Pam Ayres was all dewy-eyed over a new grandson, penned an ode to a mangle and reflected on the bittersweet experience of children leaving home.

Ayres' style of old-fashioned, cosy humour isn't everyone's cup of tea, but it's refreshing not to have to listen to yet another comedian's political rant or personal agenda. And plenty of one-liners are equal to those delivered by Ayres' much younger comic peers. Students, said Geoffrey Whitehead, playing her husband, sleep all day - just think of them as hamsters who text.

Heresy's simple format involves Victoria Coren and guests attempting to expose the wrong-headedness of received wisdom.

In the first programme, Coren was joined by comedians Lee Mack and David Schneider, and writer-broadcaster Germaine Greer. They argued about Andy Murray, whom Schneider described as "the Gordon Brown of tennis", and the merits of urban foxes.

The show's trump card involves members of the audience - not that their contributions raised the laughter bar much, but they at least provided some respite from the mostly predictable panel patter and comedic one-upmanship.

Sketchorama, a showcase for live sketch groups from around the UK, lived up to its billing - being very sketchy indeed. Delete the Banjax, Lady Garden and Idiots of Ants all had an equally timed stab at attacking the funny bone over a half hour presented by Humphrey Ker, and thankfully there was the odd gem among some pretty pedestrian satire. Though this opening episode felt very much like student union comedy, the showcase format means next week's programme could contain hilarity of the highest order - hopefully. It's just no fun heckling a radio.

Starting any new comedy four-parter with a skit on MPs expenses seems a bit uninspired given just how long jokes about duck houses and moats have been around now. But, the first offering of 15-minute long satire, Strap In - It's Clever Peter, from the writing team that created Cabin Pressure (2008) and Another Case Of Milton Jones (first aired in 2005), had much to recommend it. It's a wise decision to make it very short, it's sharp witted, impressively silly and for the main, pretty original. Older listeners may have noted an obvious steal of Monty Python's imprisoned milkmen sketch, here an 86-year-old woman turning the tables on various conning tradesmen. That aside, this first instalment was fresh, consistently funny and thankfully not too self-indulgent - the curse of many new comedies.

Radio 4's Spike Milligan - The Serious Poet, focused on the celebrated member of the Goons, manic depressive and enthusiastic Mini owner, who was also an intense, creative writer of highly diverse poetry. Here, the intimate, personal recollections of his daughters enabled listeners to get a fair way inside the mindset of the troubled, unpredictable, but marvellously mischievous wordsmith who often admitted to feeling like a child trapped inside a man's body. According to one daughter, he was always resigned to his fate of only being remembered for The Goon Show, and that, she admits, has essentially proved true.

While many comics would be very happy with that quality of legacy, it's clear that Spike (born Terence Alan Patrick Sean), had many other creative ambitions, poetry being an important outlet for his deeply personal feelings about everything from his complicated personal relationships, through to losing friends in the war, a brutal experience that haunted him right up until his own death in 2002.

These days, celebrities have five-star specialist retreats to help them deal with personal issues and addictions, but in Milligan's day, the safety nets available were more threadbare, and treatments less sophisticated. "Men in white coats used to visit [the family house] and administer electric shock treatment to dad," recalls one daughter, remembering such events as just normal days in a clearly abnormal, but loving home environment. If there is an upside to the terribly debilitating depression that he often suffered, it's that it inspired him to write some impressive, powerfully personal poetry. He also wrote some sublimely silly verse, a kind of comic safety valve from his personal despair.

Listen Against, the new satirical series on Radio 4, got off to a pretty ropey start, the first three minutes feeling more like 30. But, just as finishing off my bathroom grouting was starting to feel like a more fun prospect than continuing listening, a few original comic ideas actually began to surface. Nowhere near enough though to make me contemplate tuning in again to what was largely pedestrian satirical fare targeting mostly predictable subjects. Not even if B&Q is shut and the grouting all finished.

A lot of dirt seems to have been dished out about Peter Sellers since his death 30 years ago, mostly honing in on his allegedly volatile temper, family life and unpredictable behaviour on set. But, thankfully, Archive on 4: Sellers in the Attic was just a great, hour-long wallow in his eccentric, unique comedy legacy. It helped that the presenter, comedy writer and historian Glenn Mitchell is clearly a huge Sellers fan, recalling how he scoured local record shops for rare recordings when young. Amid the obvious nods to the Goons and Pink Panther series of hit comedies, the programme contained snippets that gave a real insight of a man totally unimpressed by comic convention and always willing to push boundaries. This includes recording a version of the Beatles' Hard Day's Night in the guise of Laurence Olivier, appearing as a punch drunk boxer turned action painter alongside Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, and mocking the works of poet, William McGonagall, whom he described as truly awful. Given his huge success in Hollywood later in his career, it's a little sad that he describes working with his fellow Goons "as the happiest period of [his] life" in comparison. Warts and all, three decades since his demise, Sellers remains fascinating.

Comedians seem rarely willing to share the limelight, much less any good gags. Not so Sarah Millican, who appears quite happy to front, but not dominate proceedings in her Thursday night Support Group series on Radio 4. Playing Sarah, a life counsellor and modern-day agony aunt, she tackles such thorny personal issues as, 'My mother is behaving like a teenager - she's 50 not 15!'. As good as she is in episode two, it's Simon Day who steals the show, perfect as Terry, a character who makes white van men sound like a highly erudite species. It's not laugh out loud, but plenty of titters were indeed had - and a note made about tuning in for next week's no doubt doleful dollop of personal woes.

Comedy probably divides opinion like nothing else - what one generation finds rib-tickling, another can find unfunny, even distasteful. Having started his stand-up career in Edinburgh back in 1987, some might consider Frank Skinner a somewhat fossilised funster now compared to the new, young names on today's circuit. But, during Radio 4's Chain Reaction, it's clear that fellow, albeit very different, comedian and guest interviewer, Dave Gorman, has a healthy respect for the banjo-playing Brummie as he reflects on his love of live performance, football and even outdoor toilets. Dubbed a comedian of the lad culture age, Skinner admits success could have easily made him complacent now he's hit middle age and got money in the bank, but seems determined to try new avenues of comedy.

Growing up, he reveals, he wanted to be a cowboy, footballer or a pop star. Having recently rediscovered his musical bent, all he needs now is to adapt an old George Formby song and he could be storming the charts again, like when Three Lions hit number one and made him a truly household name. The next Chain Reaction sees Skinner swap chairs and interview Eddie Izzard - comedic chalk and cheese if ever there was, not least in wardrobe and make-up departments.

Any radio show that's just started its 51st series has to be considered a national treasure. Described as an antidote to panel games, Radio 4's I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue may be mainly cosy, middle class comedy fare, but it's impossible not to warm to the panel's total enthusiasm - including Barry Cryer and Victoria Wood - and eagerness with which the live audience boos and claps at every opportunity. Now using rotating chairmen, after the death of Humphrey Lyttelton last year, Stephen Fry sets the bar high here for those following, clearly relishing the banter he has with his quick-witted colleagues. Criticising such an institution may be tantamount to heresy, but adding 15 minutes to the 30 wouldn't do any harm.