Sam Wollaston

The opening episode of a sitcom is always tricky, but Friday Night Dinner is particularly underwhelming so far, like a less interesting version of Simon Amstell's Grandma's House.

Dad gets the wrong end of the stick, mum's weird, the neighbour's weirder, the sons revert to childish behaviour when they return home, the sofa man comes on the wrong day, the sofa gets stuck on the stairs. Perhaps this is part of a new trend for gentleness someone was telling me about. I think it's taking it too far though; it's not funny enough.

But the cast is good: The Inbetweeners' Simon Bird, Green Wing's Mark Heap, and everything's Tamsin Greig. Writer Robert Popper has an impressive CV: Look Around You, Peep Show, South Park. Maybe we'll give it one more go. The sit's established, now let's have the com.

Mrs Brown's Boys (BBC1) is like My Family meets Father Ted meets Dame Edna. Brendan O'Carroll, who also wrote it, plays Agnes Brown, who has a fruit and veg stall, swears a lot and interferes in the lives of her six children, one of whom is played by his real-life wife. It must be weird, pretending your husband is your mother.

Mrs Brown's Boys is not subtle or sophisticated. "Did Daddy always come late?" asks daughter/wife and the studio audience titter because it's not clear what kind of coming we're talking about. "That's none of your fecking business," says Mrs Brown, and they laugh some more because she said "fecking".

Grandad gets hit over the head with a frying pan, and a thermometer gets stuck up his arse. And Mrs Brown answers the Taser instead of the phone, just as you knew she was going to as soon as the Taser was plugged in to charge. I did find my self chuckling on a couple of occasions I'm afraid, against my better judgment.

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And welcome, for example, to a special Christmas Shooting Stars (BBC2). No, I don't know what that "for example" is doing there either, but that's what Bob Mortimer says - and it's funny. Shooting Stars is about the baffling, the surreal, the unexpected and the unbelievably silly. This festive episode begins with a hanging (of a mouse) and ends with a race (between Ricky Tomlinson and Ronnie Wood, on mobility scooters). In between is half an hour of the usual lunacy.

Bob is impaled, up the arse, on the end of of Vic's electric guitar; Walter Hottle Bottle jumps in slow motion; Ulrikakaka downs a pint of Advocaat in one, then burps loudly; Jack Dee has a face like an abandoned winkle-picker, or a willy warmer with mouse droppings all over it; Joanna Page is Welsh and pronounces words funny; Thandie Newton is pestered by Bob; Angelous has been hiding in the trees outside Ulrikakaka's bedroom; the Christmas tree catches fire; a stuffed buzzard loses its confidence when a cocktail is thrown in its face; Ricky rides a rocking horse while eating chicken drumsticks.

And there are some fiendishly difficult questions. Like: true or false, muesli is a byproduct of coffin-making? (true). And will bacon stick to Bob's face? (Yes). And what's the latest Ron ever stayed up? (Very).

I'm still not convinced it was a good idea to bring back Shooting Stars. It was a show that fitted so perfectly into the 1990s, like Seinfeld and Britpop. But this Christmas special was a party.

Rock and Chips (BBC1), the prequel to Only Fools and Horses with Nicholas Lyndhurst playing his own (well, Rodney's) father Freddie the Frog, returns. I didn't think it was a good idea last time, and there's nothing here to change my mind.

The Inbetweeners' James Buckley gives a spirited performance as a young Del Boy, but he can't rescue a lame duck. Lyndhurst is still no more a gangster than I am. There are some French language misunderstandings as there were last time, more sex pestery by the cinema-manager on Joan (ha ha ha). Humour has moved on from puns and misunderstanding and a bit of how's your father when Reg isn't looking. Actually, there aren't many laughs at all. It all feels a bit like trying to recreate a childhood holiday by going back to the same place, and finding it's not as you remembered. A mistake.

There's a lot missing from Dirk Gently (BBC4). I don't mean the missing cat that scatty and unconventional detective Dirk has been employed to find, or Gordon Way, the billionaire who disappeared at exactly the same time (though time is complicated around here). I'm talking about things in Douglas Adams's novel, vast swaths of it, in fact, that have gone missing in its transformation to the screen. Adams freaks (I think the f-word is justified here) will, no doubt, be cross.

Truth is, though, it would be physically impossible to cram all that wild imagination into 60 minutes of television. If it sounds as if I've read the book and know what the hell I'm talking about, then that's lovely, but misleading; I haven't, though I have spoken to someone who has and he reckons what we have here is the kernel of the book, a kind of digested-watch version of Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency. And also that it captures its essence.

Coming to it fresh, it's a neat story about aforementioned missing cat and time travel, with a smattering of quantum physics and the fundamental connectedness of things. With a lovely performance from Doreen Mantle as the old lady/murderer. Stephen Mangan's good in the title role, too - a teeny bit irritating perhaps, but then Mangan is a teeny bit irritating. So is Dirk Gently, though - it's perfect. Funny too. Quite funny...

Johnny Vegas is perhaps someone you would not automatically associate with Anton Chekhov. Likewise Mackenzie Crook. But here they are in Chekhov: Comedy Shorts (Sky Arts 2). In this first one, A Reluctant Tragic Hero, Vegas plays Tolkachov, a man at the very end of his tether, fed up with running tedious shopping errands for his family. Crook is Murashkin, Tolkachov's mate, who should be - tries to be - sympathetic, but then gets it all wrong and adds to poor Tolkachov's problems.

And hey, it works. Vegas gets to do what he's designed to do - make a lot of noise and be miserable (he has tragedy built into his features). Crook gets to say not very much, be a bit gormless, and have a long, hollow face. Which suits him fine, too. Nineteeth-century Russia could easily be 21st-century anywhere; I guess that - the continuing relevance - is what makes Chekhov a dude. Hey, who said this column can't do serious literary criticism?

Anyway, they're quite good fun, and there are more to come, with other unlikely Chekhovian actors including Steve Coogan, Julia Davies and Mathew Horne. Bring 'em on.

I don't know if you've seen Michael Winterbottom's fine Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story, but there's a funny scene at the end of the film when Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon, both talented impressionists, are trying to out-Al Pacino each other. Well The Trip (BBC2), also directed by Winterbottom, is kind of that scene turned into a six-part road movie with a bit of restaurant criticism thrown in. Coogan and Brydon are driving around the north of England in a Range Rover, supposedly reviewing gourmet establishments for The Observer, while also addressing their midlife problems, indulging in some awkward male bonding, and continuing the battle of the impressions from the previous film.

I'm not entirely sure whether they're being themselves or engaging in some kind of self-parody. It's a bit wanky and self-indulgent to be honest. There is the odd genuinely funny moment - the bad-tempered Michael Caine-off is good - but mostly I felt I wasn't really in on the joke. Possibly the only people who are in on it are Coogan and Brydon.

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