The Christian O'Connell Solution - a show so forced and unfunny I used to stare, disbelieving, at the radio - has departed, replaced by Chris Addison's 7 Day Sunday. It's an hour of quips about the headlines or, as Addison put it: "God said, let there be a radio programme in which four idiots are facetious about the week's news."

It's really quite funny, and comprehensive in its sweep of topics. Venezuela's President Chavez was deemed "fantastically leftfield"; Italian television was described as being mostly "prank-based"; and postmen and women, we were informed, "excrete red rubber bands" when nervous. You sort of have to be there, listening intently, to get the four-way chat (with regulars Andy Zaltzman and Sarah Millican plus a weekly guest). It's quite involved: if you lose yourself in the papers for a minute, you will miss hefty chunks.

The departure of the dismal, desperate The Christian O'Connell Solution (so good when he was running Fighting Talk; so bad when trying to raise a laugh about the week's news) on Radio 5 Live gave space to Chris Addison and 7 Day Sunday (11am). Things did not start well the first week, what with Kate Silverton, whose rather excellent news and politics-based programme precedes it, announcing it as The Christian O'Connell Solution, doubtless leading millions of potential listeners to switch off.

Then the programme came, and it seemed as though some genius had decided that the best way to better the Solution was to duplicate it. Addison and his primary guests, fellow comedians Sarah Millican and Andy Zaltzman, adopted a turgid pattern of one of them - usually Addison - talking and the others laughing. Always beware the comedy show in which the participants laugh; they're usually doing it so the listener doesn't have to.

But the diligent listener persevered - Addison is a funny man, Millican is a funny woman, and Zaltzman loves cricket, so one is predisposed to forgive him for being apparently unable to be funny on the hoof rather than off a prepared script. But episode two was just as dreary. The biggest laughs, in one quarter at least, came for the story about a hippo that floated out of a zoo during heavy rains. But there's no chemistry on display here, none of The News Quiz-esque scoring of laughter points, where clever people fall over each other in their desperation to be funnier than the last. I'd give it one more week and then find something else to do for an hour on Sunday morning. Go to church, maybe.

Chris Addison, columnist and comedian (from The Thick of It and Lab Rats, not to mention his frequent appearances all over this network), gets his own show, a review of the week's big stories. Fellow comedians Andy Zaltzman and Sarah Millican are regular guests, there's to be a special star each week too.

What more could you want from a panel show than the brilliant Frankie Boyle and Andy Parsons? Well, probably just one more thing - the sharp and sure David Mitchell, always a hoot on these sorts of things. His fellow guest is the likeably down-to-earth Sarah Millican.

There were more than 750 comedy shows on at the Edinburgh Fringe this year. Even if you think you've heard quite enough already on Radio 4 and read too much about them everywhere you have to admire the steely determination of Jason Manford (of Eight Out of Ten Cats) and his producer, Julia Mackenzie, in boiling the lot down to two half-hours. This is the first, featuring Kevin Bridges, Mick Ferry, Sarah Millican and Mike Wilmot, all of whom may have their own shows this time next year. You never know, they might even make you laugh.

For fans who admire the high-wire bravura of stand-up comedy, once again Michael McIntyre introduces an impressive mix of comedians. The line-up includes John Bishop explaining the difficulties of getting rid of a fridge; Sarah Millican on the joys of divorce; Mick Ferry on an unhealthy desire to sleep with all his daughters' friends, and - last but by no means least - the headline act from Jason Manford, who does an inspired riff on his father's terrifying parenting technique. This involved telephoning the Chief Constable of the Greater Manchester Police who would threaten his son with prison. At the age of 7 or 8, Manford was too terrified to realise that the Chief Constable's voice bore an uncanny resemblance to that of his grandfather.