Mike Leigh (I)

Sadly the final episode [of series two] is a bit of a let-down, after what has been an exceptionally strong series. Surely the difference between an ongoing soap and a sitcom is that the latter should offer us some resolution (however temporary) at the end of each episode, and especially in the final show of the run?

With a third series clearly in the offing, the producers have been at pains to keep the storylines open for development, with the result that we're rather left hanging in the air. In fact, some might say the plots have started to flag a bit lately, with the unlikely reappearance of Kelly - who would surely be giving the place a very wide berth after her betrayal at the hands of Mateo last year - and the inexplicable introduction not only of her mum but Gavin's too.

But niggles apart, series two has been a terrific success. With sharp, laugh-out-loud (and/or reach-for-your-hankie) scripts from Derren Litten, superb casting and excellent performances all round, at its best it's been on a par with the work of Mike Leigh, and that takes some doing. It's also been notable for what it hasn't got: no fancy camerawork, no special effects, no unwarranted music, no laughter track.

So hats off to all concerned. My towel's already on the sunbed in anticipation of the next run.

For the past few weeks Radio 4 has been running a series of late Monday night one-off comedy shows in pursuit of a series. "Patchy" would be the best way to describe them - until this week, when The Secret World came along to show that not only can an old dog learn new tricks, some of them are better.

It reunites the Dead Ringers pair of Bill Dare (producer, writer) and Jon Culshaw, man of a thousand voices, some of which were getting a bit tired. Now Culshaw and a team of impressionists sure to become more famous than they are at the moment have come up with some new ones. Cunningly, some of them are of people whose real voices are unfamiliar.

Mike Leigh is famous, but not for his voice, so we have to take it on trust that it's him running a thriving business providing Method actors as cheap labour while they research parts. And as for Ehud Olmert and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad waking up in bed together after a crazy UN party, all we got was generic Middle Eastern accents.

This meant that the writers had to come up with things that were funny in their own right and, let's face it, the leaders of Israel and Iran in a gay love tryst was not that much of a thigh-slapper. But Peaches Geldof being shocked to discover that her father was involved in that gathering of "dad bands", Live Aid, was. As was Jools Holland trying to escape from a Misery-style stalker. And Amy Winehouse auditioning for the role of Maria in The Sound of Music.

With Abigail's Party, Leigh's unique talent was firmly hinted at, but not, I thought, fully confirmed. He obviously had a terrific eye and ear for human banality, but you wanted to be sure that the observations would shape up: art, after all, is more than just registration.

Abigail's Party was horribly funny at times, stunningly acted and perfectly designed, but it sank under its own immense condescension. The force of the yelping derision became a single note of contempt, amplified into a relentless screech. As so often in the minefields of English class-consciousness, more was revealed of the snobbery of the observers rather than the observed.

Nuts in May (BBC1) was great fun, being the mis-adventures of a couple of liberal, law-abiding lambs, camping in deepest Dorset. (I wish I wasn't so perfectly sure which paper Keith and Candice Marie Pratt took when they were at home.)