Being a Bob Godfrey fan can be a thankless task.

You mention his name and people, if they respond at all, say “Oh, isn’t he that guy who did Roobarb?” Well, yes he is, and yes he did do Noah and Nelly and Henry’s Cat as well. But for some of us, the absurdist humour and freewheeling stylistic pastiches of his other work, especially 1961′s Do-It Yourself Cartoon Kit and 1975′s GREAT – Isambard Kingdom Brunel, represents the real highpoint of his career.

Astonishingly, Godfrey is now 78, but he has continued to teach animation at Southampton Institute, and the announcement of this sardonic antidote to the media’s commemoration of the last thousand years, with script and lyrics by Colin Pearson (who wrote the Cartoon Kit) pleased me no end.

Not every idea here was particularly fresh or original. The format of cockney-accented backroom boy as narrator with plummy-voiced director telling him what to do recalled GREATto a certain extent, and the setting of the Battle of Hastings to the Match of the Day theme was a bit too Rory Bremner for my liking. The Steam song was grossly inferior to the similarly-conceived IKB and We’re Victorious songs in GREAT, but the skeletons’ Black Death song, the Richard III song, and the Great Plague and Great Fire of London sections were fully up to standard, and the “Wars” section was incredible, pointing out the futility of war without seeming like some contrived bit of “pathos”. I suspect the involvement of The Guardian’s Steve Bell, who was credited as a guest cartoonist. The quickfire succession of 20th century images ending with Time for Peace, the 13th-Century monks’ cod-rap (for me, much funnier as such than Ali G) and the retrospective closing song were a fine conclusion.

Millennium: The Musical breaks no new ground, but as a retrospective of Godfrey’s past work (semi-nude pictures of Gracie Fields and Amy Johnson recall the description of Gina Lollobrigida as “Miss Mavis Clarke, the famous Olympic hurdler” in the Cartoon Kit, and Edward VII’s flying top hats were surely lifted straight from GREAT) it works just fine.

At a time when the rural/fantasy axis of children’s drama is ever more dependent on co-productions (enjoyable though they may often be) and the urban/contemporary/realist axis has largely been brought down to a soapified Grange Hill and Byker Grove, with no identifiable beginnings or endings, the arrival of this adaptation of Malorie Blackman’s novel, a runner-up for the 1998 Carnegie Medal, was welcome.

The fact that all the central characters are black shouldn’t matter, but with the pressure to represent an outmoded vision of Britain that co-productions tend to bring on, unfortunately it does.

If there’s a problem with PHB, it’s the music (too soft and not dramatic enough) and the fact that it can sometimes seem a little too worthy, the dialogue occasionally resembling “dramatised position-papers”, as Mark Lawson said in The Guardian. Sometimes you want the greater viscerality we had in the ’80s from the likes of Running Scared or Break in the Sun. But …

Pig Heart Boy - basically about a 13-year-old who has to have a pig’s heart transplant to live – was a very well-acted and well-written piece. It may have had quite a few contemporary references (Chelsea FC, the Vengaboys playing in the first episode) but it didn’t suffer anything like as much as it might have done from the ’90s’ most abiding trend in children’s TV, the imbuing of it with “hipness” at the expense of more enduring dramatic values. Although the overall look of Pig Heart Boy was still glossier than I’d have preferred, it managed to get across Cameron’s feelings of betrayal towards Marlon when the story was sold to the tabloids, and his feelings that he had to achieve certain targets in football and swimming, even if he endangered his life, much better than some of us feared. The attack on Cameron by an animal-rights extremist at the end of episode five was a very effective cliffhanger, as well.

After reaching a low point of depression in the final episode, Cameron’s awareness of his grandmother’s mortality convinced him to carry on (a genuine learning curve for him, as opposed to the ongoing soaps, with their fast-moving, uncontemplative quality). The final scene, with the birth of Cameron’s baby brother, was, admittedly, weak and rather sappy in its execution. But I anticipated the last episode with something close to the anticipation I had as a child, which must say something positive.

These are heady times for British sitcoms. Much of the talent that has been allowed to flourish within the sketch show format have been directed at this decried element of TV. The work of Aherne, Wood and Pegg have met with popular approval, and at last there appears to be a way forward. How Do You Want Me? has largely missed out on the hype. Yet it is far better thandinnerladies, The Royle Family or the really rather pisspoor Spaced.

Nye’s sitcom background further separates him from his bedfellows. It is perhaps more useful to compare him to the only other post Young Ones sitcom writer to attain a large, credible audience with a long running sitcom based on new lads. However, whilst Doug Naylor has continued to flog Red Dwarf for all it’s worth (and you may not like it, but it still gets a sizeable BBC2 audience) he has failed to produce anything else of lasting value. Nye seemed to recognise how stale Men Behaving Badly had become and realised it was best to give it up. Consequently, How Do You Want Me? has benefited from a writer once again seemingly fresh with ideas. Gary and Tony were his adolescence, this is for the big boys.

Tonight’s episode was beguilingly good. Nye was able to trot out a typical soap opera “will they get back together again” storyline and yet ensure that the audience remained concerned. The difference lay in the motivation: soap opera conflict is contrived and meted out to characters by rote. Nye’s scripts come about as a result of a journey lead by his characters. And what characters! Dean is the boorish flipside to Men Behaving Badly‘s Gary: physically sinister, whose childish mentality is more threatening then amusing, Frank Finlay’s Astley Yardley is unremittingly unpleasant, and unable to compromise one iota of his prejudiced beliefs. There is detail in the writing and the performing and this allows the humour and the drama to emit from the people and not the plotlines.

Tonight’s episode continued to dodge dramatic convention yet was able to adhere to a typical end of series motif: namely, allowing the lead character to challenge the central dilemma thus threatening the continuation of the series. Ian’s temporary submission to the hostility of his environment was understandable and something of a relief for those of us who have suffered with him throughout the last 12 episodes. Yet his reversal at series end was equally understandable. Those who live amidst difficult situations assess their life in markedly different ways depending on their state of mind. It’s this kind of perceptive writing – along with top jokes – that has made How Do You Want Me? something of a treat. Let’s hope for more, but not for too much more.

Like its predecessor 40 Minutes, Modern Times has always found space for a rather charming, old-fashioned view of “Englishness”.

Sometimes this works - MT was recently home to Martin Parr’s “Think of England”, a beautifully ambivalent view of Little England (although there were moments when one’s sympathy inevitably spilt over into contempt, such as the racist yobbism encountered in Blackpool). But at other times, it can entertain without being anything special. Colin Napthine’s film “A Passion for Pedigree” was one of the latter examples.

The world of dog-breeding, like that of private education, often seems inscrutable to the outsider, with its snobbery against mongrels not a million miles away from snobbery against the “lower classes”. The breeders here tended to fit in with stereotypes – so we had the chairwoman of Crufts a spinster who never took her hat off, an American breeder of St Bernards, an elderly couple painfully obsessed with Clumber spaniels, a decidedly eccentric lady owning 23 Pekingese, and the more “rough-edged”,”working-class” breeders, with devastating predictability, breeding less “respectable” dogs, Rottweilers.

The hallmark of this film was a kind of self-conscious quaintness, from the jaunty music that introduces it to the recurring use of a version of the Desert Island Discs theme tune played from an ancient Binatone radio.

At the end, there was the bout of melancholia that tends to finish these films (see also the 1995 “Living Dead” film which ended with an old-school High Tory struggling to remember the words to “Land of Hope and Glory”), as the Pekingese woman recounts going to Crufts the week after her husband’s death, the Clumber spaniel couple pondering the fate of their memorabilia after their demise, and a Pekingese suffering a traumatic birth. Enjoyable, but this format is becoming rather predictable, and it seems possible that Modern Times is losing some of its original emotional range.

The importance of sport in our society is rarely properly scrutinised. It is without question that we believe sporting stories are appropriate subject matter for our news vessels, sitting without incongruity beside matters of life and death. But then again, we often view our sport in Bill Shankly terms.

Tonight’s celebration of a century of sporting achievement provoked memories unshackled from any particular sporting arena. There was a gamut of emotion on display. The emotional symbolism still bound up in Muhammad Ali played out again tonight as John Inverdale rather foolhardily attempted to seek erudition from six of his successors. An awkward silence concluded this section of the programme as Ryder failed to find his cue and Inverdale tried to decide whether a fill was appropriate. Only Ali seemed unconfused. Yet, this was not the only occasion that presenters missed their cues, or VT editors delayed in running the next montage. On one occasion the overseas Sports Personality of the Year (no less) got no further than “I would like to say …” before Clare Balding decided it was time to introduce the snooker. Predictably, Des Lynam was conspicuous by his absence.

Hyperbole abounds in sports reporting, so it was refreshing to hear Inverdale describe this year’s Rugby World Cup final as “drab”. In fact, predictably, Inverdale’s interviews were easily the most engaging, displaying his ability to ask questions designed to unveil a little more of the sportsman’s thought process. He always displayed an ability to consider sporting achievements within their appropriate context. Yet most other matters tonight were dealt with as affairs of state. Clips were accompanied not by pop music (as is current tradition), but classical music. The Manchester United montage contained byte after byte of news reports. Tellingly, this section betrayed a little of this decade’s biggest British sports story, as radio commentary was tagged to footage from other places than the BBC archive.

John MacEnroe (another straight talker) regaled us with his reminiscences (1980: “It taught me a lesson – I got more respect for losing than winning”) and gushed still with his passion for tennis. Yet, once again, Ali’s presence was felt even in this most traditional of sports. As the night continued it was the sporting figures that had stoked controversy that emerged as the real heroes; MacEnroe, Alex Higgins, Piggott; the mercurial geniuses or controversialists, not the hoarders of titles and trophies. Yet there is no inconsistency here. This programme is deliberately titled to ensure that it is the personalities that are celebrated and assessed (after all an award for best Sportsman not personality would be as nonsensical as an attempt to rate Lennon, Picasso and Joyce). As usual, this was an occasion for the BBC to position themselves at the heart of British heritage. The awards were prefigured with the usual stock BBC music, and pomp. Yet it was difficult not to question their significance.

Finally, Best, Bradman, Nicklaus and Owens, paled in front of Ali (he amassed more votes then the others combined) as Sports Personality of the Century. His frailty was as affecting as you would expect it to be. The applause was obvious and long, and his speech shaken. Why bring him here to collect this? In a night of uncomfortable moments this was the most uncomfortable.

To the best of my knowledge, no one talks about Have I Got News For You anymore.

Tonight the 18th series drew to a respectable close. There is a consistency to the programme that has remained throughout its 10 year run. Deayton began with another variation on his endless “… unless of course you’re watching the Sunday repeat” joke, and the audience verbally smirked – much as they ever do. Hislop has described HIGNFY as a pleasant verbal joust, and the sense of membership to a gentlemen’s club certainly pervades the programme these days. Tonight’s guests (Lord Deedes and Will Self) were cut of typical HIGNFY cloth – Deedes: slightly eccentric and never-quite-sure of what programme he’s on, Self: understanding of the rules and keen to display his ability to play comedic hard ball with the big boys. As usual, the eccentric was the originator of most of the better laughs, and once again suspicions were raised that these old duffers know exactly what they are doing.

Of course, the jokes are scripted. Well they might as well be. Deayton recycles with regularity “meanwhile back at the quiz”, and at least once or twice a series there is a “Lee and Herring’… and that was just the teachers’” type joke. Merton’s comedic talent doesn’t require a sense of humour, more an ability to create suitably juxtaposed images quicker then your colleagues and on a more regular basis. Therefore, when coupled with a guest who exploits a similar vein (as tonight), he remains dormant electing to chase the punchline only when sure he will win. Hislop on the other hand, continues to use each broadcast as an opportunity to campaign. There was a time when we believed that he (editor of Private Eye, Oxbridge graduate, friend of Peter Cook) must be funny. Now, however, we have come to accept that his wit is seldom more sophisticated than a biscuit-registering Neil Hamilton. Yet, we find the little fella rather endearing all the same.

For a programme that has consistently attained high viewing figures over such a period of time,HIGNFY‘s memorable moments have been few and far between. Hislop’s gauche cross-examinations of undesirable intruders spring to mind. Paula Yates’ short shrift was memorable not so much for her reaction, but for Hislop’s bloody-mindedness. Tom Baker trivialising the entire proceeding lives on in the memory too (and not just for Who related reasons). Yet there are few other “TV’s Greatest Hits” type episodes. None the less, in the face of its downmarket competitors, HIGNFY has stuck rigidly to the format it has made its own, resisting the urge to undermine for the sake of a cheap gag. Mark Lamarr always took too much delight when the Buzzcockers chose to stand on their desks, or swap teams. Undermining your own rules is not particularly rebellious, nor is it revolutionary TV. Nor is it funny. Nor is Sean Hughes. Nor is Nick Hancock.

Jonathan Ross did tell a particularly amusing anecdote on this week’s They Think It’s All Overthough.

Channel 5 isn’t where you would expect to encounter challenging, quality TV. Doomwatch proved an unsuccessful attempt at subverting that assumption. It’s not that this programme was intrinsically bad, there was the essence of some fine aspirations faintly palpable somewhere within the thing, but ultimately it proved an ugly, uncomfortable spectacle. Let’s go back to the ’70s, again.

The original Doomwatch kicked off that decade with extraordinary imagination and passion. This was a series led by a sense of outrage with a mandate to both illuminate and explain. Topics such as chemical warfare, pollution, waste disposal, genetic engineering and overcrowded housing were explored in a discursive, yet pacey manner. Most importantly – albeit after some petty espionage action committed by John Ridge (that oh-so-’70s carouser, dragging on fags and getting “stoned” in the pub) – the arguments for and against every issue were explored thoroughly and clearly. It was this debate that was at the root of the series. Our ’90s version didn’t shy away from that, it just seemed incapable of stringing an argument together.

For a viewer, actually following tonight’s Doomwatch was an extraordinarily demanding task. Characters appeared with little introduction, as though they existed simply to serve the purpose of a scene, or a story thread. For too long, events seemed disparate and unrelated. TheDoomwatch group itself remained diffused as a concept and virtually unexplained. Problems were rationalized and addressed only via fast-taking scientific jargon, which in itself was meaningless. Technology could do everything (surveillance cameras can go anywhere; computers talk, apparently sentient; mobile ‘phones operate within high security power plants). And those preposterous angel characters that drove Hugo Cox’s oversized PC! For a programme that’s based on a credible extrapolation of the dark potential of technology, this sort of “magic” served to undermine Doomwatch‘s credibility and fatally so.

But it was not intrinsically bad. The characterization outstripped the quality of the plotting, and by a long chalk. In particular, the new, aged Quist was a credible and agreeable extension of the ’70s original. One could see the late John Paul still playing this maverick, slightly pious character and as a replacement Philip Stone was more than adequate. Similarly, Quist’s death was handled with apt portent and subtlety making this easily the most affecting moment of the whole piece. But, and we’re back to “buts” again I’m afraid, Doomwatch‘s depiction of government agencies was woefully silly – men in dark glasses driving around, killing in inventive, Bondian ways. The original series showed far more successfully, that governments subvert and even kill through far less bawdy tactics; by dragging their heels, by wielding the Official Secrets Act, by committing important decisions to paperwork and bureaucracy.

OK, so I didn’t like it much, that’s true. And yet … I’m still rooting for a proper series to spin-off from this mess. Why? As the episode climaxed in a rush of sci-fi babble and poorly realised computer graphics, and as Dr Neil Tannahil returned to his equations, we were left with Dr Toby Ross in governance over a dangerously unstable black-hole (our macguffin). Here I caught a glimpse of something I liked: “We remain on permanent critical alert” said Dr Ross, “and contact the military for standby evacuation procedures.” That’s proper Doomwatch, I thought, still not saving the world.

We all remember Saturday nights on BBC1 in the ’70s. Brilliant weren’t they? Saturday night was alright for Basil Brush, Tom Baker, Brucie and Parkie. Saturday night was BBC1 Night from Grandstand through to Match of the Day.

Well … maybe. It’s easy nostalgia like this that’s brought into bat whenever there’s a spate of BBC bashing to be had. But is it fair to compare the ’90s best-day-of-the-week telly to its ’70s forbear? And is it a meaningful comparison, anyway? Probably not, as Sunday nights have long since taken over as the crucial battleground for ratings, leaving Saturdays all but a wasteland when it comes to distinctive quality programming.

But then there’s Jonathan Creek.

In an evening where Jim Davidson sings Boyzone (cf. The Generation Game) Jonathan Creekis something of a peculiarity – an imaginative, quirky, witty piece which successfully targets the family audience without gunging them. How did this sore-thumb of a programme come to be? My theory is that the BBC, as bean-counting, bureaucratic and boring as it’s currently perceived to be, is thankfully still vulnerable to the notion of the auteur. In much the same way that the Corporation was grateful to take anything Jimmy McGovern would give them (and some could say he exploited that with the McGovern-by-numbers The Lakes) it would seem that David Renwick was similarly entrusted to pull another rabbit out of the proverbial. That’s my theory anyway and whilst it pretty much sounds the death knell for new programming coming from the grass roots, it still represents a chance for imaginative, challenging telly.

Ironically, then, tonight’s Creek was the worst one to date, almost parodic in it’s unlikeliness. The essence of Creek is that through the course of our heroes’ investigations an impossible feat is distilled into a mundane, albeit complicated, one. Tonight, however, a pact with the Devil was finally unmasked as the monarchy secretly funding a bastard offspring. This was the impossible transformed into the highly unlikely. Not such an elegant trick.

Yet there was still much to enjoy. The characters of Jonathan and Maddy are now as comfortable to us and as consistent as Eric and Ernie (another touchstone of the ’70s BBC). Similarly the programme has an established structure which it employs very successfully at each outing; the intriguing impossible mystery and the comical B-story which bears only the barest relation to the main plotline. The former is played out before the latter (which finishes up every episode) and both end with a twist in the tale. Formulaic TV, you reckon? Not a bit of it, because it’s within this sturdy structure that Renwick is consistently able to confound and, therefore, delight us. The plotting reveals itself in sparks, in dizzying leaps of logic and, most importantly, in jokes. The pivotal moment of tonight’s Creek occurred whilst we were laughing at a misassumption that Maddy was Jewish (a throwaway gag that ran happily throughout the episode) as she struggled for a seat in the public gallery of a court room where our B-story was taking place. It was here that the camera began it’s inexorable pan in on Jonathan, as watching Maddy kicked off associations in his mind that, for him, unlocked the mystery. Moments like this jump out at the viewer and provoke their involvement (“What has Jonathan realised?”) in a far more active and participatory manner than guessing who’s going to end up at Holby General and with what injury.

If I was 17 again, or 12, or 8, Jonathan Creek would be my favourite programme on the telly.Jonathan Creek is my favourite programme on the telly. It has the verve and confidence to hold the family audience, neither playing down to the younger viewers, nor tipping a wink to the older ones. It’s Basil Brush, Tom Baker, Brucie and Parkie solving crimes … committed by Jim Davidson, Ballsy and Noel Edmonds. In a night’s viewing of unambitious telly, Jonathan Creekis a revelation. An impossibly good programme.

It was a cold wet night in November and what splendid entertainment.

There is something gratifying about seeing the big old telly celebrate something which has such a personal meaning to you. I remember Doctor Who winning the BBC award for Best Ever Drama a few years ago. I knew it was a fix, but seeing it applauded by real grown up people who don’t really understand was particularly heart warming. Doctor Who had gone legitimate! Likewise seeing this week’s Radio Times with its proper Doctor Who cover (don’t be fooled in to thinking this a proper recognition of its popularity by the BBC, it’s a cynical “collector’s item” in the making; just you wait for the reader’s special offer to buy exclusive prints) warmed the cockles. After all this, the content of BBC2′s Doctor Who Night was always going to be rather irrelevant. A friend of mine once remarked that he’d happily watch Patrick Stewart fart in a jar. Likewise the bowel movements of any of the incarnations of the Doctor would hold an appeal (albeit morbid) for me.

Having been off the screen for 10 years, it was always going to prove difficult to conjure up a new slant on the Time Lord. More Than Thirty Years in the Tardis has pretty much covered all the bases, and unless someone were to extract the salacious side of Doctor Who, there was little chance of either of the documentaries telling us something we didn’t already know. All the participants trotted out their standard responses and the only real surprise was the alacrity in which the Pertwee era was dealt with. No matter, this night was geared towards the “real folk” anyway, and our thrills were to be extracted from enjoying the packaging. Doctor Who in a hip ’90s context was always going to be appetising. From the iconic power of the Dalek BBC2 logo to the hip text fonts in the documentaries, one felt that Russell T Davies’ vaunted Doctor Who 2000 was already here (in essence anyway). Then of course there was Tom Baker.

Perhaps it took Have I Got News For You for the Who community to realise that Tom was always our best ambassador. He has an appeal to a mainstream audience that cuts across the potential embarrassment factor. In short he is the Doctor you would most like to have a pint with. Tom did not need to work for his money on this particular gig. He simply imbued his linking material with his customary sparkling eyes. Having become accustomed to his fixation on religion and love, he seemed slightly reined in here. But then again such observations had no real part in these proceedings. He looked great and like everything else, one was invited to enjoy the packaging. Content was irrelevant for this night – with one exception.

Gatiss and Walliams were the only source of any real new material during the entire evening. Sketches written by people in the know who are also funny is a unique phenomenon for Doctor Who. Sly digs at post Season 18 and insulting remarks regarding some of the Doctor’s acting abilities were delivered as if they were proper jokes and not anal fan things. The Web of Caveslooked like Doctor Who circa Patrick Troughton (actually kind of like the beginning of “The Krotons”, or “The Dominators”) with Gatiss playing a great, hen-pecked Doctor, and The Kidnappers seemed to be broadcast directly from Royston Vasey. Splendid sketches all of them.

So all in all a thoroughly entertaining night. I didn’t much care for the actual Doctor Whoepisode of course, and I switched off halfway through the movie. However, one was left with an essence of what Doctor Who could’ve been had it continued past 1989. Every Who fan carries with them a fear that one day it will come back and they will discover they don’t like it anymore. Tonight allayed those fears. Without providing us with a single snippet of “real” Doctor Who, BBC2 made us feel as if – for one night – the TARDIS had rematerialised. Time to stick on your copy of “Doctor In Distress”?

This one will sort out the men from the boys.

In some circles the arrival of The Magician’s House marked a television event more momentous than that prehistoric nonsense the BBC keep trying to push down our throats (am I alone in thinking that some of the dinosaur effects in Walking With Dinosaurs are pretty questionable?) Expectation does strange things to your enjoyment, and it was as a comparative study that I sat down to watch The Magician’s House. On the plus side, Ian Richardson has always had the making of an excellent Hartnellesque Doctor Who, and the blurb in the Radio Times with its talk of time-travelling magicians and children sent away to stay with relatives at Christmas was lip smackingly, Box of Delights-ingly tempting. Anticipation was tempered by the news thatThe Magician’s House was to be a co-production. US sentimentality is the very antithesis of great British children’s drama, surely the last genre on TV to be able to exude genuine evil when required.

To formulate a reaction from 30 minutes is difficult. Certainly Paul Lynch’s direction appositely framed our protagonists as vulnerable and observed. The effects were competent but refreshingly presented as part of the narrative and not set pieces. Richardson, did not disappoint but failed to really throw himself into the part (perhaps later episodes will bear witness to his theatrical range). Pearson made a competent dad (a role which rarely presents the actor with a great deal to do), and the other cast members proved to be never less then adequate. The narrative unfolded in pleasingly predictable style, episode one laying the foundations and successfully introducing an acceptable series of questions which we await to see resolved. However, the whole thing was distinctly lacking in jeopardy. The seditious narrative of The Box of Delights makes episode one of this drama appear frugal in comparison. It’s as if an audience now starved of such fantastique will find satisfaction in mere morsels, when what we really want is a narrative with real impertinence.

So then, the most pertinent question that remains is the extent to which The Magician’s Househas been created as a continuance of traditional British children’s drama, and how much of that categorisation is a reflection of this reviewer’s own predilections. Certainly the author has pedigree (adaptor of The Machine Gunners), and the scheduling and billing appear to acknowledge children’s drama at least as far back as Narnia. Beyond that, perhaps the true driver behind The Magician’s House is the potential foreign markets. One feels if my affections lay with co-productions I could eulogise interminably on the stylistic debt owed to the Danson led adaptation of Gulliver’s Travels that so successfully entertained us some Easters ago. WillThe Magician’s House catalyse a dramatic renaissance in fantasy drama? If so will it be my type of fantasy drama?