Two faces of British reality TV, Spencer Matthews and Jamie Laing, finally laid their years-long feud to rest during a quiet podcast recording in London on October 28, 2025. No red carpet. No Instagram post. Just two men, 35 and 36, sitting in a studio, saying what they’d avoided for over two years. The rift? It started with a wedding invite—then exploded over silence during a 150-mile ultramarathon that raised exactly £2,053,835 for BBC Children in Need and Comic Relief Limited. And the silence? It wasn’t just awkward. It felt personal.
Back in 2023, Jamie Laing married Sophie Habboo in a private ceremony in Gloucestershire. The guest list was small. But one name was glaringly absent: Spencer Matthews. The two had been inseparable since their early days on Made in Chelsea. Fans assumed it was a falling out. Laing didn’t say anything publicly. Matthews didn’t explain. The silence spoke louder than any argument.
Turns out, the real trigger came earlier: Matthews had declined an invitation to Laing’s stag do. "You saw it as insulting," Matthews later admitted on his podcast Untapped. "And I didn’t think it meant anything." That tiny disconnect festered. Laing, already nervous about the wedding, took it as rejection. Matthews, ever the pragmatist, didn’t see the drama. And that’s how friendships die—not with a bang, but with a shrug.
Fast forward to March 2025. Laing, co-founder of Bear Candy and host of What’s For Dinner?, ran 150 miles across England over five grueling days. He finished at the finish line in Manchester on March 15, 2025. The event was organized by the BBC as part of a charity push for Comic Relief, the UK’s iconic entertainment-driven charity founded in 1985.
Laing expected at least a text. A post. A single word of support. He got nothing. Not from Matthews. Not even a DM.
But someone else showed up: Ollie Proudlock, another Made in Chelsea alum and fashion entrepreneur. Laing had no idea he was coming. "I saw Ollie," Laing said during the reconciliation. "And it hurt more because you didn’t. If he could make it, why couldn’t you?"
Matthews’ response? "I wasn’t invited."
And here’s the twist: Laing hadn’t invited anyone. The BBC had organized the finish line gathering. Proudlock showed up on his own. Matthews, who lives in London and runs a business called Dirty Martinis, assumed he’d need an official invitation to attend. "Had I come," he said, "I wouldn’t have just driven to Manchester hoping to see you. I’d have needed to know you wanted me there."
The reconciliation didn’t happen on a talk show. It didn’t happen in a tabloid. It happened in a quiet studio, during the recording of Matthews’ podcast Untapped. No cameras. No publicists. Just honesty.
Laing admitted he’d been selfish. "I was at a point where I didn’t want to be around people who made me feel uncomfortable," he said. "And you were trying to protect yourself. We were both just… lost."
Matthews didn’t offer excuses. He offered understanding. "We lost touch," he said. "And then we let everyone else fill in the blanks."
And that was the real problem—not the wedding, not the run. It was the story everyone else started telling. Media outlets like Cosmopolitan UK and Poole Motorcycles turned a private misunderstanding into a public spectacle. Fans took sides. Memes spread. The truth? They just stopped talking.
This isn’t just about two celebrities. It’s about how we treat friendship in the age of social media. We expect public gestures to replace private conversations. We assume silence means betrayal. We read into absences like they’re declarations of war.
Laing raised over £2 million for children’s charities. He didn’t need a post from Matthews to validate that. But he needed to know he wasn’t alone. And when the person who once knew him best didn’t show up—physically or digitally—it felt like abandonment.
Matthews, meanwhile, wasn’t trying to snub him. He was just… out of sync. The same way people drift after college. After moving cities. After life changes. The difference? Their lives are watched by millions. So every silence becomes a headline.
Both men say they’re open to rebuilding. No grand plans. No joint podcast yet. But Laing mentioned, "I’d like to grab a coffee. Just us." Matthews nodded. "I’d like that too."
There’s no pressure. No timeline. Just the quiet hope that two men who once shared a bedroom on a reality show can find their way back—not as TV characters, but as friends.
And maybe that’s the real win here: not the money raised, not the miles run, but the willingness to say, "I’m sorry I didn’t ask. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. Let’s start again."
Matthews declined the invitation to Laing’s stag do earlier that year and didn’t consider it a major issue. He assumed the wedding invitation was casual, not formal, and never received a direct request to attend. Laing, however, interpreted the stag do rejection as a personal slight, which led to Matthews’ absence being seen as a snub—even though Matthews had no intention of causing offense.
Laing raised exactly £2,053,835 for BBC Children in Need and Comic Relief Limited, according to official records from Poole Motorcycles. Cosmopolitan UK reported the amount as "over £2,053,835," with the majority attributed to Comic Relief, which is headquartered in London and has supported vulnerable children and communities since 1985.
No, Ollie Proudlock was not invited. The finish line event in Manchester was organized by the BBC as part of the charity campaign. Proudlock showed up spontaneously, which made his presence even more meaningful to Laing—and more painful by contrast, since Matthews, who had been close to Laing for over a decade, did not appear at all.
No, the BBC did not invite any specific individuals to the finish line. They managed logistics for the public event, but attendance was open. Matthews clarified he didn’t assume he could just show up unannounced, especially given the strained relationship. He believed an invitation from Laing himself would have been necessary—and since none came, he stayed away.
Social media amplified every silence. Fans noticed Matthews’ lack of posts during Laing’s ultramarathon and assumed hostility. Meanwhile, Laing’s emotional posts about the run went viral, making Matthews’ absence feel intentional. Neither man posted about the rift—but the internet filled the gap with speculation, turning a private misunderstanding into a public drama that lasted over two years.
There are no official plans, but both have hinted at openness. Laing said he’d "like to grab a coffee," and Matthews echoed that sentiment. Given their shared history on Made in Chelsea and their current podcast ventures, a joint appearance—whether on Untapped, What’s For Dinner?, or even a reunion special—is now possible. But for now, they’re taking it slow: one conversation at a time.