Who could forget Mandy, the peroxide blonde bombshell with the catchphrase "Ooh, you are awful but I like you"? During the sixties and seventies, it must have been quoted at parties, pageants and playgrounds up and down the land as often as Vicky Pollard's "Yeah but, no but" or Victor Meldrew's "I don't believe it" decades later.

Yet Mandy's creator, Dick Emery, seems to have been largely erased from the nation's comedy memory bank. Unlike Tommy Cooper, Morecambe and Wise and the Two Ronnies, whose work is deservedly kept alive by repeats on Gold as well as the terrestrial channels, the brilliant Emery has been curiously absent from our screens since his death 30 years ago.

None of the contributors to Dick Emery - A Comedy of Errors could account for this glaring oversight, including presenter David Walliams, clearly a big fan in his youth. The best they could come up with was that Emery's success predated the marketing boom of the eighties when artists like Cooper and Morecambe and Wise were immortalised on T-shirts, mugs, greetings cards and the like.

While the documentary was a fitting tribute to an outstanding comedy talent, it also revealed the troubled man behind the many funny faces. Nervous, insecure and incapable of fidelity, Emery's early childhood had been spent on tour with his parents, a variety double act, not the most stable of upbringings.

His love life - five failed marriages, umpteen love affairs - reflected a restlessness and terror of being alone. One of his children, Eliza, now a singer-songwriter, said he sought constant reassurance that she loved him, even though it was probably his kids who needed assuring the most.

Walliams concluded in characteristic Emery style, "What we need is more Dick on our screens," followed rather predictably by a rousing "Ooh, you are awful but I like you".

First shown on BBC Four, the second half of Michael Grade's history of the variety era examines what happened to the entertainers once the theatres closed and TV cameras beckoned. He talks to stars who managed to make the transition from stage to screen, among them Bruce Forsyth, Des O'Connor and Ken Dodd. Grade also looks at Sunday Night at the London Palladium, plus the impact of Tommy Cooper and Morecambe & Wise.

In part two of the terrifically enjoyable The Story of Variety, presenter Michael Grade investigated television's culpability in killing off variety, and highlighted the attempts of various performers to make the tricky transition from stage to screen.

Tommy Cooper adapted instinctively, Morecambe And Wise succeeded on their second attempt, while Ken Dodd never quite succeeded in shrinking his genius to television's proportions. Ventriloquist Peter Brough and his doll Archie enjoyed tremendous, if inexplicable, popularity on the radio, but a clip from the archive showed why they never enjoyed small-screen success - Brough had failed to grasp a fundamental element of ventriloquism and made little or no effort to disguise his moving lips.

This second exploration of showbiz is a tale of those who could play to the camera, instead of the audience. Ken Dodd shows how he's torn between the two. Others did not face the same dilemma - witness Morecambe and Wise's mastery of the medium. For the other modern great, Tommy Cooper, we learn performances were meticulously planned. But in 1984, with alternative comedy booming, both Tommy and Eric died. But variety didn't die with them. We have Britain's Got Talent. And now ITV has bought the rights to the Royal Variety Performance. That wouldn't have happened had Grade been back at the BBC.

Is this the funniest woman in Britain?

She's as comedic as Tommy Cooper and as hilarious as Hattie Jacques. Now Miranda Hart has won the affections of Allison Pearson.

Tommy Cooper dominates list of best jokes

Heard the one about two aerials meeting on a roof, falling in love, and getting married? The ceremony was rubbish but the reception was brilliant.

Review Stephen Fry Live

What the show needed was an infusion of punchlines. Only at the end did he unleash two worth the name, and they were both Tommy Cooper's.

"Huh, huh, huh, huh," is the first thing you hear, the unmistakeable laugh of Tommy Cooper, comedian, magician, a man so funny that you just had to see him to start laughing. Eric Morecambe wouldn't go on the stage after him, says Barry Cryer, one of the many stars who line up here to remember a unique giant of light entertainment. He died in 1984 but memories of him are still vivid. His humour wasn't in the joke, says producer Royston Mayoh, but the delivery of it, and it lives on today through the internet. Sean Lock, comedian, presents.

The main source of the comedy in Miranda is that she is a human stegosaurus, huge and hugely unfanciable, which as others have noted is politically not very correct. And if political incorrectness isn't reason enough on its own to love Miranda, there are plenty of other reasons, not least, in our house anyway, that it is the first new primetime sitcom I can recall that unites the whole family, all laughing our socks off. The hugely engaging Miranda Hart also deserves a medal, or better still a Bafta, for reminding us that slapstick can be funny. Not an episode goes by without her tripping over something, or getting stuck in something, which in less assured hands would be justification for throwing a heavy object at the telly, but it takes real deftness to appear as galumphing as that. She might even be the reincarnation of Tommy Cooper. At any rate, she deserves to have her name in the title.

The title refers to one of Tommy Cooper's favourite tricks. But there's a subtitle to this portrait of a much-loved comedian, The Two Sides of Tommy Cooper, reflecting Cooper's fascination with the craft of magic as well as his genius for turning an apparent failure at it into a great stage act. We hear (as you may have gathered from the incessant trailers) from other stage magicians about how serious you have to be about the business to turn it into laughter. Discover the people and places where magic is a trade. Rob Brydon presents.