Lorraine’s Curtain Call, Cyclone Frenzy, and Dr. Scott’s Divorce Confession

Max Sterling, 12/7/2025From spandexed cyclone chaos to stoic studio farewells and a vet’s heartfelt Instagram, this is British TV at its most human—equal parts absurd, touching, and gloriously communal. Because when the credits roll, it’s connection, not just content, that keeps us all tuning in.

So, to the jungle. Because really, where else offers the particular blend of sequined chaos and soft existential balm the winter months demand? The penultimate burst of *I’m A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here!* carried on flinging ridiculousness at telly’s fourth wall with its annual ‘Cyclone’ event: costumes, glitter, and an obstacle course that would terrify most actual superheroes. Aitch shoved into a Silver Songstress outfit, Angry Ginge channeling autumn’s leftover Pumpkin vibes, Shona McGarty as The Red Hot Chilli Stepper, and Tom Read Wilson standing impervious as The Sapphire Surfer—barely a whiff of genuine dignity survived, but who’s keeping track? Stan Lee, maybe, looking down in envy.

Yet something funny’s happened out there—not content to merely watch their favourites battle torrents and foam for the sake of a sweet potato, viewers started plotting. Social feeds have brimmed with a new kind of envy: not of the stars, but of the Schlager-drenched misadventure itself. “I’d pay actual money to do the cyclone,” declared one fan, in a tone usually reserved for, say, Adele tickets or an unscheduled Friday off. And someone, probably a marketing intern with delusions of grandeur, has already suggested Cyclone for the masses—Alton Towers, perhaps? Just picture it: the British public, ankle-deep in mud, chasing after flying pizza slices instead of fame. If this isn’t proof the lines between spectacle and experience are eroding, what is?

It’s telling. In 2025, with reality television only growing more frenetically interactive, these moments expose how the great barrier between screen and sofa is fraying at the edges. People don’t only crave the entertainment; they want to be slapstick heroes themselves—even if only for a Tesco meal deal at the finish line.

Elsewhere, daylight and decorum. Lorraine Kelly, who’s been the late-morning backbone for more years than most of us can feasibly remember, gave a bravura performance in British resolve this week. Her eponymous show, long a soothing fixture for bakers and remote workers alike, is about to become rarer—trimmed to half its usual length and squeezed into thirty prestigious weeks per annum. Was Lorraine fazed? Only in the way the Queen might be if someone misplaced her wellies at Balmoral: with gentle resignation and a flicker of dry wit. There’s warmth (and perhaps a pinch of gallows humour) when she talks about team members heading over to *This Morning*. TV talent migration rarely sounds this bittersweet.

Pause here—sometimes it’s easy to forget the army behind those sofa banter sessions: producers, camera ops, makeup artists who’ve perfected the seven-minute under-eye fix for sleep-deprived hosts. When the big calendar in Studio 3 gets edited, so do their morning routines, their lunch breaks, their half-eaten Hobnobs. It’s not just a line graph on an executive’s laptop; it’s dozens of lives pivoting around one blunt scheduling decision, and that ache lingers in the background.

Then, almost suddenly, the tone shifts. Dr Scott Miller—best known for keeping the dog population and the British psyche on even keel—takes a vulnerable detour on Instagram, holding his dog Mango tight and tagging the moment with a solitary “#divorce.” The post is neither pity-filled nor self-indulgent; instead, thanks are given (“for friends, my health... and my dog”), and the internet responds with a collective embracing sigh. Cue the parade of messages about animals knowing more of human loyalty than most humans ever will—and, yes, the odd teary selfie with a spaniel. There’s a peculiar comfort in seeing a familiar TV face drop the mask, even if only for a caption or two.

It all loops back to one thing—connection, sometimes messy, sometimes barely holding together, but always there. British telly, especially this time of year, remains the unofficial co-pilot through breakups, late shifts, midlife wobblies, and everything in between. One day it’s padded costumes and inflatable chaos, the next it’s stoic farewells and the quiet reassurance of a dog curled up on the sofa. Perhaps the grand shifts—shrinking runtimes, new hosts, even a Cyclone for the everyman—are just new verses to the same, timeworn refrain: “We’re still here.” Maybe a little more crumpled, but always game for another round.

Come to think of it, the dramas off-screen—transfers, trims, pets who never judge—are every bit as compelling as what ends up in the edit suite. And for anyone still braving the early-morning chill, kettle on, hoping against hope to catch a familiar face or a spark of absurdity in a cyclone of noise, British television provides, as ever, more than the sum of its parts. That’s something worth staying up for—at least until someone taxis you home, humming the theme tune.

The final weeks of British television’s year tend to resemble the aftermath of a party that’s run harmlessly amok—half the guests out the door, someone teary over the cheese board, and one overzealous soul still urging “just one last karaoke” before midnight truly strikes. Looking at December’s ITV offering, there’s little evidence that anyone’s in a rush to sober up, at least not where escapist spectacle is concerned.So, to the jungle. Because really, where else offers the particular blend of sequined chaos and soft existential balm the winter months demand? The penultimate burst of *I’m A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here!* carried on flinging ridiculousness at telly’s fourth wall with its annual ‘Cyclone’ event: costumes, glitter, and an obstacle course that would terrify most actual superheroes. Aitch shoved into a Silver Songstress outfit, Angry Ginge channeling autumn’s leftover Pumpkin vibes, Shona McGarty as The Red Hot Chilli Stepper, and Tom Read Wilson standing impervious as The Sapphire Surfer—barely a whiff of genuine dignity survived, but who’s keeping track? Stan Lee, maybe, looking down in envy.Yet something funny’s happened out there—not content to merely watch their favourites battle torrents and foam for the sake of a sweet potato, viewers started plotting. Social feeds have brimmed with a new kind of envy: not of the stars, but of the Schlager-drenched misadventure itself. “I’d pay actual money to do the cyclone,” declared one fan, in a tone usually reserved for, say, Adele tickets or an unscheduled Friday off. And someone, probably a marketing intern with delusions of grandeur, has already suggested Cyclone for the masses—Alton Towers, perhaps? Just picture it: the British public, ankle-deep in mud, chasing after flying pizza slices instead of fame. If this isn’t proof the lines between spectacle and experience are eroding, what is?It’s telling. In 2025, with reality television only growing more frenetically interactive, these moments expose how the great barrier between screen and sofa is fraying at the edges. People don’t only crave the entertainment; they want to be slapstick heroes themselves—even if only for a Tesco meal deal at the finish line.Elsewhere, daylight and decorum. Lorraine Kelly, who’s been the late-morning backbone for more years than most of us can feasibly remember, gave a bravura performance in British resolve this week. Her eponymous show, long a soothing fixture for bakers and remote workers alike, is about to become rarer—trimmed to half its usual length and squeezed into thirty prestigious weeks per annum. Was Lorraine fazed? Only in the way the Queen might be if someone misplaced her wellies at Balmoral: with gentle resignation and a flicker of dry wit. There’s warmth (and perhaps a pinch of gallows humour) when she talks about team members heading over to *This Morning*. TV talent migration rarely sounds this bittersweet.Pause here—sometimes it’s easy to forget the army behind those sofa banter sessions: producers, camera ops, makeup artists who’ve perfected the seven-minute under-eye fix for sleep-deprived hosts. When the big calendar in Studio 3 gets edited, so do their morning routines, their lunch breaks, their half-eaten Hobnobs. It’s not just a line graph on an executive’s laptop; it’s dozens of lives pivoting around one blunt scheduling decision, and that ache lingers in the background.Then, almost suddenly, the tone shifts. Dr Scott Miller—best known for keeping the dog population and the British psyche on even keel—takes a vulnerable detour on Instagram, holding his dog Mango tight and tagging the moment with a solitary “#divorce.” The post is neither pity-filled nor self-indulgent; instead, thanks are given (“for friends, my health... and my dog”), and the internet responds with a collective embracing sigh. Cue the parade of messages about animals knowing more of human loyalty than most humans ever will—and, yes, the odd teary selfie with a spaniel. There’s a peculiar comfort in seeing a familiar TV face drop the mask, even if only for a caption or two.It all loops back to one thing—connection, sometimes messy, sometimes barely holding together, but always there. British telly, especially this time of year, remains the unofficial co-pilot through breakups, late shifts, midlife wobblies, and everything in between. One day it’s padded costumes and inflatable chaos, the next it’s stoic farewells and the quiet reassurance of a dog curled up on the sofa. Perhaps the grand shifts—shrinking runtimes, new hosts, even a Cyclone for the everyman—are just new verses to the same, timeworn refrain: “We’re still here.” Maybe a little more crumpled, but always game for another round.Come to think of it, the dramas off-screen—transfers, trims, pets who never judge—are every bit as compelling as what ends up in the edit suite. And for anyone still braving the early-morning chill, kettle on, hoping against hope to catch a familiar face or a spark of absurdity in a cyclone of noise, British television provides, as ever, more than the sum of its parts. That’s something worth staying up for—at least until someone taxis you home, humming the theme tune.