Jimmy Carr

This irreverent panel show makes merry tonight with a seasonal special in which host Jimmy Carr asks contestants to guess the results of holiday-themed surveys. If you like your Christmas cheer with a large helping of sarcasm and a dollop of misanthropy, you'll like this. Reliably funny team captains Sean Lock and Jason Manford are joined by guest panellists Jack Dee, Christopher Biggins and Lorraine Kelly.

Funny or easy-to-mock guests booked to provide tonight's festive repartee and laughs include dour comedian Jack Dee, Lorraine Kelly and camp sweetheart Christopher Biggins. Irritatingly, at the time RT went to press, the episode hadn't been filmed, so we can only speculate - wildly - as to its contents. It's Christmas-themed, so expect host Jimmy Carr and contestants to have dressed for the occasion: sparkly antlers; nylon beards; necklaces made of mince pies - that kind of thing. And if Biggins isn't wearing a pantomime dame outfit and lashings of rouge then I'm going home.

It seems we have Weekend Watchdog to thank for Believe: the Eddie Izzard Story.

Sarah Townsend's intriguing film about the comedian began with a snippy and ill-informed report on the consumer programme, which accused him of recycling material from an old tour. Virtually every minute of the film that followed might have been designed to prove that taking easy shortcuts is the very last thing that Izzard would do. Hurt by the suggestion that he was short-changing his fans, he took a break from stand-up to concentrate on acting; this film both recorded his preparation for his comeback tour and explained how he went from comic no-hoper to the kind of star who can sell out Wembley Arena.

What really wounded Izzard about the charge of recycling was that he'd never made any secret of his working process, which involves ever-wilder excursions from the previous shows. It's a process of evolution, which means that by the end of a tour the material he's using will be completely different to the show he started with. This time round though, sensitive about any suggestion that he was building on old foundations, he effectively began with a pre-tour, popping up in tiny venues in places like Frome to slowly lick the new show into shape. And in between doing that he reminisced about his past, and revisited places that had been important to him.

"Living here was the best part of my life," he said, looking around the Northern Ireland house he'd lived in as a small child. "After that it all went crap." The reason for that was the death of his mother from cancer, after which he and his brother were consigned to a school in Eastbourne, where Izzard rapidly absorbed the most crucial lesson the English boarding system delivers: that it's probably safer to repress the emotions. "I thought, 'Crying equals losing in arguments'. So I didn't cry from then on." Instead, in a classic displacement for the unhappy and vulnerable, he showed off a lot. And when Izzard saw Monty Python he decided to make it big in comedy.

That isn't the sort of thing you're supposed to be able to decide for yourself, but the fascination of Townsend's film lay in its evidence that Izzard - apparently the most insouciantly natural of comedians - had conjured himself into existence by sheer force of will. His phrase for it was "personal nepotism". If no one else would give him a break, he would do it for himself. So, though he could be described as an overnight success, after a single charity gig that really made his name, years of obscurity had led up to that night - on the cobbles of Covent Garden, where he learned to work a crowd round to his way of thinking, and in the rash of comedy clubs that sprang up in London in the Eighties. Izzard would come back to his flat from compering open-mike spots and plot his progress on a map of London, colour-coding what material worked where.

He'd also learned something crucial earlier, after an escapology act went humiliatingly wrong in Covent Garden piazza. "If you think you cannot get out you will not be able to get out," a colleague told him. "You have to believe you can get out." He now seems almost addicted to performance risk; when he felt in control of stand-up he went off to Paris to do his act in a language he could barely speak. It was a disaster, so he plugged away at that, too, and now he can even make Frenchmen laugh. "Why do you want to be a so-so actor when you're a brilliant comedian?" someone asked, just after he'd added that to his to-do list. "Well, once I was a so-so comedian," he replied.

It might all strike you as ruthless - if it wasn't for the man behind it. After one gig in America, a weeping woman dressed as a bee came to the stage door to thank Izzard for bringing her through a recent medical ordeal; she'd been reciting one of his routines as she was wheeled out of the operating room. He reached out and gave her a big hug - which isn't something you can imagine Jimmy Carr or Frankie Boyle doing. And there's a humanising need behind his drive, too. Towards the end of the film, Townsend filmed him shortly after he'd read some old letters his mother had written, expressing her concern for the boys she knew she was about to leave behind: "Everything I do in life is about trying to get her back," Izzard said with tears in his eyes. Personally, I didn't think we needed "Mama Can You See Me Now" on the soundtrack as Izzard opened at Wembley to press the point home. We got it already. But that misjudgement aside, this was a film that began as a fan's DVD extra and steadily deepened into something far more substantial and moving.

Whether you're sick of the sight of Stephen Fry or think his national treasure status is as strong as ever, there's no denying the consistency of QI, which even in its eighth series still has no rival as the quiz show for the discerning viewer. Joining Alan Davies this week are Jimmy Carr, Dara O'Briain (the host of The Apprentice: You're Fired! Wednesdays) and BBC sports presenter Clare Balding.

Jimmy Carr explains why Monday nights aren't funny

Jimmy Carr tells BBC Breakfast how audience enjoyment depends on the day of the week, with Saturday being the best night and Monday being the worst.

The Apollo will always have a special significance for stand-up John Bishop. This gig last year ­catapulted him into the major league. Back in that ­spotlight for a new series, his routine is a confessional about that night and the nerves he suffered as he faced the biggest audience of his less-than glorious career.

A comedy routine about the job of comedy? Bishop's ­raconteurish style isn't to ­everybody's taste. He's not a gag machine like Jimmy Carr and his material is so personal you couldn't even describe it as observational either. He's more like that bloke in the pub who has a way of taking the ordinary events of an average day and shining them until they gleam.

Last year's act was all about how his new car had broken down - and he still looks like an ex-footballer who's got lost on his way to the Match Of The Day studio.

The host is Sean Lock who's also not above mining his family life for material. "My wife doesn't like me treating the kids like hecklers," he reveals.

Video: Jimmy Carr previews new DVD

Comedian Jimmy Carr explains why he doesn't stop touring.

Jimmy Carr interview: stand-up comedy, 10 O'Clock Live

"I saw Charlie Brooker and David Mitchell the other night. We all independently said that it's going to be fine, I've got you two there! We've all done nothing, but are relying on the others."

Jimmy Carr: I'm glad I had a normal job

Comedian Jimmy Carr, 38, worked in an oil company marketing department before becoming one of Britain's most prominent and successful stand-ups...