Harry Enfield

Hands up anyone who's heard of Morgana Robinson. Despite her near invisibility on the comedy radar, Channel 4 has obviously decided Morgana is The Next Big Thing and commissioned an entire series based on... what, exactly?

Judging by the first episode, the answer would appear to be her ability to match Frankie Boyle in the use of the f-word, and her passable imitations of Fearne Cotton and Cheryl Cole. Sadly her own characters are little more than lazy, one-dimensional stereotypes that merely limp off the page.

Robinson's most "famous" creation, 14-year-old Gilbert the uber-nerd who's attempting to make a video diary with the help of his granddad, has apparently already garnered a following on YouTube. Despite the standard-issue geek clothes and inch-thick lenses, however, Gilbert barely passes for 17, never mind 14. Robinson also takes whining teenspeak to such a level that the dialogue is basically indecipherable.

Some sketches, like the bickering TV reporters, are mercifully short. Others, most notably Madolynn the past-it Hollywood starlet making a complete fool of herself in a restaurant, drag on interminably. Vicious drunks are not funny, particularly with lines like "This toe was caressed by Martin Scorsuzu". Even less tasteful is an attempt by her husband Norman to excuse her behaviour. As she topples off her chair, taking the tablecloth and crockery with her, he turns to their mortified companions and mutters "She has Asperger's". Boyle would have been proud.

Equally unlikeable are Joyce and Barry Dickens, funeral directors from Chumley, Yorkshire. Barry is a mine of useless information who never shuts up, much to the annoyance of acid-tongued wife Joyce, who never misses an opportunity to tell him what an absolute cretin he is. "You know the Aztecs used to burn stupid people, Barry". And what could be more hilarious that watching the two of them get all lovey dovey during a memorial service while the poor unfortunate corpse has his legs sticking out because Barry is too much of a dozy git to pick the right size of coffin.

The annoying commuter on a train who shrieks into his mobile the entire journey, a couple of senile Chelsea Pensioners who appear to have wandered in from a Harry Enfield/Paul Whitehouse sketch, Lady Gaga attempting to steer a riding mower in some kind of bizarre headgear - on it goes, all accompanied by the obligatory canned laughter. Heaven knows if it was performed in front of a live audience the silence would have been deafening.

Robinson's talents obviously lie in impersonation rather than straight acting - the highlight, such as it was, of the first programme was a 12-year-old Boris Johnson attempting to win a prep school debate by running roughshod over the opposing team. But alas she is no Catherine Tate - the lack of memorable characters does nothing but drag the show down.

If The Morgana Show had started out as a one-off pilot, and Robinson and co-creator James De Frond had been given a chance to fine-tune the sketches over time, the show might have evolved into something passable. But dumping her in at the deep end with a whole series to fill just highlights the weakness of the material. Back to the drawing board on this one.

As if scheduled to prove that television comedy is as prone to the winds of fashion as any falling or rising hem, I found myself staring, misty-eyed, at Harry and Paul last week.

Hadn't meant to, but there it was - plonked in the BBC2 schedules on Tuesday, like coming across that old burgundy leather skinny tie in your wardrobe.

As with every unexpected moment of nostalgia, there were a few fond memories, and plenty to cringe at. The sketch in which Harry Enfield translated, dead pan, on behalf of Paul Whitehouse's lascivious Italian politician (think Sylvio Berlusconi gurning on Viagra) reminded you of the pair's Nineties pomp: broad, physical, confident. "Parking Patawayo" was anything but - a crude swipe at African parking attendants, in the style of Postman Pat but, alas, not quite as amusing as Postman Pat.

Television's most likeable double act return with more silly, inoffensive sketches. You don't look to these two for cutting-edge satire, or even the kind of near-the-knuckle social stereotypes peddled by Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse on BBC2. A musical number mocking farmers' markets is the nearest Alexander Armstrong and Ben Miller get to social satire, and great fun it is, too. They prefer the old-fashioned kind of sketch based on one comic conceit ruthlessly pursued. One of the best new arrivals is a pair of elderly vampires bemoaning what's become of the vampire world. It's a simple idea made funnier by the performances (Ben Miller's vampire accent is a joy), just as the street-talking RAF pilots play to the pair's gift for posh characters. And yes - the latter are back, and this time they've been roped into D-Day.

The running gag about the hapless middle-ager who's fallen hopelessly in love with the Polish girl at his local café definitely draws on a dynamic in which the humour lies mostly in what isn't said. Laura Solon is syllable-perfect as the contemptuous Pole, and Harry Enfield wonderfully glum as a man who can't give up hoping, despite knowing that things are hopeless. I'm always glad to see the establishing frame which tells you its coming, which isn't always the case in Harry and Paul, an odd mixture of running gags that still have legs and those that have long run their course. It's a question of taste I guess. "Parking Pataweyo", a cod-children's programme built around a Nigerian traffic warden, struck me as being only just funny enough for a one-off, and a recurrent sketch in which two old clubland buffers discuss the sexual orientation of celebrities is so unvarying in its script that even the energy of the comic acting can't revive it. But I can take any amount of the lubricious Italian prime minister or (a genuinely trenchant bit of social satire this) I Saw You Coming, which revolves around the endless gullibility of ladies who lunch. This week the character had gone into the spa business and was offering a novel activity he called "Detoxerboxercize". "I literally beat the crap out of you," he explained. His mark looked momentarily doubtful until he added the magic words: "It's good for releasing toxins."

If you thought Paul Whitehouse and Harry Enfield stopped being funny around 1997 - well, you're basically right, especially having watched Whitehouse's cringeworthy Aviva adverts. Seeing this series advertise guest appearances from such cutting-edge comic luminaries as Lenny Henry doesn't fill one with confidence either. But give this sketch show series a chance - the veteran pair do manage to recall former glories from time to time, especially with Gabbatore, the corrupt Italian politician with an eye for the ladies (remind you of anyone?), and a Dragons' Den spoof that is woundingly accurate.

After a shaky start, Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse's sketch show is bedding in nicely. Much of the humour feels dated but recurring characters like Marcus, the "I saw you coming" shop owner, and The-Beatles-50-years-on yield some good laughs tonight, while newcomers such as the surgeons' wives, the Lovelock family (who keep pet Northerners) and a chorus of white van men singing a crude "Van Driver's Lament" add enough touches of bizarre brilliance to keep the giggles coming.

The overbearing Italian prime minister goes further than ever tonight in his attempts to twist the arm of his opposite number. He's a typical Harry and Paul creation: funny, brilliantly performed by Paul Whitehouse (as the Berlusconi-style creep) and Harry Enfield (as his deadpan translator), but sailing pretty close to the wind. Van drivers, old people, posh women and Radio 4 documentary-makers also get it in the neck tonight. And remember the controversial pet Geordie sketch? It's back, but with a gleefully offensive twist. Plus the loutish family with the constantly barking dog visit a church to ask, "Do you sell lottery tickets?"

Paul Whitehouse's Aviva ads don't really float our boat but he's back doing what he does best here with some great character work, be it a near-the-nuckle parody of Silvio Berlusconi or playing the chav with the incessantly barking dog (this time he and baseball-capped partner-in-crime Harry Enfield wind up in church running rings around a children's charity worker). Great class-clash comedy.

'We're like Preston and Chantelle!'

How well do TV funnymen Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse know each other? There's only one way to find out: with a revival of gameshow classic Mr & Mrs.

There are touches of brilliance in Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse's latest series. Everyone will have their favourite sketches but the plummy old men in a gentlemen's club discussing which famous people are "quare" are the highlight for me. "If he sounds like a quare and he looks like a quare I should think he's a probable quare," they concur. This week Ian Hislop and, shockingly, David Attenborough are up for discussion. Not all the sketches work so well, but for fans there's good news: Café Polski is back in all its sad glory.