Regardless of the fact that the TV schedules are already rammed with the damned things, all sharing near-identical formats, television continues to spew out comedy panel shows. Channel 4's Was It Something I Said? is the latest manifestation of a tedious trend.

The basic premise, upon which the contestants are invited to riff, is the world of quotes and quotations. A world very familiar to anyone who has listened to an edition of BBC Radio 4's Quote... Unquote during its 49 series' residency.

But originality clearly isn't high on Was It Something I Said?'s priorities. Take a look at the line-up - David Mitchell in the chair, Richard Ayoade and Micky Flanagan as team captains, and Charlie Higson and Jimmy Carr as guests.

Individually, I like them all. Collectively, as part of a comedy panel show, their terrible familiarity provokes in me a level of screaming boredom that is borderline hysterical.

Even the fine actor David Harewood, roped in as guest 'reader', has been spotted slumming it elsewhere in the BBC's Would I Lie to You?. Presumably, Harewood's ambition was atomised at the end of Homeland's second series, along with his character.

But possibly the most predictable and depressing aspect of the show was its total absence of women. Whether this was the deliberate product of an anti-feminist agenda, or simply down to the fact that Sarah Millican wasn't available, we can only guess.

A new panel show hosted by David Mitchell has to be worth a look. It's a quotation-based game, somewhere in tone between Radio 4's Quote Unquote and QI, as they all try to guess who said what or complete famous quotations. On one team Richard Ayoade turns out to be perfect to duel with, gainsay and generally neutralise Jimmy Carr - hilariously so. Micky Flanagan and Charlie Higson are on the opposing team.

The rhythms of the game itself are still a bit halting (it's early days) but the guests are funny enough that it barely matters - when Micky Flanagan impersonated David Mitchell being a bailiff, it's almost as if we're watching Would I Lie To You? - and in this genre there's no higher compliment.

Does David Mitchell ever catch Jimmy Carr's eye across the set of a crowded panel show and think: 'I know exactly what you're going to say here'? More opportunities for celebrity ennui tonight. This new series sees Mitchell in the chair, Carr as a guest and other usual suspects Micky Flanagan, Charlie Higson and Richard Ayoade making up the numbers.

The wild card is the slightly out-of-his-element guest David Harewood, who has presumably been selected for his boomingly stentorian voice, because the core of the show is quotes - famous ones, outlandish ones and obscure ones. It's not the most striking panel-show concept we've ever come across and, notwithstanding a couple of mildly amusing moments - including Harewood's scarily good Obama impression - it never quite gets off the ground.

Mitchell's other regular panel gig, Would I Lie to You?, has punched above its apparent weight for years now, but we'd bet against this proving similarly enduring.

Micky Flanagan, Wembley Arena - comedy review

Nothing revolutionary, simply mainstream humour at its best, the comedic equivalent of Flanagan's favourite radio station, Magic FM. Call it Magic MF.

Micky Flanagan proves that stand-ups come in all shapes

Flanagan, like John Bishop, has shown that not all comics are young males in skinny jeans.

Back in the game: Micky Flanagan interview

Micky Flanagan, the Kierkegaard-quoting Cockney comic, is returning with a new stand-up tour. The one-time Billingsgate porter tells Andrew Pettie why success was worth waiting for.

Last Saturday I watched Micky Flanagan, one of Britain's finest stand-ups, employed by BBC 1 to help place a large Yorkshire pudding on a map to prove he knew where Peterborough was, as pop star and game-show favourite Jamelia sang "All You Need Is Love" in a club style. I Love My Country on BBC 1 aims to capture the Olympic 2012 spirit in a tightly formatted game show. It is the show Shooting Stars with Vic and Bob would have been if the BBC had got its way. More rules, more points, more logic, more enforced zany antics. I watched for 20 minutes and, with a growing migraine, realised I love my country but I also love the television off and the pleasant sound of silence.

Over each new Saturday night game show hangs the spectre of Don't Scare the Hare. Remember it? In 2011, the floppy-eared flop was pulled from BBC1 before the first series ended. It came at a time when the thinking was that shows needed crazy set gimmicks: a robotic hare, a moving wall with a hole in, an Olympic diving pool. Tonight's new arrival doesn't bother with that; it just cranks up the idea of a celebrity quiz to such heights of fizzing, demented hilarity that it's hard not to get swept along.

Frank Skinner and Micky Flanagan lead two teams answering British-themed questions from Gabby Logan. The Mayor of High Wycombe and the London School of Samba add local colour, and guest Charlotte Salt (from Casualty) gets a merciless ribbing on her surname. It's that kind of show.

Frank Skinner & Micky Flanagan finally get decent show

It really shouldn't work but, as GQ discovered when we were granted a sneak peek of the first episode, the considerable charisma of the three hosts carries a distinctly dubious premise. Here is what we loved about it...

In the '70s, the parish vicar was a staple sitcom character. Steptoe & Son would regularly be thrown into paroxysms of nervous guilt by the prospect of the local god-botherer coming round to tea, while Terry & June were forever tying themselves into unlikely knots in the run-up to a dinner party with the Reverend Austin Doyle (note to younger readers: Terry & June was like Him & Her with milky tea and stairlifts).

Now we get to find out why these men of the cloth were in such demand at social functions with the baldly titled Some Vicars With Jokes, a half hour of genial clerics cracking wise and acting the goat. And that's pretty much all there is to tell. The wisecracks themselves are, shall we say, of a certain vintage, and all sound as if they've been ripped from the Dave Allen jokebook, but there are at least couple you might find yourself slipping into your own repertoire.

The decision to place the drollery against a flat, putty-coloured, computer generated backdrop is rather offputting, but the saintly stand-ups are good enough company to give this a look. Pick of the bunch is Reverend Paul Turp of St Leonard's in Shoreditch who comes across like a depressive Micky Flanagan by way of Harold Pinter.