John Cleese tested for sleeping disorder

John Cleese is hooked up to tubes and wires - to be tested for a sleep disorder.

What is it with the name Kevin and connections? In the film world it is Kevin Bacon who is separated from all other actors by six degrees or fewer. In the British comedy world it is Kevin Eldon. Though you probably don't know his name, his face is familiar from Big Train, Nighty Night, Fist of Fun, Brass Eye, I'm Alan Partridge, and so on. He is, in other words, part of that Armando Iannucci-Chris Morris-Stewart Lee set; but until now he has always been in the background, performing cameos.

His own TV show It's Kevin (Sunday, BBC Two) seemed fresh, unpredictable, and, more importantly, funny, especially the opening number in which he sings about the show's title. I had a sneak preview of the second episode, because I enjoyed the first so much, and was pleased to see he sings a different variation on this each week. I was also glad to see the return of a sketch from episode one which imagined what "Naughty German Adolf Hitler" would be like if he spoke as plummily as Beatles producer Sir George Martin.

This was in the tradition of surreal juxtaposition favoured by Monty Python. Another sketch, about a man with a strange medical condition called Soundtrackitis (which meant that his every utterance was accompanied by a relevant clip of music), also felt Pythonesque. And the way Eldon linked sketches by addressing the audience directly from a sofa on a white set reminded you of the John Cleese links in And Now For Something Completely Different.

While all this may suggest that, actually, it is almost impossible to be completely different in comedy, I felt Eldon had a good stab at it. Confident and imaginative, the sense of humour reminded me of another unsung comedy stalwart Simon Munnery, and when I saw Munnery popping up in odd sketches it made sense that they would be friends.

The sketches were a bit uneven and felt a bit student fringe-like at times. But I liked Eldon's take-it-or-leave swagger. And some of the throwaway lines such as "Queuing is a great British tradition, like the Proms and dogging" made me laugh out loud.

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Modern British farce - anything post-Carry On - is tricky to pull off: witness the dire remake of Run For Your Wife, released in cinemas last month, which quite rightly took less than £700 on its opening weekend. But John Cleese's 1988 heist comedy caper is a multi-award-winning classic. Cleese stars as married uptight barrister Archie Leach (the sort of part Colin Firth would play today) who falls for a sexy jewel thief called Wanda (Jamie Lee Curtis). However, it's Kevin Kline's Oscar-winning turn as Wanda's psychotic, armpit-sniffing, Neitzsche-reading 'brother', Otto, who steals the film while Michael Palin puts in adorable comedy support as an animal-loving stutterer called Ken. Simply Wandaful.

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The original stars of cult comedy Monty Python look set to reunite once more for a new movie. John Cleese, Terry Gilliam and Michael Palin are all said to be voicing characters of a group of aliens in the film who grant wishes to humans for laughs.

All performers, and especially comedians, would like to have credibility. This was the subject of Funny Business (BBC Two), a show in which I took a personal interest, because I once harboured the illusion that I could do after-dinner speeches and commercials and thereby pick up some easy money.

Until recently, straight actors lost credibility if they did commercials. Sir Laurence Olivier did a Polaroid commercial, but only on the understanding that it would never be screened in the UK. Today, however, George Clooney hustles coffee and Brad Pitt barks for Chanel No5. The money might go to charity, but it still counts as a fast buck. Nevertheless, the actors get away with it.

For the comedians it has always been a hard choice. A commercial will look like slumming unless it is funny enough to be thought of as part of the comedian's repertoire. Another question mark hangs over the corporate event appearance, where months of big bucks can be earned in a single night. But people who haven't paid to see you, and who are sitting at round tables which ensure that many of them are facing the wrong way, are a soul-destroying prospect.

Intelligent comic operatives such as Barry Cryer, John Lloyd and John Cleese were united in the opinion that the business opportunities form part of the career. But I can say from experience that it hurts when it goes wrong. I once did a big, expensive set of plugs for Australian Telecom in the very year that their opposition came out with a better product. And the money wasn't all that easy. There is a small hill of red dirt somewhere near Alice Springs that is flatter now because of the number of times I had to walk up it.

Funny Business, narrated by Radio 4 newsman Eddie Mair, showed us what comedians were doing when they weren't monopolising television - to wit selling their souls at lucrative corporate dinners. Here was the menu - half an hour of Michael McIntyre for £40,000, Ricky Gervais for £25,000. Lesser lights got less, but how could you resist? You were right there in the shop window prostituting your art. One lavish event, the Real Variety Show, with its audience of hardnosed business types, could land you 30 other corporate gigs. Jo Brand and Arthur Smith bared their shame but took the money. Everyone had experience of being ignored on stage. Rhod Gilbert was visibly distressed as he relived the night he found himself talking to the back of Sir Alex Ferguson's head at a footballers' beano in Mayfair.

It was revealing but long-winded, and I found myself wondering how much Eddie Mair was getting paid as we drifted into the overvisited realm of vintage advertising with its (yawn) clips of Fry and Laurie selling cigars and John Cleese being zany in the service of Schweppes. "Wherever you look now, money's spoiled it," said Cleese from his Monte Carlo apartment.

Last Night's Viewing: Funny Business, BBC2

"Wherever you look now money's spoiled it," grumbled John Cleese. After which we got a shot of Monaco harbour. An arch comment? An illustration? A hint of what's to come? I'm still not sure.

'We've all become Thatcher's children,' reckons jobbing comic Hal Cruttenden, who merrily makes something like two grand a gig on the corporate circuit. Mark Thomas, naturally, begs to differ. And that's the beauty of this opening episode of a three-part documentary: it takes a very timely look at the business of comedy - bigger than it's ever been, surely - from all sides. It's also very funny, especially when established comedians, who undoubtedly deserve credit for even discussing the issue, grapple with their consciences as they explain themselves for doing what some might regard as selling out. A corporate gig is good practice for working a tough audience, says Jo Brand; doing adverts (or 'content-driven engagement platforms', as one suit now calls them) buys writing time, protests John Cleese; Rhod Gilbert, meanwhile, has bailed out of them altogether, his nerves and self-image unable to take it any more. The astronomical fees may simply reflect supply and demand, but it doesn't make the reality any more edifying. Engrossing, nonetheless.