It has been a year of heartbreak for the BBC and its millions of loyal viewers—a year in which the comforting voices and familiar faces that have long been woven into the fabric of British life have been silenced, one by one. The calendar reads only March, yet already 2025 has proven to be a cruel season of loss, sweeping away some of the broadcaster’s brightest lights in a series of devastating blows. For those who grew up with these stars in their living rooms, or who found solace in their wit, wisdom, and warmth, the news has been nothing short of shattering.
The roll call of the departed reads like a who’s who of broadcasting, entertainment, and quizzing—each name a reminder of the unique magic that only live television and radio can conjure. There is Tony Slattery, the anarchic genius whose improvisational brilliance on Whose Line Is It Anyway? made him a cult hero; Peter Grant, the voice that kept company with thousands across the North East and Yorkshire; Michael Baggott, whose encyclopaedic knowledge of antiques made him a fixture on Flog It; Kerry Wilson, the irrepressible entertainer whose laughter brightened everything from pantomime to prime-time chat shows; Chris Hughes, the Egghead whose quiet mastery of general knowledge inspired a generation of quiz lovers; and, most recently, Emilie Dequenne, the Belgian actress who brought a rare emotional depth to BBC drama before her life was cruelly cut short at just 43.
Each of these losses is a story in itself—a thread in the larger tapestry of British broadcasting, now left frayed and unfinished. And as tributes pour in from colleagues, friends, and fans, one thing becomes painfully clear: the BBC is mourning not just the loss of talent, but the passing of an era.
Take Tony Slattery, for example. To a generation of viewers, Tony was the quicksilver wit at the heart of Whose Line, the man who could conjure a punchline out of thin air and make even the most jaded audience howl with laughter. Yet behind the laughter was a life marked by struggle—a decades-long battle with addiction that Tony faced with a candour and vulnerability rare among celebrities. Just as he seemed poised to reclaim his place in the spotlight, tragedy struck: a heart attack claimed him at 65, leaving friends like Stephen Fry to remember him as “the gentlest, sweetest soul” and “a screamingly funny, deeply talented wit and clown.” The outpouring of grief was immediate and heartfelt, a testament to the affection in which he was held by all who knew him.
Then there was Peter Grant, whose warm, reassuring tones were a daily companion for listeners across the North East. Peter’s career spanned commercial radio and the BBC, his infectious optimism undimmed even as he faced a terminal cancer diagnosis. Colleagues recall his relentless positivity, his refusal to let illness dampen his spirit or his love for the job. Alfie Joey, a fellow broadcaster, spoke for many when he praised Peter’s “relentless optimism” and the way he “stayed upbeat even after being diagnosed with cancer.” For those who tuned in to Magic, Hallam FM, BBC Radio Newcastle, or Tees, Peter was more than a presenter—he was a friend, a confidant, a part of the family.
Michael Baggott’s D3ath, too, left a void in the world of antiques and daytime television. To fans of Flog It, Michael was the go-to expert on British silver, a man whose passion for the past was matched only by his generosity in sharing it. He was, as colleague Nick Hall put it, “a true connoisseur and ambassador of the antiques world,” a man whose encyclopaedic knowledge was always delivered with a twinkle in the eye and a gentle sense of humour. His sudden passing at 51, the result of a heart attack, stunned those who had come to rely on his expertise and his easy charm.
For Kerry Wilson, the stage was both a playground and a sanctuary. Known for her appearances on The Jonathan Ross Show and countless BBC productions, Kerry was a performer in the truest sense of the word—singing, acting, and making people laugh from Stoke-on-Trent to the West End. Her mother Linda described her as someone who “made everybody smile,” and the tributes from friends and fans alike spoke of a woman whose joie de vivre was infectious. Her D3ath at 56, following complications from influenza A that led to pneumonia and sepsis, was as sudden as it was devastating. Family members were at her side as her life support was switched off, her mother left to grapple with a grief that, in her words, was “unreal.”
And then there was Chris Hughes, the Egghead whose quiet brilliance made him a legend among quizzers. Chris was more than just a contestant—he was a champion, a winner of Brain of Britain, Mastermind, and International Mastermind, a man whose love of knowledge was matched only by his humility. Since Eggheads first aired in 2003, Chris had been a constant presence, his calm demeanour and encyclopaedic mind inspiring awe (and, occasionally, terror) in would-be challengers. His D3ath at 77 marked the end of an era for the show, with producer Robert Dean calling him “an amazing Egghead who considered everyone on the production team part of his family.” For fans, his absence will be keenly felt every time the iconic quiz theme tune plays.
Perhaps the most shocking loss of all, however, was that of Emilie Dequenne. Though best known to British audiences for her role in The Missing, Emilie was a star in her native Belgium—a gifted actress whose performances were marked by an emotional honesty that could leave viewers breathless. When news broke on March 17 that she had died of a rare form of cancer at just 43, the reaction was one of disbelief. How could someone so full of life, so luminous on screen, be gone? For those who worked with her, the loss is immeasurable. For fans, her performances remain as a bittersweet reminder of what might have been.
As the BBC and its audience grapple with these losses, there is a sense of collective mourning—a recognition that these men and women were not just colleagues or celebrities, but companions on the long journey of British life. Their voices and faces were constants in a world that is always changing, their presence a source of comfort and continuity. Now, as the credits roll on their remarkable lives, the silence they leave behind is deafening.
Yet even in grief, there is gratitude. Gratitude for the laughter Tony Slattery brought into living rooms across the country, for the warmth of Peter Grant’s voice on a rainy morning, for the joy Kerry Wilson spread wherever she went, for the wisdom Michael Baggott shared with every antique he handled, for the inspiration Chris Hughes gave to every aspiring quizzer, and for the artistry Emilie Dequenne brought to every role. These are not just names on a list—they are memories, moments, and milestones in the story of British broadcasting.
As we look ahead, it is tempting to wonder who will fill the void left by these giants. The truth, of course, is that no one can. Each was unique, irreplaceable, and their loss will be felt for years to come. But perhaps that is as it should be. For in their absence, we are reminded of the power of television and radio to connect us—to make us laugh, to make us think, to make us feel less alone.
So let us raise a glass to the stars we have lost in this tragic year for the BBC. Let us remember them not just for their talent, but for the way they made us feel—seen, heard, and understood. And let us hope that, wherever they are, they know just how much they were loved.
For as long as there are stories to tell and memories to cherish, the lights they lit will never truly go out. And in the hearts of those who watched, listened, and loved, these BBC stars will shine on—forever part of the great, ongoing story of British life.
