Lisa Riley’s Jungle Gauntlet: Behind the Laughter, Pain and Celebrity Scandals Erupt

Max Sterling, 11/17/2025 Jungle déjà vu reigns as I’m A Celebrity’s 25th opener blends skydiving schtick, meme-worthy nerves, and Lisa Riley’s unvarnished honesty—a reminder that in a panto of predictable stunts, it’s those gritty glimpses of truth that spark real connection.

The supposedly unscripted terror on the stars’ faces might have convinced new viewers—if there were any left. After so many seasons, the opening jump has become less a trial by air than a rite of passage, as familiar to the audience as soggy toast or Gregg Wallace popping up in a MasterChef apron. Some participants, Kelly Brook among them, attempt to sell their panic, remarking—almost wistfully—that even escalators challenge her nerves. It’s the kind of confession that could fill radio call-ins for a week: charming, slightly ridiculous, and inexplicably relatable.

Martin Kemp, erstwhile Spandau Ballet frontman and all-around showbiz survivor, appeared about as comfortable as milk at a cheese festival. Viewers, meanwhile, poured their skepticism onto social media, now a kind of jury box for TV’s charm offensives. Quips flew faster than bush tucker trials, with one post summing up the mood: “Are we supposed to act shocked about the parachute thing? Have the producers met their audience recently?”

Yet the show's routine is its own brand of comfort—contrived, perhaps, but delivered with a wink. Contestants swim through goo, jostle for spots in getaway cars, and toss off gags in the face of whatever “slime” the art department conjured. There are flashes of amusement; Aitch, charging full Manc into the challenge, Eddie getting downright giddy at escaping the worst of it—moments that bob to the surface in a sea of manufactured peril.

Then there's the matter of the “Cockie van”—a phrase likely to send the uninitiated running for internet clarification. Shona McGarty’s “fish gutted!” line stands as a solid contender for best throwaway joke of opening night. In any other year, it’d be watercooler fodder; in 2025, it will probably be meme material before breakfast.

Amid these recycled shenanigans, one new thread stands out: Lisa Riley’s entrance. Riley’s lived-in humor, self-deprecating but steeled by hard-won resilience, carves a distinct path through the routine. Her career has swung between slapstick and heartbreak—a patchwork quilt of Emmerdale, Strictly, public triumphs, and private losses. Now she stands on the threshold of 50, reflecting not with the faux gravitas of reality TV confessionals, but with the grainier honesty of someone who’s seen worse than anything lurking in the buckets of jungle beasties.

Riley’s willingness to talk openly about grief, about the complications of dramatic weight loss, and about feeling “revolted” by the physical aftermath—these aren’t the marketable struggles usually dished out for primetime. They break through the show’s shiny surface, if only for a moment. There’s grit there—real enough to catch viewers off-guard, even if only briefly, before the cha-cha of “what’s next” resumes.

Not all campmates bring such layers. Matthew Wolfenden’s dry aside, “I need a job, actually, so...,” lands with a knowing wink at the precarious halls of soap stardom. Others blend into the processional of one-liners, phobias, and kitchen-sink confessions, each trying to wring humor or pathos from a format that’s been around long enough to have its own nostalgia hashtags.

Curiously, even the show’s predictability has grown endearing in a backwards sort of way. One disgruntled viewer’s wish for “actual surprises” seems itself like a tradition. The annual skydives, the inevitable offal, and the careful dance between shivers and giggles—they’re the stuff of modern pantomime. Say what you like about the production’s smoke and mirrors; the act of letting audiences in on the joke is now part of its charm.

It’s easy to forget, swept up in all this, that the heart of the ‘reality’ genre beats not in the shocks or spectacle, but in the rare splinters of truth that sneak through. When Riley speaks about real loss—when humor gives way for a breath—something pokes through the heavily lacquered surface. Maybe that’s the point. In a jungle littered with stagecraft and stunts, the greatest challenge remains authenticity.

Two and a half decades in, “I’m A Celeb” is no fresher than a packet of scotch eggs at a rainy festival. But it still draws a crowd, and not just for the calamity or nostalgia. People keep tuning in, perhaps hoping for a glimmer of the unscripted, or just appreciating the wit layered between the forced scream and the slapstick spatter. After all, even in the thick of artifice, a flash of the genuine can catch the light—and on certain nights, that’s enough to bring them back for another round.

If there were ever a more enduring harbinger of British winter television than helicopters buzzing over the Gold Coast, it’d be hard to name it. “I’m A Celebrity...Get Me Out of Here!” is back, and so are the opening rituals—skydiving celebs, feigned astonishment, and Ant and Dec grinning as if they’ve found Narnia in the jungle thicket. The annual pageant kicks off precisely as everyone predicted, parachutes unfurled like so many deja vus with twangy theme music echoing in the background.The supposedly unscripted terror on the stars’ faces might have convinced new viewers—if there were any left. After so many seasons, the opening jump has become less a trial by air than a rite of passage, as familiar to the audience as soggy toast or Gregg Wallace popping up in a MasterChef apron. Some participants, Kelly Brook among them, attempt to sell their panic, remarking—almost wistfully—that even escalators challenge her nerves. It’s the kind of confession that could fill radio call-ins for a week: charming, slightly ridiculous, and inexplicably relatable.Martin Kemp, erstwhile Spandau Ballet frontman and all-around showbiz survivor, appeared about as comfortable as milk at a cheese festival. Viewers, meanwhile, poured their skepticism onto social media, now a kind of jury box for TV’s charm offensives. Quips flew faster than bush tucker trials, with one post summing up the mood: “Are we supposed to act shocked about the parachute thing? Have the producers met their audience recently?”Yet the show's routine is its own brand of comfort—contrived, perhaps, but delivered with a wink. Contestants swim through goo, jostle for spots in getaway cars, and toss off gags in the face of whatever “slime” the art department conjured. There are flashes of amusement; Aitch, charging full Manc into the challenge, Eddie getting downright giddy at escaping the worst of it—moments that bob to the surface in a sea of manufactured peril.Then there's the matter of the “Cockie van”—a phrase likely to send the uninitiated running for internet clarification. Shona McGarty’s “fish gutted!” line stands as a solid contender for best throwaway joke of opening night. In any other year, it’d be watercooler fodder; in 2025, it will probably be meme material before breakfast.Amid these recycled shenanigans, one new thread stands out: Lisa Riley’s entrance. Riley’s lived-in humor, self-deprecating but steeled by hard-won resilience, carves a distinct path through the routine. Her career has swung between slapstick and heartbreak—a patchwork quilt of Emmerdale, Strictly, public triumphs, and private losses. Now she stands on the threshold of 50, reflecting not with the faux gravitas of reality TV confessionals, but with the grainier honesty of someone who’s seen worse than anything lurking in the buckets of jungle beasties.Riley’s willingness to talk openly about grief, about the complications of dramatic weight loss, and about feeling “revolted” by the physical aftermath—these aren’t the marketable struggles usually dished out for primetime. They break through the show’s shiny surface, if only for a moment. There’s grit there—real enough to catch viewers off-guard, even if only briefly, before the cha-cha of “what’s next” resumes.Not all campmates bring such layers. Matthew Wolfenden’s dry aside, “I need a job, actually, so...,” lands with a knowing wink at the precarious halls of soap stardom. Others blend into the processional of one-liners, phobias, and kitchen-sink confessions, each trying to wring humor or pathos from a format that’s been around long enough to have its own nostalgia hashtags.Curiously, even the show’s predictability has grown endearing in a backwards sort of way. One disgruntled viewer’s wish for “actual surprises” seems itself like a tradition. The annual skydives, the inevitable offal, and the careful dance between shivers and giggles—they’re the stuff of modern pantomime. Say what you like about the production’s smoke and mirrors; the act of letting audiences in on the joke is now part of its charm.It’s easy to forget, swept up in all this, that the heart of the ‘reality’ genre beats not in the shocks or spectacle, but in the rare splinters of truth that sneak through. When Riley speaks about real loss—when humor gives way for a breath—something pokes through the heavily lacquered surface. Maybe that’s the point. In a jungle littered with stagecraft and stunts, the greatest challenge remains authenticity.Two and a half decades in, “I’m A Celeb” is no fresher than a packet of scotch eggs at a rainy festival. But it still draws a crowd, and not just for the calamity or nostalgia. People keep tuning in, perhaps hoping for a glimmer of the unscripted, or just appreciating the wit layered between the forced scream and the slapstick spatter. After all, even in the thick of artifice, a flash of the genuine can catch the light—and on certain nights, that’s enough to bring them back for another round.