Ladies and gentlemen, we need to talk about those valiantly attempting to disguise themselves in a Scottish castle under the all-seeing gaze of Claudia Winkleman’s fringe. We must talk about Celebrity Traitors.
I’d heard about this show before, of course, like Bitcoin in 2011 or oat milk in 2019, people kept insisting it was “the future.” But dear reader, I am only now just fully converted.
If you haven’t seen it yet, it’s basically what happens when Cluedo, Love Island and The Hunger Games all share a castle and too much prosecco. I salute it. I fear it. And I absolutely cannot stop watching. Obsessed. Addicted. Hook me up to Claudia’s horse and drag me to the Round Table, because I am all in.
The star, nay, the sun of this medieval fever dream is Alan Carr. The man is chaos in human form, a giggling assassin in oversized glasses. Watching him “blend in” is like watching a Labrador attempt espionage after eating the roast chicken. Subtlety is not on the menu.
When he tiptoed around the castle trying to look inconspicuous, it was pure Basil Fawlty in a trench coat, all elbows and panic. And then came the moment: the touch of doom. A gentle brush of Paloma Faith’s cheek, so tender you half-expected him to whisper “sleep well, angel” before skipping off to confess to the cameras.
Alan’s guilt was Shakespearean. “I’ve murdered one of my best friends,” he moaned, as if mid-way through Hamlet: The Musical. His attempts at subtlety had all the finesse of a reversing lorry, complete with flashing lights and a warning beep. Then a nod, a wink, and a whispered “deed done” to Jonathan Ross, right there in front of everyone. Ross, bless him, froze like a deer in headlights… eyes as wide as saucers, darting left to right as if checking whether they’d been rumbled. Later, he barked “Toughen up!” at Alan, but you could tell he too was cracking up inside.
But the best line of detective reasoning came from Clare Balding, national treasure and secret forensic genius. “Who is the least likely to have killed Paloma?” she mused, brow furrowed. “Her best friend Alan. What better cover?” It was Agatha Christie meets BBC Breakfast.
Alan, darling, you’ve overplayed your hand. If you were going to off someone, it shouldn’t have been your BFF. Apparently that’s Traitors 101. Rookie error. But then again, could it be genius? I honestly can’t tell. Maybe he’s not bumbling at all. Maybe, beneath that sparkle and famous showbiz grin, lurks a razor-sharp assassin in a cashmere cardigan.
Then there was the funeral. Oh, the funeral. Rain falling, choir wailing, Claudia Winkleman on horseback like some gothic Valkyrie of the Highlands. If Downton Abbey had a meltdown and joined RuPaul’s Drag Race, it would look exactly like this. Every frame begged to be turned into a meme.
As the choir sang and the drizzle descended, you could practically hear the BBC lighting team whispering, “Emmy bait. Emmy bait.”
Meanwhile, Kate Garraway, bless her ever-sunny heart, looks utterly doomed. She’s trying so hard to appear trustworthy she’s practically glowing with sincerity. Which, ironically, makes everyone suspect her more. It’s the reverse halo effect: too angelic to survive.
Niko Omilana, the YouTube prince of mischief, got grilled for, and I quote “existing suspiciously.” The man’s only crime was spelling something wrong, which, in this castle, is apparently treason. Honestly, I’m shocked nobody’s accused the coffee machine of being a traitor yet.
So where are we now? One friend murdered, one funeral that out-dazzled Eurovision, and a Round Table showdown so tense you could cut it with Claudia’s eyeliner. The only certainty is that I’ve fallen in love with Alan Carr. He’s definitely both the best and worst liar in the building… a paradox in glasses, a giggling executioner who might just laugh himself into exile.
Long may the chaos reign.
