David Stubbs (II)

To the near-universal bewilderment and depression of TV critics who must feel that their job is a futile one, Life of Riley returns for a third series and a run of eight episodes. The sort of sitcom you'd rather hoped they'd ceased to produce in this more naturalistic age, it sees Caroline Quentin and Neil Dudgeon preside over their combined brood of sons and daughters of varying ages and do battle with their neighbours, with substantially less than hilarious consequences. Tonight, Maddy braces herself to meet her mother's new boyfriend.

The finale of a series that's a bit broad and overdone but fills a scheduling hole amiably enough. Tonight, transvestite Les (a good turn from Tim Healy) discovers some of Donald's clothing at a nudist beach, but no Donald, who has left a note for Jacqueline. Madge is about to open her new bar, the aptly and exotically titled Batley Arms. Hilarity of sorts results from a family trip to a theme park, while Pauline, tensely awaiting news of her divorce, decides to ease matters with a drink. Same time next year, one supposes.

Set in the fictional Kirke University and revolving around the lives of members of staff, Campus was first shown as a pilot on C4 in 2009. It was greenlit for a full series and the result is a car crash. Among the writers are some of the team who worked on Green Wing and there are certainly flecks of comedy pedigree. But the maniacally ambitious vice-chancellor Jonty de Wolfe is a hopelessly misfiring caricature. Not having a laugh track is no guarantee of naturalism and there's barely an ounce of plausibility in Campus.

Much has been made of Frank Skinner's "rehabilitation" as a thoughtful talking head, as opposed to the New Lad icon of Fantasy Football, but he was never really that boorish back in the 1990s, and he's by no means so earnestly highbrow nowadays. Few details available, but this six-part run is set to follow the same format as the last, in which Skinner and guest comedians interact with audience members to ruminate amusingly, whimsically and often sharply on the detritus thrown up by current affairs.

Among the new arrivals this week are dear old Noreen, better known as Geoff's Mum before Johnny Vegas left the series. Tonight, she has in tow the obnoxious Pauline, whose accent has been mangled by residencies in South Africa and then Saudi Arabia. Meanwhile, Nick breaks the awkward silence with Madge concerning her current plight, and a not very plausible ginger-haired halfwit continues to pursue the ladies. It's not exactly Alan Bennett, but it proceeds amiably enough from one well-worn double entendre to the next - and Tim Healy's transvestite barman alone banishes the temptation to channel-hop.

This might look like yet another excuse to wallow in light entertainment's golden era and be reminded once again of Eric & Ernie, Frankie Howerd et al. But while a dire clip of Max Miller may make you wonder quite how golden this era actually was, this is largely wonderful stuff, rich with anecdotes told by veteran showbiz raconteurs. Variety didn't just involve comedy, but jugglers, musicians, hoofers, and acts who spent their entire careers doing just one turn. Among those recalling the high jinks and dismal lodgings of those bygone days are Ken Dodd, Val Doonican, Roy Hudd and Mike Winters.

Cilla Black, naked in a Jacuzzi. That is the prospect dangled before our imaginations in this opener, in which the former Blind Date presenter makes a cameo appearance that's as cheerfully clunky as cheap amber jewellery. It's in keeping with the series, which feels like the funny bits of yesteryear's Coronation Street sent on permanent holiday - salt and vinegar comedy that raises as much of a wince as a smile. Tim Healy stars as a the new barman and unlikely transvestite, but it's mostly the usual faces, including leathery old Madge, who finds herself on her uppers.

Commencing with a cheerful explanation of how all of us are utterly alone in this world, Charlie Brooker turns to TV's treatment of love and how the "flickering fibbing machine" has misled us about romance. He skewers the myths about soul mates and the importance of the grand gesture, and shows how TV's insistence on photogenic beauty raises unrealistic expectations. A little obvious in places, but always redeemed by Brooker's verbals, which soar to inspired heights in an extended description of his own face.

Carpool is a distinctly low-frills, ingeniously penny-pinching chat show, with its cut-price opening credits and host Robert Llewellyn picking up guests in his car and interviewing as he drives them around. This week, it's the turn of Tim Vine, king of the twitter gag, whose puns Llewellyn finds amusing to an alarming degree, and comedian Doon Mackichan, whose latest show draws for its entertainment on the subject matter of recent family events including her father's death, her divorce, and the grave illness of her young son.

Charlie Brooker turns up his drollery-o-meter to 11 as he presents a history of some of TV's most jolting attempts to lull us into a false sense of insecurity, from early public information films warning against flying kites into pylons, through to dramas like Threads in the 1980s, a graphic depiction of nuclear annihilation, in which Britain is reduced to "a Plymouth-style wasteland". Between clips and sketches, Brooker's argument is that overexposure to such TV causes us to overestimate the amount of risk we actually face in everyday life.