Andrew Billen

Billy Connolly interview

'Parkinson's? I don't joke about it, but I'm light about it'.

Alan Davies interview

The comedian has written a memoir revealing the molestation he suffered as a child. Andrew Billen meets him.

Frank Skinner interview

"I talk about sex the way a Battle of Britain veteran might talk about the war."

Mental health? It's never been taboo for us

Ruby Wax's children are following in her footsteps by launching themselves as a comedy duo.

Billy Connolly & Me review

A huge roster of civilians and celebrities lined up to tell us about the transformative and healing powers of Billy Connolly's comedy.

Dave Gorman: Modern Life Is Goodish review

The show was a little tour de force, terrific-ish.

Cold Comford was this week's Inside No. 9, the number nine in this case being the booth at a version of the Samaritans, the Comfort Support Line.

Steve Pemberton was Andy, its new occupant who quickly realised, first, that his co-workers were not folk anyone should ever confide in and, then, that he too had no talent for "active listening".

Jane Horrocks was good as the office gossip "politely encouraged to move on", but the ultimate twist was crude, and the insight that those who offer help need it most just a little banal - by this series' standards, at least.

Comedy, they say, is subjective. I compared the first story of the new series of Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith's Inside No. 9 with Chaucer's Prologue, thereby offending at least one reader who thought its "puerile humour" as "flatulent as its one-dimensional figures". If he hated last night's play, The 12 Days of Christine, it will be for different reasons. Humour did not really come into this dark tale, and if Pemberton played one of his usual sympathetic gay men, Sheridan Smith gave tragic depth to its central character, Christine.

It began with the camera focusing on a Christmas bauble, dully reflecting the intermittent flashes of the lights on its tree. Later, a flickering fluorescent light would extend the clue: this was a play, delivered in 12 fragments spaced over a decade, about a human memory's spasmodic grasp. The Saturnalian confusions of the first scene parodied what we would, by the end, realise was Christine's friable mental conditional.

It is New Year's Eve and she, dressed as a nun, is back from a party having copped off with a pretend fireman. The next scene, set on Valentine's Day, by which time she and Adam are an item, reveals she is a shoe-fitter, flat-sharing with an unsympathetic science student studying, as it happens, "measurable magnitudes".

As she and Adam's relationship progresses through marriage, sleepless parenthood, the death of her father and separation, Christine becomes half-convinced that she is being haunted by her goofy first boyfriend who, she has forgotten, died at the age of 16. Christine has, says her mother, a memory like a sieve. At this stage, the viewer will be more interested in the thought that Christine has deliberately blocked the lad out and that he has come back into her life seeking revenge. A crash in which Christine is injured appears later to have been caused by him walking in front of her car.

Shearsmith and Pemberton have long been interested in ghost stories, finding an affinity between their breaches of realism and comedy's transgressions. What is remarkable is they have used this trope and a troupe of comedy actors - notably the excellent Michele Dotrice, who plays Christine's mum - to make a serious statement about the supernatural. A haunting, it is strongly suggested, is a symptom of mental illness, in this caser early-onset dementia. Life for Christine has become a nightmare version of her favourite game: blind man's bluff.

The final scene is set again at Christmas, this time around a family table, in which all appears to have been restored. Adam and Christine are back together. Her Alzheimic father, who had died, is alive once more. She is presented with a book of photos, her life in pictures. She feels it "flashing by" - and with sudden, awful clarity, Christine works out what has happened. So do we. Her son returns from a nativity play dressed as an angel. Her favourite CD, Con te Partiro, strikes up, sung by an artist known for his physical rather than mental blindness.

This was a masterpiece, whether or not my interpretation is right (it could have been one long dying dream). It was shown on Maundy Thursday, presumably, only because, despite its Yule-like bookends, we would not have had the stomach for it at Christmas.

The return of Inside No. 9 was a delight. Strangers trapped in a train compartment, in this case a TGV couchette, is hardly more original a starting point than time travel, but Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith, who wrote and starred, scored a laugh ever few seconds and then a home run with a savage resolution.

The remarkable thing - and here credit is shared with a cast that included Mark Benton and Julie Hesmondhalgh - was that the passengers were little more than stereotypes: a drunken German; a tarty Aussie backpacker; a control-freak Englishman and Jack Whitehall (who has become a type all by himself). Yet they were as fresh as the pilgrims in Chaucer's Prologue.

There was a point during the third of Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith's Inside No. 9 playlets when I thought Mind might be able to use this episode to teach insights into mental illness. The question was who was ill: Pemberton's tramp Migg who inveigled himself into Tom's flat or Tom, for letting him in? Soon Shearsmith's Tom was as psychologically homeless as Migg had been physically and rejecting all the kindness of a camp teacher colleague (the excellent Conleth Hill) who came bearing Body Shop vouchers. Would his girlfriend Gerri (Gemma Atherton return?

It was a distressing comedy to watch and, thanks to the body-in-the-bath ending, set back public awareness of mental health by at least half an hour. Its only redeeming qualities were the acting, the scripting, the satisfactions of one-act resolutions and the laughter it generated.