Euan Ferguson

The Tommy Cooper thing, Not Like That, Like This, winningly scripted by Simon Nye, told the tale of guess who? A grand piece of ever-rewatchable television, for whom most plaudits will so rightly go to David Threlfall, who simply channelled Cooper: he made you practically smell Chiswick in the 60s, and the BBC lino, and twitch along with every bursting blood-vessel in first his nose and later heart. But very honourable mentions go to Amanda Redman and the ever-splendid Gregor Fisher, playing so against type as to surely require near-physical contortions. And to Paul Ritter, who played Eric Sykes, and got the wisest line of the night, after Cooper drunkenly explained the difference between his two loves, comedy and magic. Sykes saw a different version of two loves, Cooper being at that stage torn between wife Dove and mistress Mary. "So Dove is your comedy, and Mary is your magic." A difficult, heartbreaking man, and ditto piece of television.

A splendid job of skewering much of the white-man snobbery of what had gone before was done by the Python spin-off Ripping Yarns, which came a little later. And a very decent fist of that was made in Alexander Armstrong's Real Ripping Yarns, an unabashedly loving tribute to the programme itself - and also to the inspiration behind it all, the Boy's Own Paper. Armstrong was the perfect presenter: and he, and Michael Palin and Terry Jones, showed, with nuance, that dreadful love-hate relationship between public-school lunacy, as evinced in the BOP and so successfully spoofed in Yarns, and the common good-humoured decency of the male race, as demonstrated by all three men. There was a certain wistfulness in Armstrong's tone as he read from RM Ballantyne: "Boys ought never to decline to climb a tree to pull fruit merely because there is a possibility of them falling off and breaking their necks." A rewatchable delight.

The Trip to Italy was travel porn with smiles. Knowing smirks, occasional laughy guffaws: but good smart tetchy humour throughout, as Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon reunited to busk off each other's ego - quite how close to those being their alter-egos is uncertain, though I suspect the difference has long been moot - but this time in Italy, eating roisteringly good food in the famous Trattoria della Posta in Langhe (near Barolo, yum, and splendid it looked) and alarming only slightly the lieges with sudden impressions of Ronnie Corbett, Al Pacino or, wonderfully improvised, mumbling Batman characters. Never less than clever, and promises much as the weeks roll on, not least the glorious intercut views of red-boiling kitchens and sweet, warm seas.

Apparently this paper, The Observer, sent both of them there as food/holiday critics. Not true (or is it? Ref! I haven't had a hol for three years). One thing's certain. We did send Kim Philby as a correspondent to Beirut, where he was finally cornered by his friend Elliot. We were founded in 1791; occasional mistakes have been made.

"I don't want a christening yet. I've already lost you to him." Thus Olivia Colman, with just that phrase, sets the entire tone for Rev, as she has quietly done for each of the past two series. By turns giggly, mournful, drunk, charming, ballsily defiant and utterly conflicted, she encapsulates pretty much this secular nation's attitude to 21st-century Christianity, which could be summed up in the title of a fine Douglas Adams novel (writing not about God but Earth itself): Mostly Harmless.

A triumphant return but, for a comedy, it's pretty strong gravy when you think about it, as you should. The fact that God is man's finest confection detracts not one whit from "his" essential confected goodness, and the palaces of myth serve, by and large, to do great good. Except when they get in the way of real life, or bore, or nag: and that's why Colman does such a tremendous job, refracting our every niggle with organised religion through the simple premise of being married to, and more pertinently in love with, a rev. So we share her increasing frustration at the fact that hubby, the Rev Adam Smallbone (Tom Hollander), has to open his door not just to waifs and strays but to borderline psychopaths: troubling enough when they were just the two, but the arrival of baby Katie is a delight that is slowly, delightfully, doing their nuts in.

It is also, I should have mentioned this, extremely funny. I don't think that Hollander or his co-writer James Wood have put much more than a tootsie wrong since the first series, but their writing in this latest outing becomes ever more deft, daring, even confrontational. The scene in which Mick, the splendidly grubby dreadlocked Jimmy Akingbola (carrying the most foetidly evil one-armed doll) offers to babysit, with the well-intentioned cackle: "You take your lady out for a nice night an' when you comes back, ta-da! She still alive!" mesmerised: and also spoke of poverty, race relations, child abuse and 10 other things which don't get a better outing in an entire hour of the increasing fractious Question Time. Adam/Tom's facial reaction to this charming offer was a brief masterclass in English politesse. And at his heart is not so much a crisis of faith but the full and faithful knowledge that God does not exist other than to provide the wages.

As far away from Derek Nimmo in All Gas and Gaiters, in generational terms, as it's possible to get, and hyperspace-removed from the Vicar of Dibley, as in it's funny: not only but very. And so wise. Perhaps I'm reading too much into what is, after all, a half-hour of light entertainment on a Monday night, but when I saw Adam/Tom - I cherish the believability of the character so much, they're interchangeable - standing in some yakhole of a playground pulling on an e-cigarette, he simply felt like every small man mulling over big thoughts, as opposed to every big man thinking small thoughts, ever. I don't have too much choice in the matter, but I know which one I'd rather be.

Milton Jones stars in Thanks a Lot, Milton Jones! (still don't know if that exclam should be in the title, other than implied: it does a mild disservice to Jones in that he admittedly writes with exuberance and gag-a-heartbeat punning, but delivers with an unbeatable dryness). Milton, in this opener - happy Wednesday early-evening nights in the bath again for me, whew - launched a wedding business. Featuring a bride who looked the spit of Robert De Niro. It was a knowing joy to listen to the conniptions the writers had twisted themselves into to include references to I think every film in De Niro's oeuvre.

Radio 4 launched us on Wednesday night into the inexplicably late-scheduled Nurse (11.15pm!), co-written and starring Paul Whitehouse. Johnny Depp once described Whitehouse, without seeming irony, as "the greatest actor of all time", and it's not wholly impossible to understand the compliment.

This was dark and enthralling comedy. It will attract faint criticism - what does Whitehouse, with his comfy Aviva ads, know of mental illness? - but it turns out that Whitehouse, without being quite as close to it as Jo Brand, had, during his Fast Show years, done a little clever research into mental illness. This show, also featuring Esther Coles as a community psychiatric nurse, is, essentially, all about bewilderment: the bewilderment of those on fringes who simply can't understand the way the rest of us think, nor why we should insist on doing so. It's deeply subtle, and the subject matter doesn't lend itself to LOL-itude, but it was a quiet (if inexcusably late-night) delight, and executed with only about four squillion times the sensitivity of Ricky Gervais's Derek.

Frank Skinner interview

Fatherhood has changed him, so has his radio show. But not completely ...

I severely wanted to like Big School, if only to celebrate on the BBC's behalf their having launched two successful comedies in a row, the other of course continuing to be the sublime Family Tree. If so, it would have represented an almost unique triumph (yes, yes, but I've consulted my inner pedant and he reluctantly allows this) after a couple of years of embarrassing twock.

But I didn't. Despite a highly promising cast - Philip Glenister, showing he can "do" comedy; Daniel Rigby (the "annoying one" off the BT Broadband ads) showing he can actually "do" real acting, and rather good he is; the wonder that is Frances de la Tour, somehow growing increasingly sexy with age; Joanna Scanlan (the sublime Terri from The Thick of It) - it remained stubbornly written by and starring David Walliams, with all that entails.

Which is to say: too occasional mini-smiles leavening a fast succession of stereotypes, interrupted by a lazy cliche or three, shot through with embarrassing pieces of slapstick, most cringeworthy of which was the ancient teacher Mr Hubble going into an occupied classroom and opening his flies ("the loos used to be here..."). That was the savage low point; the highs were any scene involving De la Tour as the humourless alcoholic headmistress. This cast - and did I mention Catherine Tate? - surely deserves more subtle writing. But Walliams seemingly can't think but in stereotypes - I'm sure you remember even though I'm trying to forget the vile Little Britain, written in and somehow encapsulating the dark, dying days of New Labour.

Walliams has said it's "slightly subtler than Little Britain"; not the biggest of asks. So all the pupils - count them: all - are badly behaved, rude and street-smart. Mr Church, Walliams's character, drives an Austin Allegro, ho ho, and listens to Phil Collins, hoo ha. Alan Partridge it ain't.

I might watch another episode, if only because openers are notoriously ham-fisted, and there's a sparrow-flicker of interest over the Glenister/Tate/Walliams love triangle. But at this rate Walliams is in danger of being remembered only for the 167th fastest crossing of the Channel. Which would be no bad thing.

I used to enjoy, very much, listening to Count Arthur Strong. But that was when it was on the radio, and I was in the bath. Six-thirty of a pm, the purple glower of dusk, risotto glooping away gently on the stove, and life doesn't get much better than that. I fully appreciate that expectations can vary hugely according to, for instance, personal childcare needs, personal mental health, local proliferation of guns, wholly imagined threat of incipient alien attack, etc. But the programme used to make me smile. Now, instead, it's on my television, and that is, I think, a mistake, and not just because of the cricked neck and spilt Radox as, bath-bound, I crane my head towards the living room.

It wasn't bad. It was co-written by Graham Linehan, of Father Ted fame, which you would expect to have accorded it some comedy chops, and original creator Steve Delaney, who played the titular count, a pompous, bumbling malaprop-trap from Doncaster. The problem was this: it wasn't at all funny. There's recent history here, in the form of executives merely thinking a "name" is enough - in this case, Linehan; a couple of months ago, and in a far, far worse case of unfunny, Ben Elton - to create, as they probably say, albeit with knowing cynicism, comedy gold. In the end, it was just a something about a pompous bumbling man from Donny. Quite why it ever worked on radio I'm now struggling to understand.

Here's a thought. All generalisations are dangerous, even this one, but: few programmes migrate well from radio. There's Have I Got News For You, a spin-off from the (still extant, and wickeder than ever) News Quiz; and Tony Hancock's finest half-hours were actually on the screen. But executive shoes corridor-crunch on the ossified bodies of "hit" shows that died on the transition to screen. Just a Minute became just a dirge. Famously, Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker's... was a roiling trough of rhino poop. Not even that lovely Martin Freeman, in the marginally better movie, could pull it off, and the original TV series was a travesty. The phrase "Zaphod Beeblebrox had two heads" works fine-ish as a line in a book, or spoken on the radio (actually it wasn't that funny, ever) - when we can imagine it, in the bath, in the wonder of the mind's eye. On TV, some poor actor was actually given a kind of "ball of saggy painted calico, with eyes" to waggle on his shoulders as a second head. It's the difference between having to show it, and trusting the listener/reader to, basically, "insert image here": and, incidentally, the reason why Lucky Jim, the funniest book of the 20th century, has never been filmed, other than execrably. Surreality, wordplay and extended interior monologues would seem particularly vulnerable to becoming lost in transition: but I don't know quite why I'm banging on about things that don't work on TV, when there were so many last week that did. It's just that I... well, I quite liked lying in the bath. Imagining.

ITV rolled out something called Off Their Rockers, in which ageing actors "spoofed" young members of the public. The joke was that it's "funny" to see an "old" person saying a sex word or farting.

Every gag was about fungus, dog poo, haemorrhoids or sex. The message was that that's all people over 70 do, fart and have fungus and step in dog poo, and widdle, and die, and that it would be funny to watch young people being shocked at them doing it. The young "spoofed" came out of it very well: tolerant and kind and not one of them cruel.

The cruelty was all self-inflicted, on actors and on the whole woeful production. At one stage, an oldish biddy acted even older on a bus, croaking to a bemused teen: "Do you think I'm too old at 78 to stand up?" My parents are about that age, and they stand up straight for at least eight whole hours a day every day. (No need, it's just their thing. Sometimes just in the middle of the street, though it's best when they can get into shop windows.)

If this was commissioned by anything older than a slavering pre-teen nincompoop, they should be horsewhipped. Nasty, weak, jaw-droppingly patronising and the least funny thing to have hit our screens since Keith Lemon.