art of making it all look easy.

So, next Saturday evening, when the lights go up and the nation settles in (or out, depending on the latest winter storms), perhaps there’s comfort to be drawn from the notion that sometimes even the headline act needs to step behind the curtain, exhale, and enjoy a brief silence. If Dec Donnelly is learning not to give in to that restless voice—well, perhaps everyone else can give themselves permission, too. It might just be the standout act of the night.

Step onto the polished hardwood of British Saturday night television, and it’s hard not to be swept along by the glint of stage lights, the easy churn of laughter from the audience, and—of course—those iconic figures, Ant and Dec. These two have been steadfast as ever, grinning their way through an astonishing array of games, pratfalls, and celebrity shenanigans, side by side like tea and biscuits at a rain-soaked family picnic.But even the brightest faces sometimes betray a flicker of something less showy. On a breezy episode of Fearne Cotton’s “Happy Place” podcast earlier this year, Declan Donnelly—our familiar, quick-witted host—let slip a rare glimpse behind the curtain. Sat alongside his perennial partner-in-mischief, Anthony McPartlin, Donnelly tipped the scales from glossy primetime frivolity toward something unmistakably human. “I struggle a bit with... it’s kind of a low-level, constant anxiety about ‘should be doing this’ or ‘I’ve got to be doing...’ I never feel I can sit down and just watch telly, I always feel like I should be doing something else,” he admitted. This wasn’t a confession drenched in melodrama or primed for a heart-wrenching solo to camera—just an honest, almost shrugged-off admission. The anxiety Donnelly describes isn’t the stuff of Netflix docudramas or tabloid exposés; it’s the quieter, more persistent beast, the one that murmurs from behind half-closed doors: shouldn’t you be getting on?Funny, really. The king of effortless entertainment struggling with the very notion of guilt over downtime. It’s a hangdog feeling—distinctly British—that’s haunted living rooms for generations. One could almost hear a nation of biscuit-dunkers nodding along in recognition. The voice in Donnelly’s head, gently prodding at his sense of worth during any idle moment, echoed the same relentless hum in so many others' lives.Addressing such restlessness, Donnelly turned to therapy about half a decade back—a move he recollects with a gentle warmth, brushing aside the old tropes of stiff upper lips and therapy reserved for crises. “I really got a lot out of it. I really enjoyed it,” he remarks, with a tone that almost dares others to see therapy not as grim penance but as an oddly pleasant detour. Yet, in a turn even Dickens might have admired, when Donnelly tried to book another session after a hiatus, he found himself politely rerouted: his therapist wasn’t available, but—cheer up, mate!—here’s another name to try. “I’ve still got those details, I just haven’t managed to make an appointment yet.” There it is: even self-care lines up single-file, British-style.The sincerity of it all feels, frankly, refreshing, especially when measured against three pulsing decades under the national spotlight. Rewinding from the Byker Grove days to Britain’s Got Talent, zigzagging through Takeaway and finally landing on Limitless Win, Donnelly and McPartlin have continually chased that almost-impossible aim: keep grandma, grandkids, and everyone in between entertained. “To entertain the whole family is no mean feat, and you’ve got to try and grab each generation and entertain them. It’s entertainment, it’s fun, but we take it incredibly seriously,” Donnelly continues, artfully balancing that perennial tension—a laugh must always be worth the effort it conceals.Ant, for his part, doesn’t miss a beat: “We do the best job in the world. We have a laugh every day. We’ve hosted some turkeys over the years. It hasn’t always been a success. It’s a privilege to be in someone’s living room on a Saturday night hosting a big show.” If there’s humility buried in that admission, it’s easy to miss beneath the showman’s smile—but it’s there, shadowed by the awareness that stardom doesn’t come with a lifetime warranty.The conversation drifts, as these things do, towards parenthood—no small subplot in either man’s life these days. Take Donnelly’s seven-year-old, Isla, who’s itching to watch dad wrangle D-list celebrities through jungle hellscapes on “I’m A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here!” But Dec hesitates, pointedly: “I’m not sure my kids should be watching my TV show.” There’s a different sort of scrutiny at home now, apparently. Meanwhile, Ant finds himself policing his vocabulary under pressure from a toddler stern enough to give Simon Cowell pause.Not everything has gone smoothly. When the duo attempted to launch their new podcast—hatched over pints fifteen years back, finally conjured to life in 2025—a promotional video inadvertently struck the wrong chord, echoing “suicide imagery” with an ill-advised shot of dangling feet. Their response? A brisk, unfiltered apology. “We did not mean to cause any offence with this promo video and we are sorry if it upset anyone.” No PR gloss, just a straightforward admission of getting it wrong.Looking back over their career, it’s tempting to conclude that a bit of vulnerability, especially now, is itself a kind of performance. Or maybe, on second thought, it’s a quiet challenge—a dare to everyone glued to the next big tune or telly spectacular to actually stop, somewhere, and take a breath. Donnelly’s admission doesn’t read as a tabloid sob story; instead, it feels more like a mirror, reflecting that collective pressure to be “on” even when nobody’s watching. The urge to keep hustling, to never let up, stalks even those who appear to have mastered the art of making it all look easy.So, next Saturday evening, when the lights go up and the nation settles in (or out, depending on the latest winter storms), perhaps there’s comfort to be drawn from the notion that sometimes even the headline act needs to step behind the curtain, exhale, and enjoy a brief silence. If Dec Donnelly is learning not to give in to that restless voice—well, perhaps everyone else can give themselves permission, too. It might just be the standout act of the night.