Phoebe Waller-Bridge

Why do I get the feeling that Phoebe Waller-Bridge likes trouble? The second series of Fleabag, again written by and starring her, arrived "371 days, 19 hours and 26 minutes later", in a flurry of sex (Fleabag flirting with new character, "cool, smoking priest", played by Andrew Scott), violence (a punch-up between Fleabag and her loathsome, lying brother-in-law, Martin, played by Brett Gelman), and miscarriage - suffered secretly in a restaurant toilet cubicle by Fleabag's sister, Claire (Sian Clifford).

In the end it was almost as much of a bloodbath as the other show Waller-Bridge writes, Killing Eve. Before it all kicked off, our favourite selfish, rude, inappropriate, fag-smoking malcontent (the Dorothy Parker of the Fomo generation?) had, relatively speaking, been behaving herself at the engagement meal of her inadequate father (Bill Paterson) and snaky godmother (Olivia Colman, on fine, forked-tongue form). The show's appeal lies in Waller-Bridge's gift for jumping between casual interaction ("Claire, you've been ages. Are you pissed off, or are you doing a poo?"), to fang-deep venom (Martin to Fleabag: "I'm so intrigued to see how you're going to make this whole evening about yourself"), to surreal pathos ("Get your hands off my miscarriage!"). While I felt the first series flagged slightly towards the end, this was a dark, stylish return - the telly staple of a tense family celebration, but with sudden twists and writing so sharp it could scratch your eyes out.

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