dreams

PLUCKED from obscurity and then dropped when fans lose interest, men in reality TV shows often fare worse than their female counterparts.

While women regularly earn a fortune from brand endorsements, the guys can find themselves struggling after they are no longer on our TV screens.

Now the untimely deaths of The Only Way Is Essex cast members Jake Hall and Jordan Wright within a few months of each other has raised fears that ITV is failing in its duty of care for former reality TV stars.

Jake, 35, died last week in a Spanish villa following a night of partying while Jordan, 33 was found dead in a ditch in Thailand in March.

A TV insider told The Sun: “The tragic deaths of Jake and Jordan have raised some serious red flags.

“No one is blaming ITV but there is definitely a pattern which emerges time and time again on all reality shows.

“Measures were put in place a number of years ago but it doesn’t seem to be enough.”

Artist and designer Jake, who joined Towie in 2015, had been living in Spain.

He was found dead in a pool of blood in a villa in Majorca last Wednesday morning after he seemingly crashed through a window.

A police source said witnesses described Jake as “agitated”, possibly from “alcohol and other substances he may have consumed”.

He had a number of struggles in recent years, from losing his fashion brand Prevu to being hit with a restraining order by ex-girlfriend Misse Beqiri, a model and the mother of his eight-year-old daughter River.

Yet right from the start of his telly career, Jake was open about being uncomfortable with fame.

Shortly after his debut on Towie, Jake said on This Morning: “The privacy part has been quite difficult because everyone knows your life within days of being on the show.”

Jordan, from Basildon, Essex, also admitted he struggled with life in the spotlight.

The former firefighter said: “I had an enjoyable career for six years before I resigned to pursue a life in the limelight of reality TV — a choice that left me hugely unfulfilled, stagnant and lost.

“People think it’s glitz and glamour but the truth is very far from public perception.

“I really struggled.

“When I left I lost a huge part of myself and my sense of purpose.”

Jordan returned to firefighting in 2023 but he struggled to settle and in December moved to Thailand where he was looking forward to a “very exciting year ahead”.

He shared his new life with his 21,500 Instagram followers, but in March was found dead face down in a drainage canal on the island of Phuket.

CCTV footage appeared to show Jordan pacing erratically outside a hotel before bolting out of the complex shortly before his body was found.

Unfortunately, the two deaths were not Towie’s first.

In January 2021, Mick Norcross took his own life, aged 57.

The Sugar Hut owner and businessman had joined the show with his son Kirk, who now runs a waste removal business.

Addiction has also taken hold of a number of cast members, including James Argent, who suffered two near-fatal overdoses at home.

Arg’s drug binges cost him his relationship with co-star Lydia Bright, his job on Towie and other high- profile TV work.

Last year he was in trouble after pushing his former Miss Sweden partner Nicoline Artursson down some steps on holiday in Spain.

He admitted an offence of gender violence and was given a six-month prison sentence, suspended for two years.

Jake and Jordan’s deaths sent shockwaves through fans of Towie and its stars.

Charlie King, who was on the show in 2012 and 2013, has faced his own demons since he left the programme but believes his fellow cast members must “take responsibility”.

He told The Sun: “Reality stars in general are seeking something — whether it’s fame, attention or validation.

“It’s a two-way street — stars want to appear on the shows for that lifestyle and experience, and shows need the participants.

“I can’t say Towie gave me the best support when I finished on the show.

“I remember feeling lost and redundant, trying to navigate a life post the show and still having eyes on me.

“It was hard.

“I missed the show deeply and all that came with it.

“I think access to a counsellor or therapy in those first months or years after appearing is always a good idea.

“But I also don’t think it’s fair to point the finger at these shows for how individuals live their lives after — we have to take responsibility.”

Charlie added that producers offer much better support for their on-screen talent these days and that ITV “isn’t afraid to pull out cast members if they think it’s getting too much or they need a breather, which is great to see”.

Following his stint on Towie, Charlie was diagnosed with body dysmorphia and had a botched nose job.

Other lads from the show have also gone under the knife in a quest for perfection.

Bobby Norris is now almost unrecognisable after having a full deep plane facelift, neck lift and lower eyelid surgery.

James Lock has also battled body dysmorphia and says he has spent around £100,000 on getting work done.

On rival ITV show Love Island, telly bosses brought in a revised set of welfare measures in 2021, including “comprehensive” psychological support, after former stars Sophie Gradon and Mike Thalassitis took their own lives.

Their relatives blamed a lack of support from the show for contributing to their mental anguish.

Love Islanders are offered a minimum of eight therapy sessions when they return home.

They also get advice on coping with their finances.

But unlike Love Island, Towie cast members often appear on the show for years at a time.

A number of its former stars, including Yazmin Oukhellou and Tommy Mallet, have praised the support they have received while on the show — but what happens when the cameras stop rolling?

A telly insider revealed: “When women finish on a reality show, brand deals, an influencing career and other avenues are open to them — but it’s very different for men.

“They can get club PAs but that involves late nights and lots of booze.

“Some people like Jake or Tommy launch a career in fashion, but many struggle to achieve the dizzy heights they once enjoyed.”

Women, meanwhile, have made millions off the back of Towie, thanks to very successful business models.

Former glamour model Sam Faiers owns global collagen brand Revive and is worth £9million, and Gemma Collins is now a huge TV star with £7million in the bank.

Lucy Mecklenburgh — famed for throwing drinks on cheating Mario Falcone — now owns a thriving fitness brand and shows off her happy life on social media.

But there have also been a number of male Towie successes too.

Mark Wright landed I’m A Celebrity and Strictly at a time when Z-listers were reportedly banned, as well as enjoying a stint on US TV.

Now a radio DJ, he is married to actress Michelle Keegan, and the couple live in a £3.5million Essex mansion with one-year-old daughter Palma.

Joey Essex also became a huge breakout star.

These days he is worth at least £10millon thanks to a lucrative reality TV career, savvy personal branding and business ventures.

Another success story is Tommy Mallet, who launched luxury footwear and apparel brand Mallet London and more recently Ctrne trainers.

Tommy, Joey and Mark are living up to Towie’s theme tune The Only Way Is Up — and fans will hope there will be more men from the show who enjoy similar success.

ITV was approached for comment but declined.

Sina* is a 28-year-old video editing assistant who fought hard to build a life in Tehran. After completing mandatory military service, he refused to return to his hometown of Neyshabur in eastern Iran, knowing opportunities for a young man with a background in film editing and independent student theatre were bleak there. Through a college friend, he found his footing at a video content creation studio in the capital, climbing from camera assistant to assistant video editor within six months, before losing his job as a result of the US-Israel war on Iran. As told to Arya Farahand. 

It has been a few days since the guns fell silent, and the sliver of hope I felt when the ceasefire was announced is already fading. Out of all the resumes I sent in desperation, only one company called me for an interview. The salary they offered would not cover the bare minimum to survive. My family keeps calling from Neyshabur, repeating the same line: “Come back, there’s work for you here.” What they intend as a lifeline feels like salt in the wound.

I had stopped taking money from my father, my salary grew, and I was buying gifts for my two sisters. I was, for the first time in my life, truly independent. Now, I am sitting in my grandmother’s empty apartment in Tehran, staring at a phone with almost no internet, waiting for a job offer that’s not coming.

This is what the war has done to me. Not a scratch on my body, but everything else – gone.

Croissants on the roof

The morning the war started, we were in a briefing meeting, drinking tea. A colleague had brought fresh croissants. Then we heard the roar of a fighter jet, a whistle, and seconds later, an explosion.

Our initial instinct wasn’t terror, but naive curiosity. Against every survival guide we had read from the previous war, we piled into the elevator and went up to the roof, mugs still in hand. Pillars of smoke were rising across the city. Then, another explosion hit, deafeningly close. We sprinted for the stairs.

Our manager sent us home. The city had seized up. My driver called to say he couldn’t get through the gridlock, so we started walking – 40 minutes under the glaring sun, past stranded people and stalled cars. At one point, a middle-aged driver lost his nerve, swerving into the bus lane against traffic. A bus appeared head-on and deadlocked the lane. Trapped, he looked ready to explode. I didn’t stick around. I just kept walking.

I went to my grandmother’s house. Hard of hearing, she hadn’t heard a single blast and was simply overjoyed to see me. I drank tea, sat in front of the television, tried to process what was happening, then ate lunch and slept.

The city hollowing out

When I woke up, I reached for my phone, only to be reminded that the internet was dead. I am someone who fills every spare moment with online gaming or Instagram. Without either, the boredom was stifling. I couldn’t smoke in front of my grandmother, and the forced abstinence only added to my agitation.

In the days that followed, the city hollowed out. Whenever I stepped into the alley – using a quick errand as a pretext to sneak a cigarette – I saw fewer and fewer people. In our building, only five of the 12 units remained occupied. I could tell by the empty spaces in the parking garage.

When my cigarette supply ran out, the corner shop didn’t have my brand and the supermarket was charging double. With no certainty that my March salary would be paid, I settled for a cheaper, unknown brand. It was like inhaling truck exhaust.

The days blurred: the unemployment anxiety, the stifling boredom, the desperate secret cigarettes. I tried buying VPNs twice. The first worked for a single day. The second – the seller blocked me the moment I transferred the money.

The closest I have come to death

The true nightmare came on the night of March 5. A mild explosion jolted me awake around 4m. I walked to the kitchen for water. Then a blast ripped through the air – a sound seared into my brain for life. I froze. My grandmother stumbled out of her bedroom in terror. I pulled her into the kitchen.

Then came the barrage. More than 10 consecutive explosions, each less than 10 seconds apart. My grandmother sat on the floor beside me, arms wrapped tightly around my leg, head buried. It was the closest I have ever felt to death.

When it finally stopped, the windows held. My grandmother, shaken, recalled how during the Iran-Iraq war, sirens had warned them in time to reach shelters. What she found most painful about this war was the absolute lack of warning – no sirens, no shelters. Just sitting, waiting for the next blast. With tired legs, she climbed back into bed. I did not sleep until morning.

Ten voices in my head

Through all of it, I kept telling myself, “Hold on”. Our manager had hoped this war, like the previous conflict, would end in under two weeks. Whenever my parents called, begging me to return to Neyshabur, I said no.

On March 17, we had our final online meeting. The studio’s debts were mounting, invoices unpaid, and our manager saw no end in sight – for the war or the internet blackout. For the new Iranian year, starting on March 21, only 200 resources staff would remain. The rest of us were laid off, without pay.

As the call ended, it felt like 10 different voices were screaming in my head. I couldn’t rely on my grandmother’s meagre pension. My father was already supporting a family of four. The calculation was merciless: move back to Neyshabur and work at my uncle’s supermarket. Instead of planning how to improve my life, I was plotting survival.

I packed up and left. It was a gruelling 10-hour bus ride through eerily quiet roads. What haunted me most were the final moments in Tehran. The city felt hollow, silent, swallowed by a darkness I had never seen before.

The void

From Neyshabur, I called my manager, hoping against hope. He laid out the brutal math. During the previous war and the December protests, waiting out the shutdowns had been viable. But a relentless year of economic bleeding, capped by this blackout, had driven revenue to zero. Even if the internet were restored tomorrow and we worked nonstop for months, it wouldn’t be enough. The studio hadn’t paused. It had collapsed.

I updated my resume, bought a return bus ticket, and went back to my grandmother’s apartment. There was nothing to go back to. I just needed to feel like I was doing something.

When the ceasefire was announced, I felt a sliver of hope. It lasted about a day.

My life used to be a blur of motion: the studio, independent theatres, cafes with friends, early mornings and late nights. Now, my entire existence has shrunk to four walls. The war has ended, at least for now. The internet remains largely throttled, the economy is in ruins, and the job market that existed before February 28 has not returned with the ceasefire.

Outside, people are beginning to move through the streets again. For them, perhaps, something is resuming. For me, there is nothing to resume.

I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.

*Name changed for security reasons