Paul Whitelaw

The main event: Limmy's Show

The legend so far: in 2002, Glaswegian web designer Brian Limond began posting surreal, funny, homemade comedy videos on his website. In 2006, after gaining a cult following, he released a series of daily podcasts titled Limmy's World Of Glasgow, featuring characters such as over-sensitive ex-junkie Jacqueline McCafferty and spaced-out waster fantasist Dee Dee.

10 O'Clock Live is Channel 4's latest stab at a topical comedy show. Given the involvement of Charlie Brooker and David Mitchell, it might be less egregious than previous attempts.

Unfortunately, it also stars the facile Jimmy Carr and not-actually-a-comedian Lauren Laverne. My prediction: not half as challenging and sharp as it should be.

Ever wondered what Carry On actress Hattie Jacques might've looked like in the throes of sexual ecstasy? Then look no further than BBC 4's latest "tears behind the laughter" biopic, hattie, which takes a mildly scurrilous peek at a peculiar episode from her once private life.

Though hidden from the public during their lifetime, it's now common knowledge that Jacques and her husband, beloved British comedy actor John Le Mesurier, were embroiled in a bizarre love triangle involving cockney chauffeur John Schofield.

The film shows how Jacques was seduced by this ravishing charmer, who then moved into her marital bed while Le Mesurier - in an almost farcical display of gentlemanly English stoicism - was banished to a guest room.

Jacques obviously adored her husband, so what was she thinking? Unfortunately, writer Stephen Russell doesn't provide many answers beyond suggesting that, insecure about her weight, she was flattered by the attentions of a younger man. It all feels rather glib.

Though Schofield (Being Human's Aidan Turner) is depicted as having genuinely fallen in lust with the vivacious actress, Russell also suggests that the material trappings of her celebrity lifestyle proved just as enticing.

As for Le Mesurier, he's portrayed as an exasperating cuckold incapable of functioning without his wife's support. The public humiliation he avoided in life is now exposed for all to see: hardly the point of his sacrifice.

Ruth Jones is fine in the lead role, although she doesn't have much to work with. Maybe Jacques really wasn't that complex in real life, but there must have been more to her than these superficial character traits. She's depicted as warm and charitable, with a girlish sense of fun, but an immature recklessness when it came to her own family. And that's it.

Robert Bathurst steals the acting honours as Le Mesurier, suggesting acute sensitivity beneath those famously vague mannerisms. But his character never really comes alive either.

Although not bad as such, Hattie suffers from rather bland execution. It recounts a strange, voyeuristically interesting story, but rarely engages on an emotional level.

An Anglo-American coproduction between stalwart British comedy outlet Hat Trick and acclaimed US writers David Crane (co-creator of Friends) and Jeffrey Klarik (Mad About You), Episodes is something of a curate's egg.

The inherent problems of transposing British comedy to an American setting are directly confronted within the premise of the series itself: terribly postmodern.

Former Green Wing co-stars Stephen Mangan and Tamsin Greig play successful married screenwriters whose award-winning sitcom is picked up by a powerful American network.

Whisked over to LA, they're shocked to discover that their quintessentially British series starring Richard Griffiths (who cameos as a version of himself) as an "erudite, verbally dextrous headmaster of an elite boy's academy" has been recast as a vehicle for wholly unsuitable Friends/Joey star Matt LeBlanc (also playing himself, inevitably as an egotistical buffoon).

Evidently aware of the ignoble tradition of point-missing American adaptations of great British comedies (Fawlty Towers without Basil? Why not!), Crane and Klarik have devised a sporadically amusing if rather obvious satire encompassing all the usual targets and stereotypes.

The Brits-out-of-water are cute and witty, the Americans shallow and crass. TV executives are liars.

Actors are self-absorbed. And despite protestations to the contrary, Hollywood just doesn't "get" British humour: the clever irony being that Episodes is written by a pair of witty American Anglophiles cocking a snook at the culture that made them millionaires.

The hollowness of the entertainment industry has been satirised so often, the curiously muted Episodes doesn't offer anything new. It feels like a missed opportunity, despite the odd bright spot and the natural chemistry between Mangan and the underrated Greig.

One of digital channel Dave's few original commissions, Carpool is a novelty chat-show devised and hosted by Robert Llewellyn, in which he ferries celebrity guests inside a car fixed with cameras.

This simple premise allows Llewellyn and his passengers to trade banter which, while rarely hilarious, provides a pleasant way to spend half an hour

His first guest was likable Irish comedian Jason Byrne, followed by a natter with Jo Brand - clearly one of showbiz's nicest stars - in which she revealed that her superb NHS comedy Getting On was filmed in an abandoned hospital in the dead of winter with no heating facilities.

A slight but genial slice of compact-concept television.

Now in its second series, Gary: Tank Commander marks - along with Limmy's Show and Burnistoun - an unprecedented upswing in the standard of Scottish TV comedy.

Mostly set on the Afghanistan frontline, this likeable sitcom stars Greg McHugh (who also writes) as a cheerful, naive soldier mainly concerned with having a laugh and getting home.

It's refreshing that Gary's campness isn't a laboured joke. Rather than sneer at the incongruity of his blithe personality in a macho world, he's presented as a popular - albeit exasperating - member of the team. The humour is well observed, not cruel or overplayed.

Given its setting, however, it's oddly apolitical. McHugh is more interested in humanising "our boys" than in making any larger satirical statement: maybe their petty banter is a statement in itself. But whereas wartime comedies such as M*A*S*H (a topical comment on Vietnam, despite its Korean setting) never shirked from the horrors of combat, McHugh pretends they don't exist.

Nevertheless, it works on its own agreeable terms. But I'd like to see some genuinely angry comedy in 2011.

TV preview: Dirk Gently

This modestly-budgeted pilot suggests potential for a series, so the deviation from Adams's originals makes sense.

We must part with our celebration of female- fronted comedy, thanks to The Morgana Show, a witless sketch vehicle for newcomer Morgana Robinson. Why has she got her own show? Is it because her agent is the powerful John Noel, who numbers Russell Brand among his clients? I wonder.

Like the similarly charmless Katy Brand, Robinson's toothless parodies of the likes of Boris Johnson and Cheryl Cole are an apolitical affirmation of the celebrity status quo, not an attack on it. They lack the backbone required for anything other than staggeringly uninspired whimsy.

And when Dom Joly escapes from the jungle, someone should alert him to The Morgana Show's suspiciously familiar bellowing mobile phone businessman. Shameless stuff.

It may have escaped your notice, but the current series of one of 2010's best comedies quietly came to an end last night. Set in a careworn NHS geriatric ward, Getting On has drawn critical acclaim, but negligible viewing figures.

While I appreciate that a rawly naturalistic tragicomedy suffused with the stench of sickness and mortality will never be a ratings blockbuster, it would be nice to see more love for this overlooked gem.

Written by and starring Joanna Scanlan, Vicki Pepperdine and former psychiatric nurse Jo Brand, Getting On is the antithesis of your average mainstream medical confection: a defiantly unglamorous depiction of Britain's healthcare system, staffed not by selfless angels, but by flawed human beings muddling through as best they can under thankless circumstances. Skating deftly on a hairpin between comedy and pathos, it depicts a profession in which the abiding concerns are bureaucracy, people management and death.

This was never more strikingly illustrated than in the scenes in which the elderly Scottish woman who had been slowly dying throughout the series, finally, inevitably expired. Her poor daughter, unable to accept what had happened, tearfully and tetchily instructed her to wake up, as if it was all just a sick joke: a heartbreaking sketch of grief, emblematic of the programme's understatement.

Sister Den (Scanlan) and Nurse Kim (Brand) went through the practiced motions of comforting the bereaved and dealing with the deceased. But they also argued over what to do with the dead woman's untouched lunch.

Keen to vacate another much-needed bed, Den told the bewildered daughter that the body had to be moved immediately. She was bundled from the hospital to deal with her pain elsewhere, while her mother was abruptly wheeled away in full view of the other patients. As a blunt, desperately sad illustration of Getting On's core themes of life's cyclical grind and the pragmatic demands of NHS medical care, it couldn't have been bettered.

Director Peter Capaldi - Scanlan's co-star from The Thick of It, of which this is a spiritual relative - is to be commended for his sensitive handling of this material. His appropriately sickly, washed-out colour palette and the authentic performances from his excellent cast combine to create a bleakly enthralling atmosphere unlike any other British sitcom.

Doesn't sound like a laugh riot? Well no, it isn't, but nor is it trying to be. The humour arises naturally from character, the situations rooted in reality. Getting On is poignant, funny, profound even. Here's hoping for a speedy return.

Now in its seventh series, Peep Show is officially Channel 4's longest-running sitcom. It's also one of its best, although a brisk scan of my brain archive reveals that it doesn't have much competition. If you discount US imports such as Cheers, in 2 years Channel 4 has broadcast few outstanding sitcoms: Father Ted, Spaced and, at a push, Phoenix Nights and Black Books are the only ones that spring to mind. Still, that's five more than BBC3 will ever produce in twice that time.

In any case, this comedy about two dysfunctional, co-dependent losers is assured of its place in the pantheon. And if the last couple of series haven't felt quite as consistent as before, that's only because the standard set by writers Jesse Armstrong and Sam Bain was so high in its earlier years. But a variable Peep Show is still funnier than most other British sitcoms of recent times.

The latest series began with Mark (David Mitchell) and Jez (Robert Webb) anxiously awaiting the birth of Mark's first child. Correction: Jez wasn't remotely anxious, as is befitting of a feckless, immature, amoral idiot whose only concerns are for himself.

As the hopelessly neurotic Mark fretted over his role in the birthing process, Jez occupied himself with chatting up an attractive woman whose partner lay in a coma: a typically black subplot, just as it was when Seinfeld used it first in 1992. Let's charitably assume that it was unconscious theft on the writers' part.

Though still enjoyable as always, this wasn't the funniest Peep Show episode by any means. Some of Mark's inner monologues felt laboured to the point of self-parody, although his out-of-body fleeing from the hospital was an undoubted highlight.

I was also surprised and warmed by the poignant final moments, where Mark and Jez shared a rare moment of mutual happiness over the birth. It was all the more effective for being so atypical of the series.

In terms of performance, Mitchell and Webb continue to excel in roles they must know intimately by now. Webb in particular gets laughs with his innately amusing facial expressions alone. For all its deserved reputation as a sharply dialogue-orientated comedy, Peep Show remains an ideal vehicle for his clownish physicality.