There’s something weirdly fascinating about seeing TV presenters in the wild, isn’t there? Like spotting teachers at the supermarket when you’re a kid—that shock of realising they exist outside the box you’ve mentally trapped them in. Last Tuesday, I literally gasped aloud in Pret when I spotted Susanna Reid ordering a flat white in what can only be described as the comfiest-looking grey cashmere joggers I’ve seen in my life. The woman next to me thought I was having some kind of episode.
I’ve spent an embarrassingly large chunk of my career studying what TV personalities wear when they’re not being lit within an inch of their lives under studio lights. Not in a stalkerish way, I promise (mostly). It started five years ago when a friend who works as a runner at ITV let me hang around backstage during a weather presenter conference—yes, that’s a real thing, and yes, it’s exactly as thrillingly mundane as it sounds. What struck me wasn’t the shoptalk about isobars, but the absolute transformation that happened the moment cameras stopped rolling.
Carol Kirkwood, who you’d never see presenting in anything but jewel-toned dresses that could survive a nuclear blast, slipped into a pair of perfectly worn-in Levi’s 501s and a navy cashmere jumper with—I swear on my extensive shoe collection—actual elbow patches. Helen Skelton, who I’d bumped into exactly 17 minutes later in the canteen queue, was wearing what appeared to be hiking boots with a floaty midi dress, looking like she might dash off to climb Scafell Pike between segments.
“Most of us have two completely separate wardrobes,” admitted one presenter who shall remain nameless (because she let me try on her frankly incredible Ganni leather jacket in the toilets, and I respect that level of trust). “There’s broadcast-safe stuff, and then there’s what we actually like wearing.”
Broadcast-safe, if you’re wondering, means no small patterns that strobe on camera, nothing too revealing obviously, colours that work under harsh lighting, and fabrics that won’t make noise with microphone packs. It’s a whole science. Off-duty means… well, whatever the hell they want, which is where it gets interesting.
Over three bottles of suspiciously cheap wine at a launch party last month, I convinced Emma Willis to spill her off-camera style secrets. “Baggy vintage band t-shirts and high-waisted mom jeans, always,” she told me, while we both pretended the canapés weren’t microscopic. “I’ve got about twenty identical pairs of black ankle boots in various states of destruction. My stylist despairs.” When I asked about her immaculately tailored on-screen outfits, she rolled her eyes. “Those blazers come off the second we wrap. I’ve got a hoodie stashed in every dressing room I use.”
Meanwhile, Strictly’s Claudia Winkleman—she of the weaponised fringe and eyeliner that can probably be seen from space—turns out to be a secret loungewear devotee. I spotted her at Waitrose once (the little one on Clifton Road, for any fellow North London creepers) wearing what appeared to be actual pyjama bottoms, Birkenstocks, and a massive puffer that swallowed her whole tiny frame. The eyeliner was still intact though, proving some things are simply constants in an uncertain universe.
The men are just as interesting, perhaps more so because their on-screen options are so limited. Suit, tie, occasional knitwear if they’re feeling particularly revolutionary. But catch Rylan Clark out shopping and you’ll find a man dedicated to black-on-black-on-slightly-different-black, usually accessorised with sunglasses regardless of Britain’s perpetually grey skies. “I’m the exact opposite of my on-screen self,” he told me when I cornered him at a fragrance launch (I promise I’m not as predatory as this sounds). “People expect glitter, they get funeral director.”
Dermot O’Leary, who looks perfectly pressed and proper on Saturday mornings, transforms into what can only be described as a cool English literature teacher on his days off. I’ve seen him twice in my local bookshop wearing the same beaten-up Barbour jacket, selvedge denim that’s been worn into submission, and the kind of sturdy boots that suggest he might suddenly need to herd sheep at a moment’s notice.
It gets even more interesting with the news presenters. These are people who spend their professional lives in such formal attire that you half expect them to sleep in blazers. The reality couldn’t be more different. Huw Edwards—yes, THE Huw Edwards of BBC News at Ten—wears tracksuits. Proper, committed athletic wear. I know this because my cousin’s girlfriend’s brother works at a gym in South London where Huw apparently destroys the rowing machine three times weekly wearing what was described to me as “serious performance gear.” The image of that man discussing global politics one minute and smashing a 2K row the next haunts me in the best possible way.
The weather presenters are perhaps my favourite study in contrasts. Lucy Verasamy, who epitomises sleek professionalism on ITV Weather, turns out to be a dedicated vintage shopper with a collection of 70s prairie dresses that would make Stevie Nicks weep with envy. I discovered this when I literally bumped into her at a flea market in Peckham, causing both of us to drop our respective finds. We ended up having coffee, during which she showed me photos of her most recent discovery—a pristine Gunne Sax dress she’d found for £30 in a charity shop in Bath. “People expect me to be all pencil skirts and court shoes,” she laughed, gesturing down at her perfectly worn Converse. “But this is the real me.”
There’s something both comforting and fascinating about this fashion dichotomy. These people who enter our living rooms looking immaculately put together are, in their natural habitats, just as likely to be nursing a coffee in ancient leggings as the rest of us. Though, to be fair, their “ancient leggings” are probably still Lululemon rather than the Primark specials with mysterious stains that I’m currently sporting as I write this.
I had my most enlightening encounter last summer, when I found myself sharing a train table with Naga Munchetty. It was a Sunday, she was heading north, I was heading south, and we were both engrossed in our books when the inevitable British rail delay struck. Three hours stuck at Peterborough station later, and I not only had a new appreciation for her patience but also her impeccable off-duty style. Loose linen trousers in a deep olive, a simple white t-shirt that somehow hadn’t gone that weird grey colour that all my white t-shirts inevitably turn, and the kind of perfectly minimal gold jewellery that screams “I have excellent taste” without actually screaming at all.
“I started collecting pieces from small designers whenever I travel,” she told me, when I complimented a particularly beautiful ring. “On camera, everything has to be so restrained and not distracting. This is where I get to actually express myself.” We ended up exchanging Instagram handles of favourite jewellery designers before our trains finally sorted themselves out. (If you’re reading this Naga, I did buy that ring from the woman in Edinburgh, and you were right—it goes with everything.)
What fascinates me most about TV presenters’ off-duty style is how it reveals the person behind the autocue. Louise Minchin, who spent years waking up the nation in jewel-toned shift dresses, transforms into a dedicated sports enthusiast in technical gear that could get her through an Ironman competition—which makes sense given that she actually competes in them. Dan Walker apparently has a collection of knitwear that would make any grandad envious. And Davina McCall, when not bouncing around our screens, has a wardrobe full of beautifully cut basics that would make even Jil Sander nod in approval.
The greatest revelation of all? Almost to a person, they’re more comfortable in their off-camera clothes. “I feel like myself in these,” Alex Jones told me once, gesturing to her slouchy jeans and oversized shirt at a charity dog-walking event. “The other stuff is like a uniform. You put it on, do the job, take it off.”
And isn’t that the most relatable thing about these seemingly unrelatable people? They too have work clothes and real clothes. Their work clothes just happen to be scrutinised by millions, while the rest of us only have to impress Janice from Accounts.
So next time you’re wandering through Sainsbury’s on a Sunday afternoon and spot someone who looks vaguely familiar in a beanie and trainers, take a closer look. It might just be the polished news presenter who delivered last night’s headlines about inflation rates, now deliberating between two different types of hummus like the rest of us mere mortals. Just don’t stare too obviously—or do what I did and accidentally follow Robert Peston around Tesco for 20 minutes because I couldn’t quite believe it was him in a Rolling Stones t-shirt and cargo shorts. Not my proudest moment, but in my defence, those shorts were a journalistic revelation that needed documenting.
