Christopher Stevens

Warren review

A star as miserable as Victor Meldrew? I don't believe it! Christopher Stevens enjoys Martin Clunes' performance as a tight-fisted, bullying driving instructor on BBC1's Warren.

Stephen Merchant and Asim Chaudhry wallowed in our modern era's campery, as they sent up all the tat of Christmastime in Click And Collect (BBC1).

From the tacky plastic purple unicorn every little girl desired desperately in her stocking, to the blizzard of outdoor lights that could induce epilepsy in a snowman, all the most grating aspects of Yuletide were here.

Throughout most of the hour-long comedy, about two blokes driving across the country to buy the last purple unicorn in stock, Stephen was dressed as an elf. Asim had an illuminated jumper depicting Father Christmas in sunglasses with the slogan 'Banta Claus'.

Despite its cynicism, this wasn't a resentful romp. It even made this old grinch laugh.

Saluting the demented genius of Kenny Everett

Hello, my little passion flowers... my little peeping Toms . . . It's 40 years since madcap DJ Kenny Everett launched his racy Video Show on television, a rapid-fire ragbag of silly voices, pop superstars and filthy jokes.

I'm hooked on gentle joys of Paul and Bob's tales

Both men enjoyed fishing as lads. But it is Paul who really loves sitting in meditative silence beside the water: 'When that float goes under, it's a magical moment and it takes me back to my childhood.'

Taskmaster, which started as a comedy routine at the Edinburgh Fringe, has become the most popular show in Dave's admittedly short and unspectacular history -- such a success that another three series have been commissioned. That's good news for anyone who can't get enough of stand-ups and comic actors creating art with whipped cream or hurling dolls into trees.

It works because the five contestants, who this time include one-liner king Tim Vine and sitcom stalwart Liza Tarbuck, happily submit to the show's sadistic style. Watching them make fools of themselves is quite entertaining: seeing presenter Greg Davies mock and sneer at their efforts can be shamefully funny.

Creator of the concept, and butt of Greg's harshest jibes, is Alex Horne, who also oversees all the tasks. He understands the importance of a rigid format, and each episode follows a precise rhythm. It's possible to gauge almost to the second when he will make a self-conscious quip, or a jangling piano will introduce a clip to introduce the next task.

Eventually the format will become stale, changes will be introduced, and the whole thing will fall apart. For now, we can wallow in telly that manages to be inane, spiteful and hilarious at the same time.

Ultimate Worrier (Dave channel) is stand-up comedian Jon Richardson's attempt to spin a panel game out of life's little niggles.

Guests Suzi Ruffell and Josh Widdicombe joined him to fuss over trivial anxieties: how do cats cope with being bullied by bigger pets, is it possible to own too many underpants, and can creepy toys bought on holiday really be possessed by evil spirits?

Panel shows about nonsense work best when there's an element of competition, and that is lacking here. Jon encouraged his guests to rank their worries as red, amber or soothing green - but really, who cares?

The one segment that concerned me was about dishwashers. Jon claimed he frets when plates and cutlery are loaded incorrectly.

But he urged viewers to arrange the knives and forks with their points upwards. That's lethal -- if you slip while the dishwasher door is open, you'll end up like a pincushion. Now there's a real worry.

A wickedly witty send up but are the Windsors watching?

This Royal Wedding special was bursting with ideas like a box of exploding confetti.

Philomena Cunk, the breath-takingly dim-witted arts and history presenter, ought to do a series on classical music, when she's finished her moronic survey of our island race, in Cunk On Britain (BBC2). That might take some time, since she began with the Big Bang, in an account that promises to travel 'from ancient man to Ed Sheeran'.

Cunk, played with a face as cold and immobile as a side of mutton by Motherland actress Diane Morgan, is a send-up of every self-regarding TV personality who ever recited a script while standing on a windswept cliff-edge and gazing portentiously at the horizon.

'She's like an idiot twin sister,' says Morgan. 'Occasionally she'll get things so right you think maybe she isn't an idiot. Maybe she's a genius.'

The TV in-jokes wear a bit thin. But her malapropisms are hilarious: when she talks about the king of the dinosaurs, 'T'yrannical sawdust rex', or the 'Baywatch tapestry', she's in the great comic tradition of Joyce Grenfell and Dame Edna.

The professors and historians facing her pea-brained questions evidently knew what to expect, and played along. Ronald Hutton and Neil Oliver were trying not to giggle -- but full marks to the lady at the National Archives who talked to Cunk like a weary primary schoolteacher.

No, she explained patiently, the Domesday Book isn't cursed. Perhaps they're used to daft questions at the National Archives.

The new Generation Game is a woeful flop

We can only hope Brucie and Larry were not looking down from Variety Heaven. Mel and Sue turned their flagship into an embarrassing travesty.

David Tynan O'Mahony, better known as Dave Allen, was never worthy. He spent a professional lifetime mocking the Catholic Church that had made his childhood a misery and, though he was in truth a deeply moral man, always managed to look wickedly louche doing it.

Actor Aidan Gillen captured the rhythms of the great comedian's delivery, if not his voice, in Dave Allen At Peace (BBC2), a drama-documentary that explored how the scars of his schooldays, both physical and emotional, shaped his act.

Allen specialised in long monologues with explosive punchlines. This one-off show tried to imitate that, and found it's much harder than it looks.

After an extended set-up, revealing how wee Davey suffered in school ('No good comes from laughing!' shrieked a nun, clipping him about the ear), there wasn't time to say much about his career. One moment he was setting out with his brother as a double act, then he was a solo star 15 years later, drawing barrowloads of complaints on the BBC.

A minute after that, he was a has-been. Yet a long scene was shoe-horned in, with Allen telling a feeble ghost story -- far from his best material.

It was a mystery, too, why so many of the original sketches were remade shot-for-shot. Surely the Seventies footage would have worked just as well. A wicked disappointment.