Jack Seale

A colourful collision of Mark Thomas and Dom Joly, this political hidden-camera prankathon is fact-packed, judiciously targeted, scarily well performed and, often, splutteringly funny.

The stars, Jolyon Rubinstein and Heydon Prowse, set out to satirise tax avoidance, state violence, banker bailouts and other 21st-century injustices - their main weapon being sheer cojones. I was laughing and stuffing my fist in my mouth at the same time as they fired stupid questions at policemen mid-riot, tried to climb over MI6's front gate and, in the best sketch, proved that Tony Blair's central London mansion isn't as heavily guarded as it's cracked up to be.

No school comedy would be complete without an excruciating sex education class and Jack Whitehall doesn't disappoint. As hapless history teacher Mr Wickers he wriggles and squirms and clearly yearns to crawl under a desk away from the pitying gaze of his worldly-wise pupils. The only person more immature is the head (Mathew Horne in a hilariously hideous wig) who befuddles his staff and enrages parents with his senseless slang. There hasn't been a sitcom this masterfully puerile since The Inbetweeners.

Fifty years on from their first appearance, Albert and 'Arold still form the perfect sitcom duo: bitter, failed and trapped. Paul Jackson looks at the Steptoes' vast comedic influence, in conversation with their creators Ray Galton and Alan Simpson, as well as present-day writers of both comedy and drama.

No school comedy would be complete without an excruciating sex education class and Jack Whitehall doesn't disappoint. As hapless history teacher Mr Wickers he wriggles and squirms and clearly yearns to crawl under a desk away from the pitying gaze of his worldly-wise pupils. The only person more immature is the head (Mathew Horne in a hilariously hideous wig) who befuddles his staff and enrages parents with his senseless slang. There hasn't been a sitcom this masterfully puerile since The Inbetweeners.

A tale perfectly suited to the First Cut strand: there's not much to it, but what there is of it is extraordinary. Jack Woodward is 90 and dreams of reviving the stand-up career he gave up in 1968. But he doesn't want to return to the Gateshead working men's clubs, where people used to throw lumps of coal at his head. Jack craves a gig at London's Hammersmith Apollo.

During his preparations (his warm-up gig at an old people's home is a fiasco) we learn Jack's life story - enough to tearfully cheer him on as he very, very slowly walks onto the stage in front of 3,000 people.

Britain's Oldest Stand-Up, More4 - review

A 90-year-old's dream of playing the Hammersmith Apollo made for a simple, cheering documentary, says Jack Seale.

Dara O'Briain interview

The Mock the Week host reveals Viggo Mortensen's secret Malteser habit and why CBeebies won't hire him...

There's an extra reason to tune in to this episode of Rufus Hound's comedy interview series, where celebs come on to gamely read from their awful adolescent journals: for author and ace newspaper columnist Caitlin Moran, her life at 15 and 16 was so extraordinary that Channel 4 are planning to base a sitcom on it, which Moran herself will write.

The show, working title The Big Object, is set to focus on an overweight teen's family life and hunt for a boyfriend. This blast from the source material includes Moran's contemporaneous reaction to being home-schooled in Wolverhampton, to living with seven younger siblings and indeed, amid all that, publishing The Chronicles of Narmo, her first and only novel.

Last week's guide to Norfolk pressed the pedal marked "Partridge" to the floor and drove a comedy Range Rover Sport V8 directly into our faces; this is more of a slow-burning curio. Alan appears on a watery discussion show, Open Books with Martin Bryce, presented by Chris Beale (Robert Popper).

He arrives, sporting a neckerchief that unmistakeably denotes a writer, to chat about his autobiography and read extracts from it. Chris is diffident, the programme's editing is uncertain and the studio audience are catatonic. At first it's gentle anarchy, but Alan's interplay with Chris and the audience builds beautifully.

The season finale is as warm, cheesy, simple and satisfying as the previous seven episodes. A bereavement puts the Starlings in the mood to change their lives, grab opportunities, seize the day and refresh their characters in advance of a possible second run.

Meanwhile, Terry and Charlie are rewiring a derelict stately home, sharing the job with a boorish, fly-by-night spark (Phil Cornwell) who's funny and yet another reminder that Terry is a gentle saint. But then, so's everyone in the family: this show quite boldly insists on doling out bittersweet goodness all the time. You know the final funeral scene will be affecting without being too devastating, and that's fine.

There's a montage of happy clips from the series to close. It's a shameless device but, yes, they're very pleasant memories.