Gemma Collins, Mo Farah & All-Star Rivals Bring Chaos to Celebrity Jungle

Max Sterling, 3/10/2026Gaze into the chaos of *I’m a Celebrity: South Africa – All Stars*, where returning stars like Gemma Collins and Mo Farah grapple with past dramas and present ambitions. In a compelling mix of vulnerability and bravado, witness the jagged edges of reality TV unfold in the jungle's wild embrace.

At its frothy, slightly unhinged core, the series gathers an eclectic cohort. Mo Farah, famous for outpacing mere mortals on the world’s biggest tracks, now finds himself in a far slower, stickier race: the one where camaraderie, cockroaches, and old regrets all jostle for airtime. Then there’s Scarlett Moffatt, who rose from Gogglebox obscurity to jungle royalty, now firmly in pursuit of something refreshingly pragmatic—a new bathroom, apparently, which might just be this year’s most relatable aspiration. Amidst them, the enigmatic Gemma Collins (The GC in social shorthand), arrives for her redemption arc, boldly treating the Kruger bush like her personal Olympus—equal parts myth and meme.

Gemma’s saga, in particular, comes loaded with drama worthy of an update from ancient Greek tragedy to WiFi-enabled reality fare. Back in 2014, she left after three chaotic days, a cloud hanging heavy—her own words. This time, her flair is unmistakable, the motivation almost tactile. “My make-up artist slapped me at Heathrow airport because I said I don’t think I can go through with this,” she confesses, exaggeration or not. Vulnerability and bravado, twinned awkwardly, make her both target and talisman for viewers hooked on self-reinvention. Whether she “shut it down” or simply survived, the spectacle never disappoints. Somehow, her odyssey echoes every viewer who ever waffled at the threshold of a big risk—or at least a cold shower.

Ant and Dec, the perennial masters of ceremonies, have long since transcended the status of mere hosts. It’s as though the show’s DNA mutated to include their perpetual banter. After nearly three decades, their voices provide as much comfort to the audience as a half-decent fire in the camp—unless, of course, the firewood’s been nicked. This year, the duo exude that unmistakable scent of glee: “We’ve had a few ‘nice’ series... not any more!” Dec quips, their anticipation of impending conflict palpable. Harmony might warm viewers, but friction—well, that sells ad space.

Meanwhile, conflict emerges over the most mundane of triggers. The daily grind of dirty plates transforms into existential theatre. Gemma, used to the twin luxury of dishwashers (plural!), laments the loss with an almost Shakespearean depth: “Being in there breaks you in ways you’ve never been broken before.” Somewhere out there, a showroom of home appliances offers a silent salute.

Of course, not all the pain is self-inflicted. Harry Redknapp gets a mention, his behind-the-scenes prank nearly pushing Gemma past the brink. “This guy deserves an Oscar because I fully believed him...” she admits. A wink here, a gentle prod there; sometimes reality TV comes perilously close to actual psychological warfare—just with better overhead lighting.

Other campmates bring different energies. Scarlett, who ten years ago conquered the jungle, returns with dreams as humble as a digitally-controlled toilet and a desire to show her future child “what brave looks like.” There’s an honesty here, less theatrical than Gemma’s monologues but probably more in tune with today’s slice-of-life reality ethos. Everyone’s got a reason, though—some chase closure, some chase crowdsourced redemption, some just want an upgrade to the downstairs loo.

Elsewhere, Beverley Callard’s sardonic retort—declaring this the worst thing she’s ever done—is blunt but oddly refreshing; Sinitta, meanwhile, oscillates between anxious self-parody and postmodern disassociation. “I think I am AI...” she jokes, blurring the line between performance and participation in a way that feels—well, unsettlingly prescient in 2025, an era that’s seen its share of digital doppelgängers and deepfakes.

Perhaps the show’s most compelling element is how loss and unfinished business still thread through the experience. Craig Charles’ return, marked by personal tragedy during his original outing, hints at the quiet truths not captured in glamorous montages. And there’s no shortage of competitive energy from the likes of David Haye, Jimmy Bullard, or Adam Thomas: a pop culture Rorschach of anxiety, aspiration, and awkward alliances.

Ironically, for all its grandstanding and absurdity, the show still manages to tap into something wincingly authentic. Watch long enough, and it’s all there—the raw nerves, the accidental grace, the relentless pursuit of narrative closure. A live final awaits, turning the audience into both judge and jury, as social media flights of fancy keep old stories alive and, occasionally, rewrite them entirely.

In the end, it’s hard to say what the cast members actually win—beyond the temporary euphoria of besting a cockroach or outlasting a rival. Maybe that’s the point. Between the beans, dish duty, and bursts of outlandish honesty, the jungle remains the last great arena for British celebrity self-flagellation. For everyone else, there’s always a new meme, redemption by selfie, and—if fortune smiles—a brand new bathroom.

If there’s such a thing as a Sacred Order of Reality TV Martyrs, the returning line-up of *I’m a Celebrity: South Africa – All Stars* surely deserves a commemorative stamp—or maybe just a quiet moment at the Heathrow arrivals lounge. ITV has never shied away from orchestrating a bit of magnificent mayhem, and this latest edition reads more like a fever-dream class reunion than a mere ratings grab. These are not just familiar faces dragged back into the bush; they’re people with histories, with scores to settle and—let’s be honest—plenty to prove.At its frothy, slightly unhinged core, the series gathers an eclectic cohort. Mo Farah, famous for outpacing mere mortals on the world’s biggest tracks, now finds himself in a far slower, stickier race: the one where camaraderie, cockroaches, and old regrets all jostle for airtime. Then there’s Scarlett Moffatt, who rose from Gogglebox obscurity to jungle royalty, now firmly in pursuit of something refreshingly pragmatic—a new bathroom, apparently, which might just be this year’s most relatable aspiration. Amidst them, the enigmatic Gemma Collins (The GC in social shorthand), arrives for her redemption arc, boldly treating the Kruger bush like her personal Olympus—equal parts myth and meme.Gemma’s saga, in particular, comes loaded with drama worthy of an update from ancient Greek tragedy to WiFi-enabled reality fare. Back in 2014, she left after three chaotic days, a cloud hanging heavy—her own words. This time, her flair is unmistakable, the motivation almost tactile. “My make-up artist slapped me at Heathrow airport because I said I don’t think I can go through with this,” she confesses, exaggeration or not. Vulnerability and bravado, twinned awkwardly, make her both target and talisman for viewers hooked on self-reinvention. Whether she “shut it down” or simply survived, the spectacle never disappoints. Somehow, her odyssey echoes every viewer who ever waffled at the threshold of a big risk—or at least a cold shower.Ant and Dec, the perennial masters of ceremonies, have long since transcended the status of mere hosts. It’s as though the show’s DNA mutated to include their perpetual banter. After nearly three decades, their voices provide as much comfort to the audience as a half-decent fire in the camp—unless, of course, the firewood’s been nicked. This year, the duo exude that unmistakable scent of glee: “We’ve had a few ‘nice’ series... not any more!” Dec quips, their anticipation of impending conflict palpable. Harmony might warm viewers, but friction—well, that sells ad space.Meanwhile, conflict emerges over the most mundane of triggers. The daily grind of dirty plates transforms into existential theatre. Gemma, used to the twin luxury of dishwashers (plural!), laments the loss with an almost Shakespearean depth: “Being in there breaks you in ways you’ve never been broken before.” Somewhere out there, a showroom of home appliances offers a silent salute.Of course, not all the pain is self-inflicted. Harry Redknapp gets a mention, his behind-the-scenes prank nearly pushing Gemma past the brink. “This guy deserves an Oscar because I fully believed him...” she admits. A wink here, a gentle prod there; sometimes reality TV comes perilously close to actual psychological warfare—just with better overhead lighting.Other campmates bring different energies. Scarlett, who ten years ago conquered the jungle, returns with dreams as humble as a digitally-controlled toilet and a desire to show her future child “what brave looks like.” There’s an honesty here, less theatrical than Gemma’s monologues but probably more in tune with today’s slice-of-life reality ethos. Everyone’s got a reason, though—some chase closure, some chase crowdsourced redemption, some just want an upgrade to the downstairs loo.Elsewhere, Beverley Callard’s sardonic retort—declaring this the worst thing she’s ever done—is blunt but oddly refreshing; Sinitta, meanwhile, oscillates between anxious self-parody and postmodern disassociation. “I think I am AI...” she jokes, blurring the line between performance and participation in a way that feels—well, unsettlingly prescient in 2025, an era that’s seen its share of digital doppelgängers and deepfakes.Perhaps the show’s most compelling element is how loss and unfinished business still thread through the experience. Craig Charles’ return, marked by personal tragedy during his original outing, hints at the quiet truths not captured in glamorous montages. And there’s no shortage of competitive energy from the likes of David Haye, Jimmy Bullard, or Adam Thomas: a pop culture Rorschach of anxiety, aspiration, and awkward alliances.Ironically, for all its grandstanding and absurdity, the show still manages to tap into something wincingly authentic. Watch long enough, and it’s all there—the raw nerves, the accidental grace, the relentless pursuit of narrative closure. A live final awaits, turning the audience into both judge and jury, as social media flights of fancy keep old stories alive and, occasionally, rewrite them entirely.In the end, it’s hard to say what the cast members actually win—beyond the temporary euphoria of besting a cockroach or outlasting a rival. Maybe that’s the point. Between the beans, dish duty, and bursts of outlandish honesty, the jungle remains the last great arena for British celebrity self-flagellation. For everyone else, there’s always a new meme, redemption by selfie, and—if fortune smiles—a brand new bathroom.