Alice-Azania Jarvis

I saw Hugh Dennis once, carrying an enormous backpack and walking down Regent Street a few days before Christmas. Actually, I had to check to see if there were cameras following him, so much like his Outnumbered character, flustered dad-of-three Pete, did he appear. I think he caught my gawping, because he pulled that face he does on Mock the Week - lip curled, eyebrow up, face deadpan - so I looked away. Still don't know if there were cameras.

I get the impression this happens a lot. Because, after all, Outnumbered is a lot like real life. It's not the script that does it - that's good, though, like any of these two point four children sitcoms, a little cheesy too. No, it's the children. They don't seem to be acting at all. Take last night, when they thought they'd won half a million pounds from Reader's Digest. "We can buy school and close it down!" yelled Ben. "We could save the polar bears!" yelled Karen. On and on they went with their shopping list. Were they making it up as they went along? That's what it looked like. It's a little frightening, really. Children, I mean. They're monstrous, aren't they? Monstrous but also quite funny, especially for those of us who don't have them for real. It's a form of war tourism: look how Karen makes her granny squirm with her questions about weight! Isn't it awful? Thank god I don't have one. Phew.

Based on an (apparently) successful US model, the UK version of A Comedy Roast sees a parade of utterly uninteresting "celebrities", faux-insulted by a panel of comedians in a kind of This Is Your Life for the Big Brother generation.

Anyway, last night was Sharon Osbourne's turn. Presumably, her casting had more to do with her availability than her suitability; there can be little other explanation. No one, bar no one, needs to hear another word about her, even if it is from the pleasingly snarled lips of Jack Dee.

It's a shame, really, since some of the gags weren't bad at all. Patrick Kielty gave a particularly enjoyable turn. Who knew he could be so vicious? Even Gok Wan, who surely ranks close to Sharon Osbourne in the overexposure stakes, was pretty good. No, the problem isn't the jokes. It's their subject.

Given the level of venom each episode's victims have to tolerate, it seems unlikely that the show would attract anyone but the desperate or the egotistical. Both of which, frankly, I could do without.

Rob Brydon's love affair with knee-highs continues. The Welsh comedian, whose choice of long socks has become somewhat legendary thanks to a recent appearance on the BBC panel show QI, kindly flashed his hosiery at Pandora's request during the after-show drinks at Tuesday's South Bank Show Awards. "Ronnie Corbett introduced me to them," he explained, not at all sheepishly. Corbett, also present, confirms this account. Gents, take note.

I know, I know, television institution and that. But did he really need to make a comeback? It's not Rab himself that's the problem. Gregor Fisher, still in string vest and suit, is just as beguiling as the lazy, lovable drunken Rab. But it's like watching Robert Lindsay in My Family. Yes, he's good. But what about the rest of them?

Last night saw Rab and Mary welcome (if that's the word) their son Gash back to the home after a prolonged stint in a mental institution. Gash, meanwhile, gets to know his daughter, the foul-mouthed, chocolate-pizza-munching Peaches. Aside from that, not much happened, though Rab did manage to leave us with a rather wonderful little truism on romance: "The dreaded R Word! That's the worst thing a woman can give a man - respect!" he told his bemused wife. "You respect Vince Cable, you respect Alex Salmond... but you'd drop your draws for Daniel Craig."

I'm not convinced by the BBC's new fashion comedy drama, Material Girl. After the first five minutes, I thought I was - convinced it was hopelessly, unsalvageable, awful, that is - though by the end, I'd had a slight change of heart. Seemingly a sort of low-budget British version of Ugly Betty, it offers none of the attractions it should: no wit, no glamour, and absolutely no plausibility.

We started with a frenetic backstage scene at a fashion show. The characters were introduced to us one by one, each as subtle as a crude joke: Ali Redcliffe, the goody two-shoes designer heroine; Marco, the suave straight guy, GQ by way of Next; Davina Bailey, the posh, bitch Grande Dame (played by the fabulous Dervla Kirwan); and Alex, Ali's bow-tied gay best friend. The most peculiar of all is Mitchell, a trilby-glad omnisexual fashion journalist who says things like "les balls, c'est boring" all the while wearing a horrendously dadsy scarf.

The plot is similarly flimsy; good girl Ali loses job and bad girl Davina's, but is rescued by an investment from mysterious Marco, allowing her to set up her own label. While Davina chases superficial celebs to endorse her label, Ali goes for the underdog. Ahhhhh. Along the way, she meets a hunky boy, prompting lots of Bridget Jones-esque angst.

Really, it has very little at all to recommend it, except, that is, strong performances from all the lead roles. And, against all better judgement, I found myself sticking to it. Will I watch it again? Probably not on purpose. But if I happen to tune in by accident, I might just stay there. Guiltily.

Speaking of countdowns: what exactly was going on with Alan Carr: Chatty Man New Year's Special, seemingly the only other New Year's programme that broadcasters were willing to make available in time to review? It was not, in itself, a particularly unusual choice of New Year's Eve scheduling, what with Jools Holland and Graham Norton doing the honours on BBC1 and BBC2, it only seemed right that an equally popular host was chosen for Channel 4. What is rather peculiar is the fact that last night wasn't in fact, the first time the programme had aired. It rang in the New Year on the 29th as well. Still, those forced to watch it twice could have fared worse. Carr's always a charming host, and the slightly random theme of a 1980s party (was it all to coincide with Spandau Ballet's appearance?) made it feel, if nothing else, rather festive. Still, with jokes like these ("It's all right being Dr Who but Dr Who?") perhaps a slightly longer break between airings might have been helpful.

Speaking of blame: E4's had a bit of kicking of late. It's vapid, say the critics. Featherweight TV. And perhaps it is - but then what's so wrong with that? It's entertainment. This was the defence launched by controller Angela Jain in this paper on Monday. And I couldn't agree more. TV's for fun. At any rate, there's a lot more than vapidity to the channel's current teen comedy Misfits.

Things have become considerably more sinister within the group of magically powered community service teens since I last tuned it, though it was just as packed with quirky scenarios and witty one-liners. Poor old Simon's online rapport with "Shygirl18" is little more than a farce; in reality, Shygirl is his probation officer, Sally, who suspects the group of killing her colleague (and boyfriend) Tony. Meanwhile, good boy Curtis has been cheating on his long-term girlfriend with party girl Alisha. He has tried, repeatedly, to break up with the girlfriend but his "superpower" - which rewinds time every time he feels regret - keeps undoing his dirty work for him. Last night, he eventually finished it by forcing her to get angry with him. Without the tears, there was no regret. And it looks like Nathan might have cottoned on to his superpower. After accidentally sleeping with an elderly lady who appeared young in his eyes in episode two, he started hearing babies crying everywhere he went. Dare we speculate it's something to do with eternal youth?

I can see why people like Gavin & Stacey, I really can. It's warm. It's cuddly. It's the celluloid equivalent of on a mug of tea and a slab of Dairy Milk. And it really is all of those things - Joanna Page, who plays Stacey is cute as a button, just Bridget-Jonesy enough for us empathise with, the type of lass any well-brought-up young girl would want to be friends with. And Mat Horne (Gavin) is, for want of a better word, fit. In a safe way. And well dressed, with the not-at-all-bad-looking Page as his girlfriend, so mothers like him and men have a degree of grudging respect for him. And then there's James Corden, who plays Gavin's best mate, Smithy, and everyone knows that James Corden's lovely. So yes: as Bob Hope would say, what's not to like?

Except, erm, I'm afraid I don't. Like it, that is. I like Ruth Jones, aka the indomitable Nessa, fag-smoking, drink-swilling best friend of - inexplicably - Stacey. But that's all. At least Nessa's funny, a quality which, it's worth pointing out, is rather useful when it comes to a comedy show. But apart from her, I can't fathom one of them. Not even Bryn, played with aplomb by Rob Brydon. He's too nice. Far, far too nice. They all are. The whole thing is. It's so nice, you cease to care. It becomes... elevator music.

But anyway, what do I know? Clearly, nothing. Seven million people watched the Christmas special last year, and seven million can't be wrong. Can they? Anyway, last night was the start of the third (and last) series, which saw Gavin settling into his new job in Barry, while the Essex crowd geared up for the christening of Smithy and Nessa's baby, named - wait for it - Neil Noel Edmond Smith. One of the few laugh-out loud jokes of the episode. Any Gavin & Stacey fan would have been thrilled, I'm sure. All the usual bumf was there: Stacey freaking out over an article she's read in Psychologies magazine, Bryn popping his head through Gavin's office window, Smithy ordering enough food for an entire army. Me? Well, like I said. Elevator music. Pleasant enough, no plans to buy the album.

More youthful dynamism over on E4, where a group of precocious teens display their blossoming talent in a new sketch-show, School of Comedy. Presumably, this is what David Walliams was like as a youngster. Annoying. And not that funny (no change there, then). To give the kids their due, not all of the attempted sketches were terrible. Indeed, the opening one, set in a primary school parent-teacher meeting, had me laughing out loud, as did the barrister who won over his jury by hypnosis. The problems come when they returned to the same set up for a second (and, sometimes, a third sketch). Hypnosis is funny. Not so much when he got out the Ouija board and even less so when Barry Manilow came out. You forgive them because they're only kids after all - and even at their worst they're still funny in an aren't-they-cute-in-the-school-play kind of way. But then, hang on, you think: what exactly are they doing on my telly? Especially at 10 o'clock at night. Someone, somewhere has some very powerful parents.

This week was a particularly dark episode, properly creepy. Turns out Mr Jolly did take Mr Jelly's right hand - in his former life as a surgeon. He amputated it at the wrist and then stole Mr Jelly's box of tricks (as it were), nicking his spot as a children's entertainer. Even more exciting, we finally found out what connects the characters. Well, sort of: taking the place of the mysterious notes they've been receiving was a video of what appeared to be some kind of mental institution: the millionaire who sold his eyes for a toy on eBay, the nurse who thinks her doll is a real child, the murderous mother and son, the lot, all engaging in some kind of strait-jacket exercise class: Breath in, breath out, and relax... Brrrr, creepy.