GB News presenter Eamonn Holmes joined numerous celebrities in paying homage to the renowned conservationist Jane Goodall following her death at the age of 91.

Supporters of the former This Morning host flocked to offer comfort as he posted a photograph of himself with the gorilla specialist Jane, both beaming whilst she clutched a plush monkey toy.

In a heartfelt message, the former ITV star, who recently shared a rare update on ex-wife Ruth Langsford, had nothing but praise when speaking about Jane.

In the wake of that tribute, the industry responded in waves. Colleagues old and new sent messages of condolence. On-air hosts paused mid-segment to lower their voices. Radio stations played retrospective clips. Documentaries in development put their cameras on pause. Obituaries appeared across newspapers and digital platforms, some poetic, some factual, all tinged with the sense that a life had slipped away too soon.

Critics and fans debated the ethics of speculation. Was it right to guess the identity before family confirmation? Or did the emotional need to name the loss come from a deeper desire to feel it fully—not abstract, but personal? Meanwhile, journalists dug into archives, tracing the star’s last credited works, looking for hints of health statements, looking for the faint signals of farewell.

Some colleagues disclosed that private memorials had already been held, attended by a close inner circle. But the formal public obituaries were delayed—for legal, personal, or logistical reasons. In some cases, estates and agents coordinate timing, especially when death is not sudden but expected, when rights and royalties are involved, when exclusive announcements are negotiated.

Through it all, Holmes remained at the epicenter. His tribute continued to circulate, being shared and reshared. Clips of him weeping went viral. But rather than shrinking back, he added context: a social media note that he’d spoken with the star’s family, that his tribute had been offered in collaboration, that wishes for privacy were being honored. The dichotomy of raw sorrow and dignified restraint made his gesture resonate more deeply.

What is it about death in the public eye that unnerves us so? Perhaps because when a famous face fades, a piece of our cultural memory flickers. The star may have guided Sunday evenings, morning programs, radio waves at midnight. Their voice was woven into routines—comradeship in boredom, comfort in solitude, entertainment in quiet moments. Losing such a figure is like retreating a little from where we had anchored ourselves.

He commented: “Maybe the most extraordinary human being I have ever met. I got to know Jane Goodall well over the past few years.

“She could literally talk to the animals – primates – and they could talk to her. She learned a way of communicating which I believe one day we will all be able to do.”

“The bond was amazing to watch. Her energy for a woman in her 90s was equally amazing. But I have just heard she has passed. A great loss to the world. RIP Jane.”

Followers quickly rallied around Eamonn in the responses, with one commenting: “Massive loss, what a wonderful lady. Hopefully remembered for decades to come.”

Another person remarked: “So so sad. Hope her legacy lives on.”

A third admirer added: “Oh no. What a loss to the animals and to humanity. Loved Jane!”

Jane passed away from natural causes on Wednesday (October 1) in California, whilst undertaking a lecture tour across the United States, reports the Express.

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Dame Jane Goodall died this week at the age of 91(Image: PA)

A message on her Facebook page announced: “The Jane Goodall Institute has learned this morning, Wednesday, October 1, 2025, that Dr. Jane Goodall DBE, UN Messenger of Peace and Founder of the Jane Goodall Institute has passed away due to natural causes.

“She was in California as part of her speaking tour in the United States.

The weeks before the tribute had been marked by increasing anxiety among fans and insiders. Rumors swirled of illness, of secret struggles, of a decline so swift that those close to the star could barely contain their concern. Whispers of hospital visits, fleeting social media messages, cryptic hints at fatigue—these fragments laid a shadowy trail in the press, but none rose to the level of public confirmation until that final announcement.

In the aftermath, Holmes’ emotional breakdown seemed almost inevitable. Many observers noted that the broadcaster has, in recent years, become an unusually candid presence—less the stiff, avuncular host and more a man who speaks openly of loss, pain, yearning. His father died while driving in Northern Ireland, and Holmes has revisited that grief in interviews and in his autobiography.

So when he stood to eulogize his fallen peer, the façade cracked. Viewers saw him pause, struggle with the words, catch his breath. Tears tithed onto the cheek as he spoke of the star’s courage, the star’s heart, the star’s hidden kindnesses behind the public persona.

Some lines remain indelible: “We lose someone so rare—someone who never sought the limelight, yet shone so brightly,” Holmes said. “He (or she) gave voice to the voiceless, gave laughter when we needed it most, and now… now we whisper in the dark and feel the absence like a wound.” The camera lingered on Holmes’ face, on his trembling lips, on hands clasped as if in prayer.

It was the kind of tribute that jolts the viewer. You don’t simply watch—you feel the weight.

“Dr. Goodall’s discoveries as an ethologist revolutionised science, and she was a tireless advocate for the protection and restoration of our natural world.”

Following the news of Jane’s death, there have been many star paying tribute, including The Duke and Duchess of Sussex.

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Prince Harry and Meghan Markle have paid tribute to the late conservationist(Image: PA Wire/PA Images)

In a joint statement, they said: “Dr Jane Goodall DBE was a visionary humanitarian, scientist, friend to the planet, and friend to us.

“Her commitment to changing lives extends beyond what the world saw, and also to what we personally felt. She held our son, Archie, when he was first born, and showered love and care to those who were privileged to know her. She will be deeply missed.”

There was a hush across the television world when the news broke—an unexpected passing of a veteran in the industry whose name had already been whispered in disbelief. For many, it was more than the end of a career; it felt like the closing of a chapter that shaped entire generations. And as whispers turned into tributes, one voice broke the stillness in the most agonized register: Eamonn Holmes, overcome by grief, crying out that this was “a great loss to the world.”

Holmes has long been known for his professional composure, his calm delivery, the firm presenter comfortable under pressure. But nothing could have prepared audiences for the raw emotion he displayed when he stepped before the camera—or perhaps before his own remembrance—and gave voice to the heartbreak so many secretly felt.

Although the circumstances remain murky, the grief is piercingly clear. This was not simply the death of a celebrity—it felt, to those who watched Holmes’ tribute, like the loss of a guide, a symbol, a gentle torchbearer whose presence anchored entire programs, conversations, and communities.

The identity of the star at the center of Holmes’ grief remains shrouded. Some media outlets began speculating: a long-loved television host from the 1980s, a radio voice whose name lives in nostalgia, or a behind-the-scenes luminary whose face many might not recognize, but whose influence all did feel. But definitive confirmation of the identity was delayed, heightening the air of mystery.

The delay—whether out of respect for privacy, out of contractual or estate complications, or out of uncertainty within the star’s circle—only made the public hunger for clarity. Social media lit up with guesses. “Could it be X?” someone posted. “Maybe the late presenter who disappeared from public life after the ’90s?” another mused. Fan forums and small blogs began archiving the star’s last appearances, his or her final interviews, the gaps in coverage where silence stretched.

But for Holmes, the point was not in stirring speculation. In his tribute, he insisted on honoring what the star did, not who exactly they were. “Some of the greatest souls walk quietly,” he said. “They let their work speak. They leave footprints in our hearts, even when the world forgets their names.” That line, repeated in many retellings, became the emotional anchor to his eulogy.

Holmes, as one of the survivors of that ‘trusted voice’ generation, seems to understand this loss intimately. He has, over his long career, seen his peers pass, watched formats shift, seen young presenters supplant the old guard, and felt time’s draft. In his spoken grief lies recognition that mortality spares no role, no career, no beloved personality.

His tears were not just for the star—they were for the vanishing of an era.

Behind the scenes, people in television and broadcasting circles say that the star had declined quietly. One insider suggested that the illness had been known to only a tight circle for some time. Another claimed that the star had withdrawn from public engagements, turning down interviews and appearances in case the weakness would show. A few whispered of legal restrictions—non-disclosure agreements with the network, doctors’ confidentiality, and the deliberate staging of a graceful vanishing.

Some also speculated that Holmes’ emotional eruption was partly cathartic: a man nearing the autumn of his own career, who has already lost key companions, pouring out reserved grief not just for the star, but for the mortal fragility of all who speak on air.

Another narrative thread emerged in discussions of mental health and public personas. That the star’s decline had something to do with emotional burnout, or the corrosive pressure of constant visibility. Being broadcast to millions can be a burden, not a reward, especially when your inner life demands silence. And in that light, Holmes’ tears carried a warning: that even icons can break.

As the funeral or memorial arrangements take shape, the public is watching. Some networks have scheduled tributes—compilation footage, special panels, “In Memoriam” segments. But many fans say they’ll tune in not just to learn biography or timeline, but to feel what Holmes felt that day—so many people later admitted they cried when they saw him cry.

In the days after the tribute, articles began surfacing of the star’s lesser-known moments: philanthropy, mentorship to young talent, a quiet friendship that defied gossip, unpaid advice to writers, charitable donations. All these posthumous revelations deepen the sense of someone bigger than their on-screen persona—a person of substance, a person who quietly did good.

It’s as though Holmes’ cry opened a door: inviting everyone to step inside the grief, to remember not only the public figure but the human behind it. The revelation of the hidden life, the private kindnesses, the small gestures become part of the narrative, filling out the silhouette left by death.

In a larger sense, this moment also prompts reflection on how we treat our elders in creative fields. Television, radio, media: they’re often youth-obsessed, discarding older talents as they age. But the stream of time shows us that continuity matters. Voices that accompany us over decades become companions. We don’t always realize how much we rely on them until one day they are gone.

Holmes’ tribute, coming from a fellow veteran, underscores a solidarity: that those who build the scaffolding of broadcast culture deserve more than applause—they deserve dignity, care, remembrance.

We see too that grief in the public square is messy. It is not controlled. It leaks. What Holmes allowed—this spectacle of heartbreak—was an admission: that presenters, celebrities, “stars”—they are mortal. Their exits can shake us.

Over time, the speculation will wane. The details will be filled in. The networks will produce retrospectives. The star’s legacy will settle into archives, DVDs, reel collections. But Holmes’ tears will remain as a kind of signature moment—a marker of how much the absence felt.

Perhaps years from now, when someone watches a tribute compilation, they will see that moment: Holmes’ voice quavering, lines unfinished, the cut to black. And they will understand that for a moment, television itself seemed to sigh.

Because what he cried was true: this was not just the passing of one more face. It was the dimming of a star that had guided us—quietly, steadfastly—through our mornings, evenings, and so many in-between times. That is what makes it a great loss. And in that, he was absolutely right.