I'm A Celebrity and Reality TV's Duty of Care Problem

I'm A Celebrity and the Duty of Care Problem Reality TV Keeps Avoiding

Craig Charles called what happened in the I'm A Celebrity camp 'deeply traumatic' and accused ITV of failing its duty of care. He's not the first person to say something like this. Won't be the last. The entertainment industry has a welfare problem it keeps dressing up as a production problem.

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When a respected, experienced television professional describes a reality format as 'deeply traumatic' and accuses a major broadcaster of failing its duty of care, that deserves more than a carefully worded statement from a press office.

It deserves an actual conversation. About what duty of care in entertainment even means. Because most productions I've seen? They don't really know.

What the I'm A Celebrity row exposes

Details of what happened between cast members this series aren't really the point. Arguments happen. People under pressure behave in ways they wouldn't otherwise. That's just human.

What matters is what happens around it.

Craig Charles isn't some fragile newcomer to television. He's got decades of experience. When someone like that uses the word 'traumatic' and raises duty of care publicly, it's worth taking seriously rather than managing. What it tells me is the psychological conditions created by the format, and the support available when those conditions produced a crisis, were either not adequate or not used.

Can't know which. I'm not going to speculate.

Doesn't matter how many medics were on site. Doesn't matter how many consent forms got signed. If the environment created conditions for genuine psychological harm, and the mechanisms in place couldn't prevent or properly address that harm, then duty of care failed.

Full stop.

The pressure these formats create is real and it's deliberate

I need to be super clear. This isn't about attacking a format or a broadcaster. There's no point doing that. I'm not here to make enemies.

But it's true that reality television and competitive entertainment formats work precisely because they place people under genuine psychological pressure.

Sleep deprivation. Food restriction. Social confinement. Public humiliation. Loss of control. Constant observation.

These aren't incidental features. They're the mechanism.

It's not dissimilar to being in residential addiction treatment, actually. Or an artist songwriter's retreat. Or being on tour. These pressure cooker conditions bring people to the very edge. In residential treatment, it's often by design, for therapeutic reasons, with trained professionals managing the process.

Would be troubling to think it's by design for reality TV. For entertainment reasons. Without providing equivalent support.

Producers understand the entertainment value of conflict and distress. What I think they consistently underestimate is the psychological risk. This isn't always negligence, I get that. But ignorance isn't a better excuse. Not now. Back in the time of the Gladiators (and I mean ancient Rome not the BBC 90's show now hugely popular again!) contestants would end up dead. It's better now, although there's an uncomfortably large number of reality TV related celebrity deaths every year.

These environments can destabilise people who have pre-existing mental health conditions. Including conditions they may not have disclosed. Or may not even know they have. They can activate trauma responses. Trigger addictive behaviours or relapse in people with substance use histories. Expose vulnerabilities that neither the participant nor the production anticipated.

And they do all of this in a context where the person can't simply leave the situation, go home, call a friend, or take a day to recover.

They're contained. Filmed. Expected to keep performing.

Duty of care isn't a legal checkbox

Every production handling this responsibly will have gone through some version of the same checklist. Pre-participation psychological screening. An on-site welfare officer or medic. A post-show debrief. Access to aftercare.

I've been involved as a consultant and practitioner in these areas. It's good to see when people take it seriously, not as an add on. It makes a massive difference. I've seen it.

But here's the thing.

Duty of care in a high-pressure entertainment environment requires specialist welfare input that understands the specific psychological dynamics of these formats. Not just a therapist who's done a pre-show phone call. Not just a medic watching for physical distress or to pull a cockroach out of someone's nose or ear.

Someone who understands what isolation, humiliation, conflict and public exposure actually do to people.

Who's present. Empowered to intervene when those things start to go wrong.

Someone who understands neurodiversity and the way different people might react to different situations. Who understands how to deal with those reactions empathetically, proactively, effectively.

Someone who recognises the early warning signs of a mental health crisis, an addiction relapse, or a trauma response before it escalates into something the production can't manage.

It also requires a culture on the production side that allows welfare concerns to be raised without them being treated as a problem for the schedule.

That culture is still quite rare.

In most productions, the show comes first. Welfare sits in a support role rather than at the decision-making table. Not always. But I've often been treated as an inconvenience when raising a matter of significant importance. I was once threatened with violence. Another time I was replaced.

That's the structural problem. Until welfare professionals have genuine authority (not just access), duty of care will remain a risk management exercise rather than a genuine commitment.

What I see in my own work

I work with artists, executives, and talent who've been through high-pressure professional environments. Some of them in TV formats. Some after they've come out of television formats. Some have come out of tours, campaigns, or high-stakes business situations with similar dynamics.

There's one consistent pattern.

The crisis that brings someone to me is rarely about the acute incident. It's about what happened before (sometimes years or decades before), during, and after. The moment the cameras stopped, the contracts were fulfilled, and the support structures that were in place, however inadequate, were withdrawn.

Suddenly there's no debrief. No follow-up. No one checking in. A triggered past-trauma is left unchecked. A recent incident is left unresolved or unprocessed. The person is left to process something genuinely difficult, alone, while managing the public fallout as well.

That's when things unravel.

That's mostly when I get called.

Often, the person is dealing with multiple compounding issues. A mental health crisis that was triggered or worsened by the format. An addiction that relapsed under pressure or in the aftermath. Damaged relationships, both personal and professional. Public commentary that feels relentless.

And underneath all of it? A profound sense of having been used and then abandoned.

This is where specialist crisis intervention becomes essential. Not generalised support. Not someone offering a few therapy sessions and hoping for the best. Specialist case management that understands the specific pressures of the entertainment industry, the psychological impact of public scrutiny, and the complex interplay between mental health, addiction, and professional identity.

My work involves stabilising the immediate crisis. Coordinating the right clinical and therapeutic support. Managing the practical and professional fallout. Staying with the person through the longer process of recovery which can take months.

Sometimes longer.

Most shows aren't equipped to manage that period. They're equipped to manage production. When production ends, the welfare obligation is treated as largely discharged.

It's not.

The longer tail of psychological harm

Participants in high-pressure formats carry the consequences long after broadcast ends. Sometimes for years.

The viewing public moves on. The production team moves on. The broadcaster issues a statement if challenged and then moves on.

The person who experienced the trauma doesn't move on that quickly.

They may be managing public commentary about their behaviour, strained relationships with other cast members, damaged professional reputation, and the internal processing of an experience that was genuinely distressing.

All of that lands on them. Largely without support.

This isn't theoretical. The television industry has lost people. It's produced documented cases of lasting psychological harm, addiction relapse, and suicide. The response, broadly speaking, has been to improve screening at the entry point and add a few more aftercare sessions at the exit point.

Neither of those things addresses what happens in the middle.

Or the extended period that follows.

What good welfare provision actually looks like

Good welfare provision in entertainment starts before a participant is confirmed for a format.

It involves a genuine psychological assessment by someone independent of the production, who's empowered to recommend against participation without that recommendation being overridden by casting.

It includes screening for mental health conditions, addiction history, trauma history, and current life stressors that might be exacerbated by the format. Not to exclude people unfairly. To make informed decisions about risk. And to put appropriate support in place if they do participate.

It continues throughout. With a welfare specialist who has real access to participants and real authority to escalate concerns. Not someone who watches the monitors and waits to be asked.

Someone who's checking in proactively. Observing behaviour changes. Intervening early when someone's struggling.

And it doesn't end at wrap.

It includes structured follow-up support, with referral pathways to specialist help if needed, for a meaningful period after broadcast. That means access to addiction services if relapse is a risk. Access to trauma-informed therapy if the format has triggered or worsened PTSD. Access to crisis case management if the person's dealing with multiple compounding issues and needs someone to coordinate care and manage the fallout.

Crucially, it involves people who understand the specific world these participants come from.

An artist or public figure going through a mental health crisis or addiction relapse in the aftermath of a reality format has different needs from a member of the public doing the same thing. Their professional identity, public profile, and relationship with the media are all part of what needs to be understood and supported.

The industry has to decide what it actually believes

Every broadcaster and major production company will tell you they take welfare seriously.

Some of them even mean it.

But the structures they've built don't always reflect that commitment. And when something goes wrong and someone like Craig Charles raises duty of care publicly? The first response is too often reputational management rather than genuine reflection.

The I'm A Celebrity row isn't about one argument in a camp or at the live final.

It's about whether the entertainment industry is willing to hold itself to a standard that matches the psychological risk it routinely asks participants to take on.

That standard isn't unreachable. It just requires welfare to be treated as a genuine professional discipline. With specialist input. Real authority. And a commitment that outlasts the production schedule.

It requires productions to acknowledge that the formats they create can cause genuine psychological harm (including mental health crises and addiction relapses). And to take responsibility for managing that risk properly.

It requires welfare professionals who understand the specific dynamics of entertainment environments. Who have the expertise to intervene in crises. And who are empowered to make decisions that protect participants even when those decisions are inconvenient for production.

And it requires aftercare that doesn't end the moment the show wraps.

Support that stays with participants through the weeks and months that follow. When the public attention is still live but the production has moved on.

Anything less isn't duty of care. It's the appearance of it.

The entertainment industry will continue to put people under extreme psychological pressure because that's what makes these formats work.

That's not going to change.

What can change is whether the industry is prepared to match that pressure with equivalent expertise, support, and accountability.

Craig Charles is right to call this out. And the industry would do well to listen, rather than manage the message and move on. Because the next time this happens (and it will), the outcome could be far worse than a public row.