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‘Why is it always me? I’ve always got to do the dirty work for these traitors. I’m surprised they haven’t got me up in that turret with a hoover!” Yes, it is always you, Alan Carr. And most people watching The Celebrity Traitors wouldn’t have it any other way. But even aside from observing Carr’s ascent to national treasure status, The Celebrity Traitors has felt like a timely national bonding experience from start to finish. Elon Musk is adamant that civil war in the UK is inevitable. Sorry, Elon, but not during The Celebrity Traitors it isn’t. We’re all too busy watching Celia Imrie screech into a well.
So what have we learned? The Celebrity Traitors has, of course, been a very different experience from its civilian iteration. On the most basic level, it has felt easier to pick a favourite and root for them. And, while £100,000 is a lot of money to someone on the national median wage, it’s pocket change to the likes of Stephen Fry and Jonathan Ross. Of course, the celebrity winner(s) aren’t getting the dosh anyway, with the winnings going to charity – but in any case, there has been a strong sense that this has been entirely about the fun parlour game rather than the winning.
Initially, this lack of jeopardy – plus the fact that most of these people already knew, or at least knew of, each other – made the roundtables somewhat frustrating. No one, more’s the pity, pretended to be Welsh. No one hid their real occupation, because how could they? Admitting to being an actor in the normie Traitors would be a death wish. Here, you couldn’t move for luvvies. There was no ganging up, no confrontation, barely any real intent at all. “We like each other too much,” said David Olusoga, at one point. “This has been our weakness.”
Accordingly, while stars have been born (hello, Cat Burns), pre-existing celebrity hierarchies have, without doubt, spilled over into the game. There was much talk about unconscious racial bias when Niko Omilana and Tameka Empson were the first two celebrities to be banished. But arguably a likelier explanation was that they simply weren’t famous enough. After all, it’s easier to launch a witch-hunt against some prankster bloke from YouTube than against National Treasure and Designated Genius Stephen Fry.
This, however, has become less of a problem as the game has gone on. There’s been a realisation that no one is ever really that honest with most of these people – and particularly not in public. Therefore, while the air of unforced and genuine conviviality has been a vicarious pleasure, the mildly catty moments – such as Carr’s muttered “Yabba dabba don’t!” when Jonathan Ross rocked up at breakfast seemingly dressed as Fred Flintstone – have been genuinely cherishable; the sound of bubbles gently popped.
The sheer ineptitude on display has been staggering – and oddly endearing. In this celebrity version of the show, it’s become clear that overt analytical intelligence won’t get anyone very far. David Olusoga’s torturous circular monologues have been so consistently misguided that you actually began to retrospectively doubt the veracity of his highly regarded documentaries (imagine overthinking things to the point that you’re left suspecting the most obviously faithful faithful in Traitors history, Nick Mohammed). Stephen Fry generally hemmed and hawed like Bagpuss’s Professor Yaffle before eventually nominating David Olusoga again. And Kate Garraway – a literal news journalist, lest we forget – frequently blundered around like someone trying to burst a birthday piñata during a bomb disposal operation. “Kate Garraway repeating things” has become something of a meme since the show began.
In the absence of anything of use from the show’s much-vaunted brains trust, it’s been left to a rugby player to get things done. This too, has been revealing. For all of his charm, there is, you suspect, very little air-kissing and insincere flattery in Joe Marler’s world, and that’s been his greatest asset. He’s come from a different professional arena to anyone else on the show: an unsentimental place of teamwork, mutual accountability, hard knocks and intense competitiveness. He’s probably the only faithful who has truly treated The Celebrity Traitors like a game and winning as the objective.
But really, the fun has been in the taking part – which isn’t something any professional sportsperson worth their salt would say. At times, the series has felt like a series of subliminal extended interviews – the sneakiest, cleverest chatshow imaginable. We’ve learned more about the underlying characters of these people from sitting and watching them eating lasagne and gossiping together than from a career’s-worth of magazine profiles. The era of the reality show as a celebrity-hazing ritual was dying anyway. But The Celebrity Traitors feels like another nail in its coffin.
Given the certainty that similarly impressive names will be clamouring to appear on the next edition, the biggest problem for the producers will be selection. The balance here – between young and old, between familiar and up-and-coming, between sensible and silly – has been perfect. The civilian series have suggested it, but the celebrity version has confirmed it: this is one of the most immaculate small-screen entertainment formats ever devised. Parting, as kindred spirits Alan Carr and William Shakespeare would say, will be such sweet sorrow.
The Celebrity Traitors final is on Thursday on BBC One at 9pm.
