My dear {{first_name | Faithful}},

In idle moments over the years I have had occasion to contemplate whether, when the bell with my name on it finally tolls, I should opt for the indisputable finality of cremation or the enduring mystique of burial in a coffin. I suppose one unexpected win - and let's face it, there weren't many - from my experience on the greatest television show in modern history is that I now know, and definitively, my answer to that dilemma. 

I never want to go anywhere near a coffin again. 

Dead or alive, for that matter. I suppose the place to begin this reflection is at the end, with the moment that lid slammed, and my heart briefly exited this mortal coil and made forceful contact with the centuries-old ceiling forty, maybe fifty feet above me. But to understand that moment, you do need to wind back a bit, to grasp the astonishing emotional rollercoaster that landed me in that - and sorry to use this word - goddam chapel. 

Nobody wants to be the first out. Nobody. Not me, not you, not Paloma, not Richard, not Maya, nobody. A few weeks before we began filming, I was in Salford for University Challenge. The Traitors team suggested I speak to one or two former Celebrity contestants who could be trusted to keep the cast a secret and who, owing to their connections, were likely to know the participants of this series. Naturally I alighted on Nick Mohammed, who is a friend from university and who, by the way, is in fact even nicer and even cleverer than his brilliant run on the show might have led you to believe.

Nick's first words - genuinely this was the first thing he said to me; ask him if you don't believe me - were: "you've got to psychologically prepare for being the first one out". Nick didn't spill any secrets, but other well-placed sources who I spoke to made me think that one reason he might have said that is that, on a WhatsApp group of the previous Celebrity series contestants, Paloma Faith had recently made her enduring disappointment at being first out known. 

And who can blame her. To be first out would just really, well, suck, wouldn't it? Yes, it can be impactful, and Paloma played a blinder. But I can unhappily confirm it is a terrible fate - albeit not for the reasons commonly thought. Conventional wisdom has it that the worst thing about being first out is the sheer embarrassment. Like, it's just really galling to be a loser, or pathetic to not even last until a proper roundtable. 

This prevailing notion has it that the second worst thing is the loss of screen time. You could have been watched by 10, maybe 12, maybe 15 million people for a dozen hours! You could have created iconic moments played as social media clips and at award ceremonies for years! If you're the first out, think of the missed opportunities for your career!

Yeah, maybe. If you're in the public eye, a raised profile has benefits. But all this genuinely misses the main points. One is that, if you have a family, you want to make them proud. My son Winston, who is 10, has watched both of the first episodes. My girls, who are younger, aren’t allowed to watch their Dad lie down in a coffin that is slammed shut. Not yet anyway. And yes I do feel I let them down. 

The other main point is, if you're the first out, you just miss out on so much fun. To be on Traitors is to participate in one of the more enjoyable experiences our industry, and maybe our species, has yet invented - well, for some people at least. And I'm one of those people. I loved it. I loved the mission, I loved the Highlands, I loved the game, and above all I loved the players.

Imagine my absolute horror, then, when I got called to the MIV room. MIV is 'Master Interview'; it's the special room in the castle where you do those interviews straight down the barrel, from a throne-like chair. I just knew when they called me away that something major was up. Trudging across the gravel of the courtyard - crunch, crunch, crunch - my heart was doing probably 200 beats per minute. 

I opened the door - and there was the inevitable letter. I'd seen this movie before. Not my first rodeo etc. The letter always says the same words... By the Order of the Traitors, You Have Been Murdered... blah blah... 

But what's this? I'm invited to a secret meeting? In the chapel!

My world turned upside down. I cannot deny this, and naturally I feel rather ashamed now, but in an instant I went from agony to ecstasy. From misery to delirium. I seemed to confront a fork in the Highlands road, and having thought utter doom was imminent, elation - and recruitment - suddenly seemed my future. I whooped with joy and glee, utterly thrilled that I had not just received the Golden Ticket - the chance to be in Traitors - but the Deluxe Golden Ticket: the chance... to be a Traitor!

And then... hang on. Come to a secret meeting, the letter said. And what was it Claudia had said at the roundtable? Something about the selection only being complete when they claim their first victim?

My head a complete muddle, I headed to the Chapel. It was cold, and something like the witching hour, when I was let out of the car and asked to wait in front of those wooden doors. 

I want to make clear here how astonishingly tense, and intense, and heightened, and extreme, the emotional turbulence of this experience was. Yes, it's a game, but while you're in the game, a long way from home, in a cold new world, with people you don't know intimately, disconnected from your family, deprived of your phone, the game is your world. 

You're thinking about it every minute of every day, making mental notes, cultivating a Ross Kemp-ish paranoia. Everything just feels so close and powerful, and the quite mesmerising attention to detail by the Production team gives you no option but to immerse yourself in this game of hunt-and-be-hunted. So the stakes could not be higher when those doors open, offering an invitation to... who knows what. 

For as long as I live, I will never forget the sight of James Acaster, bathed in an angelic white light, the contrast with the surrounding gloom of that smoky chapel about as extreme as my eyes could fathom. He had a slightly crumpled manner about him, and that endearing smile. Now that I've seen the Del Boy and Rodney meme, one of the funniest memes ever, I can't unsee it. At the time, I certainly wasn't thinking happy comedic thoughts. 

I did, at first, think he was a Traitor. When he said it wasn't him, and I saw that coffin, I saw the knife edge. That is, I saw two very different futures. One, I wanted more than anything in the world at that moment; the other, I wanted more than anything in the world to avoid. It was all too much, frankly. I felt overwhelmed. Utter exhaustion - and the on-rush of adrenaline. Blood pumping through my veins, I tried to stiffen my resolve. I told myself: you can do this. Just get ready to face your worst fears. 

And then my worst fears walked in. 

I don't know about you, but I've never had anything approaching a negative thought about Claudia Winkleman. She is, evidently, the greatest broadcaster in the English-speaking world, a woman at the height of her powers, who oozes mischief and a seductive aura like nobody on screen anywhere right now. Knowing her a bit, as I do, I can report that she is a lovely person, and one day I will tell you how nice she was when I climbed out of the coffin. 

For now, I must tell you that, if Lucifer himself had ascended from the council of demons and walked toward me, it would not have scared me more than dear Claudia’s brisk gait and nefarious fringe. She was terrifying. James and I genuinely only grasped the task before us in that moment, when she calmly explained it. And then she actually did summon the demons.

Two lanky killers, mysterious and disguised, instantly iconic, hell bent on my death - or was it my second life? - approaching in those olive green cloaks, lanterns before them. The whole thing reeked of gothic horror, except it was real. I cannot in good conscience say that I suspected Maya. As for her fellow murderer, I hope this is never taken out of context or mis-represented, but such were the long shadows on their hands, that I actually thought I descried the darker skin of King Kenny. I managed to convince myself it was King Kenny. 

So though I had suspected dear old Richard, of course, with his Lord of Chaos routine, I was genuinely taken aback to see him rather than Kenny. He was utterly, utterly humourless about the matter, in a way that makes for unforgettable television, of course. Maya had the decency to offer a hundredth of a smile, but she didn't seem very open to my entreaties. I felt it was Richard that I had to convince. And here I encountered a very particular problem.

You see, I spent probably around a third of my early adulthood watching Withnail and I. It is the most mesmerising script of any English film I have seen, and at university me and my mates would watch it over and over and over again, quoting the lines at each other. I've seen it probably two dozen times, including quite recently. I also listened to Richard on Desert Island Discs, one of the great episodes of that show, and found his life to be riveting. 

I had a tactic in the castle of calling him Withnail rather than Richard. It didn't work. I meant this affectionately, but perhaps he took it in a different spirit. He does have very, very intense eyes, and that deep, cadaverous voice, and these features were in full, violent alliance in the chapel. He gave me hell with his stare. 

When we were asked to plead for our lives, I suggested James go first just to buy myself some time. An old ruse - though a fat lot of good it did me. I thought James gave a formidable account of himself. Of course, I wanted to nick his best lines. And I went for the old rule of 3. When in doubt, structure your argument around three pillars. I think mine were a) that I was trusted; b) I've got great relationships; c)... oh some version of (a) and (b). Who knows. I did think as I finished that I had a fighting chance. 

Two of the things that I'm proudest of from my time on the show are as follows. First, I said nice words to James and to the Traitors about my fellow Faithful. Words to the effect that he, James, was a great guy. Second, James and I shared an embrace, or high five, as a moment of genuine mutual respect and affection. That really matters to me. 

You've got to remember: I wasn't there for the later stages, when things got much more hardcore - or so our WhatsApp group and various conversations suggest. I was there at the beginning, when the camaraderie was fantastic, so to have that connection with him means a lot to me. We've shared some lovely messages since. 

Climbing into that coffin was dreadful. Lying in it was infinitely worse. I did catastrophise a bit. Surely this isn't going to happen. Please, please, please let it not be me. Say a prayer, Amol. You still have a chance. This could work out. Oh God, oh no, oh no, what if they choose me. I could see the cameras in the ceiling above. It was very cold in that coffin, very late at night, and I could see the cloaked killers confer. 

Claudia walked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Each time she moved to James’s coffin, delirium. Each time she moved to mine, sheer panic. Terror, Ecstasy, Terror, Ecstasy, Terror, Ecstasy; Delirium, Panic, Delirium, Panic, Delirium, Panic - BANG! 

It’s over.

I'm meant to keep schtum about the things that you can't and don't see on Traitors, and out of deep respect for the team at Studio Lambert (the makers), who do such an astonishing job, I want to behave. I will say that there was - as there has been throughout - just the most wonderful team of caring welfare producers. After I got out of the coffin, they near-serenaded me with lovely chat about the chance to be reunited with my family, and phone, and how well I came across and so forth; and I did hugely appreciate this kindness, even though I don't think I registered much in the next few hours. 

I didn't sleep that night, obviously, my mind and heart racing as never before. I mean that: I actually didn't sleep. In the morning, I composed myself to call my wife, and fell even more in love with her than I already was. 

It's over. 

At the screening of Episode 1, those of us who were there laughed throughout. It is just so funny, this series, with the comedians adding a hilarity the previous series, which was fantastic, lacked. It is my sincere belief that the episode I was in was one of the best episodes of television ever made, anywhere. To be a part of it; to have charged into a glorious loch in a wetsuit in that mission; to have made friends with such special people; to have experienced the magic of the production; to have been part of this cultural phenomenon, and the genius of Studio Lambert, was a privilege I will never forget. 

To go out first was - is - a monumental, inter-galactic bummer. To be that close to being a Traitor - oh man, I would have loved to be a Traitor - is still unbearable. To have been murdered by an unflinching Maya and a cloaked Withnail is horrid. To get the golden ticket, but not even get on the elevator to the first floor, that first roundtable, is miserable. 

I loved the ride, really I did. But if there is a God, I shall never forgive Him. And I don’t fancy being in a chapel any time soon either. I’m heading to a wedding as you read this. Unbelievably, my mate getting married is called… Claudia (not that one!). I might have to skip the ceremony. 

A few weeks ago, I met Richard for lunch, along with a close mutual friend. We had a lovely time, and made up. I asked him why he killed me. 

“To protect myself,” he said, “and that’s a compliment!” 

“But if you really wanted protection, you should have recruited me,” I said. “That would have been a compliment!” 

“Ah yes, that makes sense,” he said. “But I think I just went mad.” 

You can say that again, Withnail mate.

Yours Faithfully,

AMOL