Euan Ferguson

I hope Mr Hall, the BBC's new Director-General, sat down that Monday evening and watched Jonathan Creek and quietly applauded. I can't remember a 90 minutes - actually I can, Doctor Who last week, but this one isn't really for children - I enjoyed so much. Oh, bits are always beseechingly silly. And it comes along so seldom that we're almost bound to enjoy it. But this was still a winning showcase for simple, entertaining, catch-all British drama. So we got a jaunty-spooky theme tune reminiscent of Harry Potter, we got Joanna Lumley, we got both Rik Mayall (still impossibly handsome and delightfully hammy) and Nigel Planer off The Young Ones, a body that had escaped from a locked room, Sheridan Smith playing feisty-naughty modern, as is her winning wont, another body felled by a gargoyle pushed off a mansion (that was Midsomer or possibly Wycliffe), some good gags about academics and, of course, Alan Davies.

His Jonathan is married off now (to the very sexy Sarah Alexander) and has, and you can't quite blame him, thus reluctantly had to put on a suit and get a good job in her daddy's advertising agency. For a few minutes he actually looks rather cool and rather suited in fact to both the Don Draper comportment and life. But soon, excuses combine to let him dig out the old duffel and go off to solve impossibly complex cases with the singular hangdog exuberance that holds the whole extraordinary thing together. Some serious bits, too, not least when Ms Lumley, playing a lifelong atheist, suddenly realises, and with a certain horror, that everything she has ever believed might not be true. This occasional series might not change the world, but it should change the way we remember just how solidly good simple entertainment on the BBC can be when it has the guts to go with its own happy formula.

Martin Paul Kenny Dalglish Moone is the most life-affirming delight to have hit our screens in a long time. Played with gap-toothed genius by young David Rawle - actually he doesn't have a gap-tooth but the charm of the writing somehow makes you think he does - he's the amalgam of every well-intentioned, bright, troubled 12-year-old you might have been lucky enough to meet, and somehow manages to span every shade of the above category, from Thomas Turgoose's darker character in the Shane Meadows things, via every Roddy Doyle 12-year-old, ever, to Nicholas Hoult's Marcus in the more glucose-rich About a Boy.

Which is possibly to imbue Rawle's success with heavier pretensions than the writing would ever affect: Moone Boy is, essentially, a piece of fun. But what fun. Written by Chris O'Dowd and Nick Vincent Murphy, it's the tale of Martin Moone growing up in Boyle, County Roscommon, in the teeth of 1989 - we're told this by the scrolling title in the first scene, along with the nugget: "Chance of rain, weirdly low." So far, in Boyle, so Doyle, and this is not so much of a bad thing, as Martin copes with bullies, his mother's feminism, his sister's bras, broccoli boiled until it turns white, and the like, though it has (so far) stopped short of a horse in a lift. Where this is lifted superbly is in the appearance of Martin's thirtysomething be-beanied "imaginary friend", played by O'Dowd, who appears as a one-man Greek chorus, with banjo, to offer Martin the worst advice imaginable at every turn; and the occasional animations as we are taken inside Martin's head and reminded of the vaulting imagination you're stuck with by virtue of being 12 and clever.

It is surreal, within decent limits, and it is derivative, but I think the derivations are happily if tacitly acknowledged; musically, certainly so, as we get stings from Grange Hill, Mission: Impossible, Raindrops Keep Fallin', etc. There are grand twists, such as the disenfranchised, underemployed menfolk - including Martin's lovely dad Liam and the bullying twins' father - meeting up for ostensible poker schools or fishing trips (none of them own fishing rods, or even a pack of cards) but instead to drink and moan, with their damp-eyed remnants of manliness, about the impossibility of all their children. If the opening two episodes, also featuring a forgivably OTT cameo from Steve Coogan, are representative, there's a granite-solid winner here, sculpted with charm, knowingness and a canny ability to lift from tradition while delivering fresh unpredicatability at every turn. Sky has been waiting for a return on its huge investments in new comedy; and of course Ireland has been waiting too long for anything to even approach Father Ted: early days, but I think that if these are boxes which needed ticking, and the boxes could somehow be painted glass panels awaiting some pebbles from a cheeky 12-year-old, then what we're hearing here is the happy sound of breaking glass.

We have proof that The Thick of It doesn't, always, need Malcolm Tucker. He's not back until next week, in mournful bored opposition.

Meanwhile, the coalition is being eviscerated on screen as cruelly as in real life. Tory Roger Allam's stuttering, excruciating few minutes before a crowd of tech-wise schoolchildren - he's a happy Luddite but to others a "digitard", a word which will become as useful as "omnishambles" - is equal to any other three minutes of comedy this year.

And a fellow Tory lambasts Lib-Dem colleagues thus: "You're basically a couple of homeless guys we've invited to the Christmas lunch... don't whinge when we don't let you carve the turkey." Somehow, this week in particular, this resonates. Too many good lines to fit in even an entire piece; too much happy brilliance.

I watched (after the first 10 minutes, at gunpoint) the Absolutely Fabulous Olympic "special". If I suggested we call it Absolutely Dreadfulous I would still, if lazily, have come up with a better gag than was allowed to enter the programme.

Sadly but inevitably, and inevitably brilliantly, the finis to Twenty Twelve. (Did you realise they couldn't even call the series 2012 because of "copyright" impositions by the gun-toting corporate carbohydrated school-sports greedfest?) The big question is whether Ian and secretary Sally did or didn't. Go away on holiday together.

The clue came in his earlier meandered musings to her about what he might do after these seven years of Olympic and divorce hell. "Nothing exotic. Just... rent somewhere in Umbria. Maybe some little village up a hillside, get up late, breakfast in a shaded courtyard... wander down to the bar in the old square in the evening, sit outside with a book and cool bottle of Pinot Grigio kind of thing." Not a bad premise, Ian, and the look on Olivia Colman's stoic, lovely face, yearning to give an unasked "yes", was paintable.

Of course they went. And that's all good then. But somehow, please, a spin-off.

As the Olympics loom in real life, so they do in this short third series about the fictional - but it's a close call - "deliverance" group behind the Games in Twenty Twelve, still the finest comedy this year. This week we're mired in meetings of the "catastrophisation committee". The straight-faced delivery of such too-believable abominations is one of the joys: those offscreen must have their fists in their mouths. Only two things scare me: when the actual Olympics are over, so will this be, which leaves in me the same conflicting emotions as someone desperately wanting to be rid of a massive toothache but knowing they'll miss the fun drugs. And the fact that writer John Morton is becoming - as real and fictional universes curve faster together - ever spookily, supernaturally more prescient.

In the opener to this series there's a desperate attempt to "re-brand" the problems everyone expects with transport. Not to solve the problems, of course, but to call them something else. There are too-late-in-the-day panics about security, when they've had five years to get it right. There is much hustling for post-Games power over both "sustainability" and "legacy", when it's quite clear no one quite gets the difference. In real life it was even worse; just read last week's papers. But Morton and co made this a while ago, and if he is a djinn and a seer, he's also a psychopomp: one of those ancient spirits whose job is to lead us benignly into hell.

Characters get ever better, and we'll miss them. Logistics manager Graham Hitchins somehow grows ever more gauche and unknowing with every episode. As the team argue over special lanes for VIPs, and special special lanes for Americans, he deadpans: "Yeah, but what happens if you want to have some sort of... baby, or heart attack."

Towering over all, technically, has been a masterful Hugh Bonneville as Ian, a very modern doomed English Everyman, surrounded by fools and too polite to say so. But main memories will be of Jessica Hynes as grotesque "head of branding" Siobhan Sharpe; apparently London PR people now regularly quote her imbecilities ("It's not arugula science, guys!"), some of them maybe even ironically. Though I don't know whether they'll stick with this week's "If we get bandwidth on this, you've got maple syrup on your waffle from the get-go: what's not to understand, guys?" A quiet aside from Nick, the refreshing Yorkshireman, dry as a stone dyke: "Well, you, basically." Terrific ensemble, and I'd put up with more of the Games toothache for more of this. Almost.

Kathy Burke the writer, source and inspiration for Walking and Talking, corsets herself selflessly into a small yet lovely cameo as, basically, "angry smoking fecking Irish nun", who manages, while discussing Top of the Pops in a concrete Islington playground in 1979, overseeing children she hates, to reduce a fellow nun to hot salt tears over, of all things, the Teutonic origins of Boney M. Wonderful.

Mainly, however, Burke lets the phenomenal young Ami Metcalf recreate Burke's own adolescence with (from both talents) honesty and pluck and wit, verisimilitude and yearning. It's shot in a lovely leached-bone white, which wasn't all of 1979 but well, OK, most of it. Young Kathy (likes Keith Waterhouse, Play for Today, Porridge; hates wasps, Thatcher, dad when drunk, nuns) and her friend Helen debate fatness, chat-up lines and down-there stuff in a way which would now have them cautioned or sectioned or weeping on morning TV, and is as wizardly refreshing as the wind blowing through your armpit hair on holiday. The most uplifting thing yet this year, and young Kathy hasn't even got her trainer bra.

There was a glorious reprise for Steve Coogan as Alan Partridge. Older, yes; wiser, emphatically no. As he took us through the "places of my life" around Norfolk, yet again we marvelled at how his confident asides manage to combine the shiveringly banal with the roundly offensive. We started at North Norfolk Digital Radio. "Many are surprised at how small the offices are. But at 800 square metres that's larger than a good-quality dentist's, and could house a Tesco Express." Then Norwich town hall, opened in 1938 by King George VI, "the stammering monarch made famous by hit movie The King's Speech". And his favourite car dealership. "Whether you buy British, or have a short memory and are happy to buy Japanese..." and then the woods. "For some, Thetford Forest means dogging, or suicide. But I'm old-school, and I'm off for a walk." Not one sentence technically wholly untrue, but all supremely wrong, and the whole of it supremely right. It was a wistful, spot-on return for Alan and his leisureware, and at this rate he'll end up a kind of bathetic national treasure.

A revamped Room 101, with a tinder-dry Frank Skinner stepping bravely into Paul Merton's shoes and playing a blinder, is a winner in its new format, having all three guests there simultaneously, and categorised rounds. Robert Webb roughly won, mainly by sending Jeremy Kyle - goodness but there were some worrying clips - into the masher, though Danny Baker, with his honestly newfound if existentially confusing hatred of TV panel games - "just a Jeremy Kyle show that's been though college" - was the true hit. That's not the point. This is. During the titles of this programme, which if you've forgotten is about things we all hate, up popped the phrase "unexpected item in baggage area".

As Griff Rhys Jones made much of the phrase "unexpected item in baggage area", in an unexpected one-off celebration of, well, him. This was old-fashioned sketch stuff, none the worse for it really but therefore traditionally hit and miss, but his "unexpected item in baggage area" was the second-best bit. Rhys Jones's slumpy hangdog angry-old-man shtick gets better as he gets older (possibly aided, I seem to remember, by a period of depression) and never more so than when having to deal with, basically, a greedy robot programmed by a moron. There was also - this was the best bit - a reunion of Rhys Jones and Mel Smith, doing their men-in-white-shirts-blathering face-to-face stuff, which was very subtly scripted by John O'Farrell and reflected the real-life schism between the two, begun 16 years ago and now, at least face-to-face, resolved. Tantrums can, with age, become wearying.