Celebrity Showdowns: Lisa Riley Triumphs as Alex Scott Faces Shock Jungle Exit

Max Sterling, 11/29/2025Purple plush, pig parts, and primal confessions: ITV’s “I’m a Celebrity” turns public humiliation into purple-hued pageantry, where immunity is coveted, friendships fray, and therapy comes with a side of fermented duck egg—live, chaotic, and oddly heartfelt. Welcome to the jungle’s gaudy gladiatorial games.

The producers, clearly restless, decided to resurrect the show’s live Bushtucker trial. Imagine a blender packed with equal parts mayhem, competitive anxiety, and a dash of public embarrassment—blend until lumpy. Ant McPartlin, in a move only slightly less perilous than juggling scorpions, teased, “What could possibly go wrong?” Naturally, plenty.

Viewers tuned in, equal parts morbidly entertained and borderline queasy, to behold celebrities squaring off in the sort of head-to-head beverage battles that would frighten off even the hardiest of festival-goers. The formula was straightforward: a coin toss, two loathsome “ingredients” (pig’s bits best left unnamed, fish that smell of low tide, and fruits famous only for how much they resemble bile), and a race to see who could force down their concoction first. “We are live, please mind your language,” Ant deadpanned. Dec, never one to miss the chance for some dry parental ribbing, added, “Not looking at anyone in particular... Ginge! Aitch!”—setting the audience up for the sort of on-air chaos that compliance officers only dream about during sweeps.

Some handled it with surprising composure—Lisa Riley set a pace that suggested she’s part liquid disposal unit, while Angry Ginge and Aitch seemed more like reluctant participants at a medical trial gone wrong. Others were visibly less stoic. Vogue Williams lost a round not just physically, but graphically, redecorating the studio floor in the process. The phrase “Splash back,” gleefully supplied by Ant, may haunt dreams for weeks.

Immunity, that coveted golden ticket out of public elimination, went to the surviving stomachs of Lisa Riley, Vogue Williams, Jack Osbourne, Ruby Wax, Alex Scott, and Angry Ginge. The rest drifted back to Doomsville—a place where hope is parcelled out with more stinginess than a budget airline meal.

And then came the twist. When the latest elimination was revealed, Alex Scott, hailed for her athletic grit and tactical savvy, wound up booted from camp after facing off with Kelly Brook in the viewer vote—a shock both to campmates and to those sitting at home. The scene landed like a stray scorpion in the rice: “It was then revealed that xxxxx would be the first celebrity to leave the jungle, after facing the vote opposite Brook, Jack Osbourne, Ruby Wax, Martin Kemp, rapper Aitch and YouTuber Angryginge,” as the official rundown put it. Immunity in this jungle, oddly enough, works like a charm bracelet—clutch it tight, lest the audience’s affections flip faster than a bushtucker coin.

Yet, for every lurid trial or tribal squabble, flickers of actual humanity sneak through. Jack Osbourne’s increasingly enigmatic energy hasn’t gone unnoticed. If internet speculation held weight—doesn’t it always, especially by mid-2025—Jack reads as a man torn between the hunger for jungle triumph and the siren call of family life back home. “Was a little disappointed in Jack for not trying harder but I get the feeling he's ready to go home and see his family,” one fan wrote, channeling the nation’s own armchair psychoanalysis.

While the world outside juggles economic anxieties and AI-powered fridges, inside the camp, personal confessionals are currency. Shona McGarty, still haunted by recent heartbreak, withdrew from a chat about engagements, telling Tom Read Wilson she just couldn’t face it. Rather than force a pep talk, Read Wilson simply assured her, “Sometimes you have to tread water where you are and that will happen. Things right themselves.” Actual empathy, tucked amid all the spectacle. Later, Shona reflected, “When you’re not feeling great, to have Tom in camp is such a blessing. If I wanna open my heart, he gives the best advice.” Funny how, amid half-digested insects and relentless humidity, what stands out is a brief, authentic moment of comfort.

Still, let’s not confuse the odd hug for a lack of rivalry. The former bromance between Angry Ginge and Aitch has curdled into the sort of healthy antagonism that would make today’s pro wrestlers feel right at home. “I don't want to destroy a friend, but I will destroy a rival if that's what we're coming for!” Ginge pronounced, as if auditioning for a spot in the next action franchise. Their face-off in The Pits blended petty sabotage with banter sharp enough to draw blood, with Aitch finally outmaneuvering Ginge to snatch not only food for Doomsville, but also bragging rights—at least until the next challenge reset the scoreboards.

Even love sloshes around the edges of all this chaos. The age-old “which engagement was your favorite” joke made the rounds; Kelly Brook offered, “I’d been engaged about five times before I met my husband!” Meanwhile, Martin Kemp’s recollection of his wife Shirlie nabbing him, collar and all, landed somewhere between romantic comedy and hostage negotiation. Read Wilson closed with a pensive note about marriage not being just about the ritual, but the messy, complicated pursuit of love itself.

That’s the jungle’s strange alchemy: a melting pot where high drama, real vulnerability, and absurd spectacle hoist one another up. Jack Osbourne, sounding momentarily philosophical, put it best: “It’s really nice just to have a quiet camp, and nice to just be mellow with everyone. And actually, I think Ginge really needed this because he’s been getting pretty burnt out on drama camp.” A fleeting détente, at least until the next day’s trial upends the mood once again.

One thing seems inevitable: by tonight, someone will choke down a liquid horror with the texture of swamp runoff, another will spill a raw truth for a primetime audience hungry for both car crash and catharsis, and this strange social experiment will keep lurching forward—one purple-draped, perilous step at a time.

Purple dominates the landscape—less the rich, enigmatic hue Prince once claimed, and more the kind of shade that haunts amusement arcades or garish hotel suites. ITV’s ‘I’m a Celebrity...Get Me Out of Here!’ seems to have gone full Vegas this season, draping winners in violet bedding and letting them sprawl atop velvet logs. The effect? Something between a kitsch nightclub and a children’s birthday party run amok. It’s a stark visual punch compared to Doomsville’s “rock-hard bunk bed” aesthetic, where the losers lie not so much in wait as in a slow-cooked stew of regret. Luxury here isn’t measured in thread count but by the simple pleasure of not having to rest your weary carcass on unfinished plywood after guzzling a suspiciously opaque animal appendage.The producers, clearly restless, decided to resurrect the show’s live Bushtucker trial. Imagine a blender packed with equal parts mayhem, competitive anxiety, and a dash of public embarrassment—blend until lumpy. Ant McPartlin, in a move only slightly less perilous than juggling scorpions, teased, “What could possibly go wrong?” Naturally, plenty.Viewers tuned in, equal parts morbidly entertained and borderline queasy, to behold celebrities squaring off in the sort of head-to-head beverage battles that would frighten off even the hardiest of festival-goers. The formula was straightforward: a coin toss, two loathsome “ingredients” (pig’s bits best left unnamed, fish that smell of low tide, and fruits famous only for how much they resemble bile), and a race to see who could force down their concoction first. “We are live, please mind your language,” Ant deadpanned. Dec, never one to miss the chance for some dry parental ribbing, added, “Not looking at anyone in particular... Ginge! Aitch!”—setting the audience up for the sort of on-air chaos that compliance officers only dream about during sweeps.Some handled it with surprising composure—Lisa Riley set a pace that suggested she’s part liquid disposal unit, while Angry Ginge and Aitch seemed more like reluctant participants at a medical trial gone wrong. Others were visibly less stoic. Vogue Williams lost a round not just physically, but graphically, redecorating the studio floor in the process. The phrase “Splash back,” gleefully supplied by Ant, may haunt dreams for weeks.Immunity, that coveted golden ticket out of public elimination, went to the surviving stomachs of Lisa Riley, Vogue Williams, Jack Osbourne, Ruby Wax, Alex Scott, and Angry Ginge. The rest drifted back to Doomsville—a place where hope is parcelled out with more stinginess than a budget airline meal.And then came the twist. When the latest elimination was revealed, Alex Scott, hailed for her athletic grit and tactical savvy, wound up booted from camp after facing off with Kelly Brook in the viewer vote—a shock both to campmates and to those sitting at home. The scene landed like a stray scorpion in the rice: “It was then revealed that xxxxx would be the first celebrity to leave the jungle, after facing the vote opposite Brook, Jack Osbourne, Ruby Wax, Martin Kemp, rapper Aitch and YouTuber Angryginge,” as the official rundown put it. Immunity in this jungle, oddly enough, works like a charm bracelet—clutch it tight, lest the audience’s affections flip faster than a bushtucker coin.Yet, for every lurid trial or tribal squabble, flickers of actual humanity sneak through. Jack Osbourne’s increasingly enigmatic energy hasn’t gone unnoticed. If internet speculation held weight—doesn’t it always, especially by mid-2025—Jack reads as a man torn between the hunger for jungle triumph and the siren call of family life back home. “Was a little disappointed in Jack for not trying harder but I get the feeling he's ready to go home and see his family,” one fan wrote, channeling the nation’s own armchair psychoanalysis.While the world outside juggles economic anxieties and AI-powered fridges, inside the camp, personal confessionals are currency. Shona McGarty, still haunted by recent heartbreak, withdrew from a chat about engagements, telling Tom Read Wilson she just couldn’t face it. Rather than force a pep talk, Read Wilson simply assured her, “Sometimes you have to tread water where you are and that will happen. Things right themselves.” Actual empathy, tucked amid all the spectacle. Later, Shona reflected, “When you’re not feeling great, to have Tom in camp is such a blessing. If I wanna open my heart, he gives the best advice.” Funny how, amid half-digested insects and relentless humidity, what stands out is a brief, authentic moment of comfort.Still, let’s not confuse the odd hug for a lack of rivalry. The former bromance between Angry Ginge and Aitch has curdled into the sort of healthy antagonism that would make today’s pro wrestlers feel right at home. “I don't want to destroy a friend, but I will destroy a rival if that's what we're coming for!” Ginge pronounced, as if auditioning for a spot in the next action franchise. Their face-off in The Pits blended petty sabotage with banter sharp enough to draw blood, with Aitch finally outmaneuvering Ginge to snatch not only food for Doomsville, but also bragging rights—at least until the next challenge reset the scoreboards.Even love sloshes around the edges of all this chaos. The age-old “which engagement was your favorite” joke made the rounds; Kelly Brook offered, “I’d been engaged about five times before I met my husband!” Meanwhile, Martin Kemp’s recollection of his wife Shirlie nabbing him, collar and all, landed somewhere between romantic comedy and hostage negotiation. Read Wilson closed with a pensive note about marriage not being just about the ritual, but the messy, complicated pursuit of love itself.That’s the jungle’s strange alchemy: a melting pot where high drama, real vulnerability, and absurd spectacle hoist one another up. Jack Osbourne, sounding momentarily philosophical, put it best: “It’s really nice just to have a quiet camp, and nice to just be mellow with everyone. And actually, I think Ginge really needed this because he’s been getting pretty burnt out on drama camp.” A fleeting détente, at least until the next day’s trial upends the mood once again.One thing seems inevitable: by tonight, someone will choke down a liquid horror with the texture of swamp runoff, another will spill a raw truth for a primetime audience hungry for both car crash and catharsis, and this strange social experiment will keep lurching forward—one purple-draped, perilous step at a time.