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I started watching this series because I like snowy locations and also love listening to the chirpy upper Midwest accent of the United States.

I was rather hoping to add this accent to my repertoire but I suspect I'll never completely master it. It's way too hard. I have, however, become completely hooked on the show.

If you like snow, ice, and people locked in the trunks of cars you'll love Fargo (Channel 4). There's a whole heap of snow, waist deep in many places, and almost everyone gets locked in a trunk at some point. If they ever had a car boot sale in Duluth they would first have to clear out all the dead bodies.

Fargo is based on the Coen Brothers' film of the same name, but the storyline is completely different from the original movie. It stars Martin Freeman as a geeky, cowardly wife-killer called Lester Nygaard. From office Romeos to questing hobbits, Freeman has always tended to play nice guys in the past, so even when he turns up as a hammer toting murderer it's quite difficult not to warm to him.

Lester's call to adventure comes when he's in a snowy supermarket car park and is thumped on the nose by an old school adversary. Our hero trudges through the snow to visit his local casualty department and like me turns out to have an extraordinary talent for standing or sitting next to nutters.

I have tremendous sympathy for this trait. In my own life there's a nutter in every bus queue and a nutter in every restaurant. Only yesterday I sat next to a spectacular nutter on the Piccadilly Line. The train was packed, the nutter could have gone and sat anywhere, and yet he came and sat next to me.

But Lester's nutter is no ordinary nutter. This nutter is a fully blown, card-carrying, axe-wielding psychopath by the name of Malvo (Billy Bob Thornton).

Don't be fooled by this character's comical haircut and folksy sense of humor. Malvo's a violent control freak and the only thing he loves more than killing people is getting away with it. Even when the police know exactly what Malvo's up to they still seem powerless to do anything about it.

Mind you, the Fargo police force do appear to be fairly stupid, particularly Gus Grimly (played by Tom Hanks' son Colin). Gus makes Forrest Gump look like Professor Brian Cox and his chubby colleague Molly Solverson (Allison Tolman) is not much brighter. The only real brains in the outfit seem to be that of Bill Oswalt (Bob Odenkirk who portrayed infamous bent lawyer Saul in Breaking Bad.) Fargo is small town Americana at its best, and the world that's created in this show is hypnotic and highly addictive. Malvo's unquenchable malice and dark humour are immensely watchable and it's not long before you are so drawn into the surreal Fargo universe that even plagues of locusts and showers of blood become as routine as a day at the office with an insurance salesman.

Fargo is no doubt going to get much snowier, much weirder and much more nasty before the season finale, and I for one will be glued to every second.

I love Cornwall, I go there all the time, and I have never had any trouble understanding the delightful Cornish accent. So what in God's name is the language they're speaking in BBC1′s new adaptation of Jamaica Inn? I began by turning up the volume, thinking I simply had the TV on too quietly. When I still couldn't catch what most of the cast were trying to say I tried listening on headphones like a language student struggling to revise for a forthcoming aural exam.But however much I concentrated, rewound on TiVo, or adjusted the audio controls I could only manage to pick out about one word in fifty.

Most inaccessible of all was the dialogue uttered by Sean Harris, as violent, drink-soaked smuggler Joss.

Joss produced a baffling array of mumbles, whispers and grunts, delivered through the upper nasal cavity in a West Country accent so thick it might as well have been first generation Klingon.

Even headstrong barmaid Mary – played by Jessica Brown Findlay off Downton Abbey – had trouble understanding the ramblings of her thuggish, inebriated uncle, and pointed out as much on more than one occasion.

"I don't understand," she said at one point, and Britain breathed a huge sigh of relief that not every viewer in the country had simultaneously gone deaf.

Uncle Joss turned out to be a bit of a nineteenth century Basil Fawlty – a reluctant innkeeper who "don't like people staying," and would rather go down to the beach and crush people's heads with his bare hands. He also had a nasty habit of grabbing people around the throat and shoving them up against walls – a style of behaviour that was also reminiscent of Mr Fawlty at his least hospitable.

Matthew McNulty was in it, of course. He's in all the BBC costume dramas and probably hasn't had a day off work in about 7 years. Poor old Matthew must be sick to the back teeth of heavily colour-corrected, windswept moors full of clattering stage coaches and women wading up to their knees in muddy bogs. He looks like he could do with a couple of weeks in the Canaries. Maybe his agent needs to learn how to say "no" from time to time.

Finally giving up on trying to follow the dialogue, I turned my attentions to Mary's heavy, full length velvet dress. This character's fondness for bog wading at a variety of different depths meant that in every scene the dark stain around the hem of this garment moved up and down, up and down, like the rise and fall of the tidal Thames at Teddington. I eventually found myself trying to guess at which level the watermark would appear next, and I have every intention of turning this pastime into a drinking game while I am watching episode 3 of Jamaica Inn (with the subtitles turned on.)

A few years ago a friend of mine worked on the very first series of Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle (BBC2) so I went along to see a few episodes being recorded. This turned out to be a rather unique experience as the gigs are taped in a real working man's club in Stoke Newington and the faded, retro charm of the room is not created by a BBC designer, its the real thing.

Brutally honest, fiercely self critical and so comfortable in front of an audience he can get a laugh by doing nothing, Stewart Lee is also the real thing. Lee's skill with comic repetition and deconstruction are a masterclass and his throwaway asides to the television viewers – while rudely excluding the live audience – are often the best observations you're ever likely to hear about the diverse tastes and social structure in Britain.

In this third series Lee once again takes comedy apart, kicks it around a bit, then puts it back together again. His vocabulary is exquisite, his delivery sublime. Nobody does it better. And yet his style is not to everyone's taste and many people simply don't get it. Yes, its comedy about comedy, yes it might be a little inaccessible for some, but if you take Lee's advice and work a little harder than usual while watching his act, you will surely be rewarded.

Quotes like, "this is the sound of the middle class applauding their own guilt," set this series apart from every other comedy show currently on TV. Lee's abrasive style and deeply bitter persona have been honed over many years performing in thousands of gigs around the UK. This is a man who makes an art form that is almost infinitely hard look laughingly easy.

Chris Morris takes the role of Grand Inquisitor in series three, pumping our hero with uncompromising, Paxman-like questions while both performers do their best to keep a straight face and pretend that these savage interludes are for real. Morris is also Lee's script editor, so its not surprising that the series maintains such a consistent level of quality and pace.

If I had any criticism at all it would be that Lee's stand-up is so good the format doesn't really need cutaways, and I'd personally rather see more stage time, without the interviews and film inserts. As a long-standing fan I personally don't think either of these bolted-on elements really adds anything to the series or shows off his talents as well as when he's simply standing alone on stage in ill-fitting jacket and rubbish haircut.

Television sitcoms are often hi-jacked by secondary characters. Karen and Jack eventually took over Will and Grace. Penelope Keith stole The Good Life after a couple of series, and Lesley Joseph continues to shamelessly upstage Quirke & Robson in Birds of a Feather. But stealing the show from the stars doesn't usually happen as quickly as episode one.

Vic Reeves & Bob Mortimer's new sitcom House of Fools (BBC 2) is already Matt Berry's show. Right from day one. It's only funny when his character Beef is on, and when he's off screen we simply sit and wait for his next entrance.

I'd go as far as to say that his screen presence, comic timing and sheer, over-powering "Berry-ness" make the old troopers from Shooting Stars look a little like they're struggling to keep up, and Berry's casting in this supposed Vic & Bob vehicle makes the whole thing feel uncomfortably uneven and a little poorly judged.

Reeves and Mortimer are the masters of "loose". Their Big Night Out in the early nineties revolutionised light entertainment on British television, and the more under-rehearsed and shambolic it was, the funnier it got.

Unfortunately, sitcom is a much trickier creature to handle, needing far more pace and better drilled performances to successfully land its laughs.

Although seemingly chaotic and disorganised, The Young Ones (to which this will no doubt be compared) was a very tightly structured, well rehearsed, and brilliantly acted show. But with the best will in the world, Vic and Bob are simply not practised enough actors to deliver the breakneck pace that's needed by a primetime sitcom, recorded in front of a live studio audience.

You could have driven a bus between most of the lines of dialogue in this show, and the pair seemed to be concentrating so hard to get through it that there was no room at all for their usual trademark corpsing and ad-libbing.

Dan Skinner (Angelos Epithemiou from Shooting Stars) plays Vic's escaped convict brother Bosh and Morgana Robinson plays their randy neighbour Julie. Both do their best to lend a hand, but their dialogue is so hastily thrown together that neither has a hope in hell of making any real impact.

Luckily Vic and Bob have enough loyal fans for this total step in the wrong direction to go unnoticed, and as long as the boys have Mr Berry on board the series will no doubt continue to deliver big laughs.

Reeves and Mortimer also have enough friends in high places at the Beeb to be protected from the truth, and a second series has probably already been commissioned despite the glaring problems with this pilot.

I look forward to a brand new series of Shooting Stars, and the opportunity to see Vic and Bob firmly back in their comfort zone.

"You're aware that you're at the centre of something genuinely important, and the exciting thing is to think that part of the job is establishing where that centre is, and what it's in the middle of." It's hard to parody something that's already a parody of itself, so W1A (BBC2) – the BBC's bizarre and surreal mickey take of its own corridors of power – must be viewed in context.

Because the sad truth is that the real-world BBC is far more bizarre and surreal than this fairly tame spoof, and the only real mickey take in the equation is the way the real Beeb behaves while claiming to serve its hard-working license payers.

BBC2′s continuity announcer accidentally introduced W1A by calling it a "new drama." A Freudian slip, no doubt, by a BBC staffer on the brink of insanity.

Noel Edmonds went on Newsnight this week and announced that he wants to buy the BBC. Remind me, was that in the spoof version of the corporation or in the real-world BBC? It's almost impossible to tell.

I've worked for the BBC many times, in many different roles, so I suppose I should have found W1A hilarious. However, it was so close to the truth that all the programme actually succeeded in doing was to remind me of the anger, frustration and helplessness I felt while working there.

Most of the meetings really are a ridiculous waste of time. Many of the managers genuinely are pointless, poorly informed, time-servers who are only interested in protecting their own interests. Verbal communications skills are virtually non-existent in many Social Media-obsessed staff, and the curse of hopping from hot desk to hot desk means it's impossible to hold a meaningful conversation or concentrate on anything at all in your own space.

W1A is written by the same team who brought us the brilliant Twenty Twelve. David Tennant's back as the deadpan and slightly puzzled narrator, and Ian Fletcher (Hugh Bonneville) moves from Head of Deliverance at the Olympics to becoming Head of Values at the BBC. Jessica Hynes also returns as Siobhan Sharp, the air-headed PR guru.

There are many new faces as well, notably Jason Watkins as the slimy and grinning Head of Strategic Governance, and Hugh Skinner as Will – the intellectually challenged intern who seems to struggle with even the most basic of tasks. Will's epic mental battle in delivering two cups of coffee to their recipients was one of the highlights of the first episode. I suspect his character will rise swiftly through the ranks and will probably end up as Director General if the show runs long enough.

Just as David Brent was far too painful to watch if you worked in an office, W1A may be a little too much for many BBC staff to endure. Alan Yentob and Salman Rushdie arm-wrestling in a meeting room? Remind me, was that in W1A, or did I see it on this week's Newsnight?

Television sitcoms are often hi-jacked by secondary characters. Karen and Jack eventually took over Will and Grace. Penelope Keith stole The Good Life after a couple of series, and Lesley Joseph continues to shamelessly upstage Quirke & Robson in Birds of a Feather. But stealing the show from the stars doesn't usually happen as quickly as episode one.

Vic Reeves & Bob Mortimer's new sitcom House of Fools (BBC 2) is already Matt Berry's show. Right from day one. It's only funny when his character Beef is on, and when he's off screen we simply sit and wait for his next entrance.

I'd go as far as to say that his screen presence, comic timing and sheer, over-powering "Berry-ness" make the old troopers from Shooting Stars look a little like they're struggling to keep up, and Berry's casting in this supposed Vic & Bob vehicle makes the whole thing feel uncomfortably uneven and a little poorly judged.

Reeves and Mortimer are the masters of "loose". Their Big Night Out in the early nineties revolutionised light entertainment on British television, and the more under-rehearsed and shambolic it was, the funnier it got.

Unfortunately, sitcom is a much trickier creature to handle, needing far more pace and better drilled performances to successfully land its laughs.

Although seemingly chaotic and disorganised, The Young Ones (to which this will no doubt be compared) was a very tightly structured, well rehearsed, and brilliantly acted show. But with the best will in the world, Vic and Bob are simply not practised enough actors to deliver the breakneck pace that's needed by a primetime sitcom, recorded in front of a live studio audience.

You could have driven a bus between most of the lines of dialogue in this show, and the pair seemed to be concentrating so hard to get through it that there was no room at all for their usual trademark corpsing and ad-libbing.

Dan Skinner (Angelos Epithemiou from Shooting Stars) plays Vic's escaped convict brother Bosh and Morgana Robinson plays their randy neighbour Julie. Both do their best to lend a hand, but their dialogue is so hastily thrown together that neither has a hope in hell of making any real impact.

Luckily Vic and Bob have enough loyal fans for this total step in the wrong direction to go unnoticed, and as long as the boys have Mr Berry on board the series will no doubt continue to deliver big laughs.

Reeves and Mortimer also have enough friends in high places at the Beeb to be protected from the truth, and a second series has probably already been commissioned despite the glaring problems with this pilot.

I look forward to a brand new series of Shooting Stars, and the opportunity to see Vic and Bob firmly back in their comfort zone.

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Many foreign tourists come to London believing that 221B Baker Street was once the home of an actual historic character, rather than the location for a fictional superhero.

These camera-clicking simpletons imagine that old Sherlock really did once stalk the foggy streets of the capital, puffing on his over-sized pipe and peering through a giant magnifying glass.

However, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat have now seen to it that no-one will ever again mistake Holmes and Watson as real people. These writers' portrayal of Sherlock is about as realistic as Dr Who or Inspector Gadget, and the character is now firmly established as a key part of the BBC's light entertainment and comedy offering, rather than the keystone of television drama it once was.

This first in a trio of new Sherlock stories was not one for the Conan Doyle purists. Our hero's terrifying death plunge from the roof of St Bart's hospital was swiftly overshadowed by wisecracks about Dr. Watson's new moustache and a hilarious guest appearance by TV illusionist Derren Brown.

We then saw Sherlock contemplating a lingering kiss on the lips with Moriarty, before witnessing Dr. Watson loudly announcing to his landlady that he "was not Sherlock's boyfriend!" Watson later introduced his new heterosexual love interest Mary (played by Martin Freeman's real-life love interest Amanda Abbington) and Sherlock's parents popped in for a cuppa (played by Benedict Cumberbatch's real-life parents). I assume that the remainder of the cast were also related to one another in some way or other, making the role of casting director on this production a less than challenging one.

There was a plot of sorts, which involved a terrorist plot to blow up parliament. When Sherlock located the bomb he quickly defused it by throwing a big switch marked "Off", and this enabled the cast to quickly get back to more important things like motorbike chases and slapstick comedy.

In the midst of all this hilarity Dr. Watson managed to get himself trapped inside a Guy Fawkes bonfire and set on fire, and Sherlock rescued him simply by plunging into the flames like Superman and dragging his partner out by the feet. The watching crowd didn't lift a finger to help, and I found myself a little surprised when Sherlock didn't soar into the sky with Watson draped in his arms like Louis Lane.

Freeman's dry charm and Cumberbatch's piercing eyes just about hold it all together. Apparently one of the pupils in Benedict's eyes is permanently dilated, resulting in his rather unique and slightly scary stare. Many mistake this for eyes of different colours (like David Bowie), but such trivia probably has no place in a TV review and should be left to Cumberbatch's optician to fathom out.

There's no doubting Gatiss and Moffat's enthusiasm, but I can't help thinking they've now gone a little over the top. There's a rumour that in the second episode Sherlock will have a sonic screwdriver so that he can wrap things up even more quickly and have time for a quick song and dance number at the end.

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You may or may not know that Dr. Who's Tardis was originally designed to change its shape into anything, but in 1963 it got stuck forever in the shape of a police telephone box.

In the same way, actor Michael Sheen has always had the miraculous ability to transform himself into anyone. Unfortunately, in my mind, in 2009 Sheen's face became stuck forever, Tardis-like, with a single, indelible visage.

Yes, rather infuriatingly, for me, Michael Sheen will always be Brian Clough. Which makes reviewing "Master of Sex" very confusing. But I'll give it a go.

As the series opens we first discover Clough playing the part of William Masters – infamous Leeds United manager and noted gynaecologist at Washington University.

This new regeneration of Clough likes to wear a neat bow tie and crouch in a cupboard, peering through a tiny hole, while a mucky prostitute has doggie-style hanky panky. Clearly this is his favourite pastime, but this man is more than just a serial pervert – he wants to win the Nobel Prize for studying sex.

"How did you feel during that orgasm?" he asks the prostitute. "I faked it," she replies.

Clough can't understand why any woman would want to fake an orgasm, so he and his new research assistant Virginia Johnson (Lizzy Caplan) embark upon one of the world's first serious studies of human physiological responses during sexual intercourse.

Luckily, Virginia Johnson is hot. Very hot. Not only that but she appears to be a sex maniac – already having made a name for herself on campus by banging the brains out of several of her colleagues – notably Cloughie's best buddy Dr Ethan Haas. So Ginny has no trouble at all adapting to the strange and explicit obsessions of her new boss.

After sitting in a lab with the lovely Virginia for several months, watching literally hundreds of couples having sex, the former Middlesbrough, Sunderland and England striker eventually suggests to his assistant that they should have sex together, claiming that the huge hard-on in his shorts is starting to prevent him from concentrating on his research.

Clough visits the provost of the university (Beau Bridges) and asks him for funding, so that he and Virgina can watch ever more bonking couples whilst hooking them up to machines with blinking lights and ticker tape readouts.

Doubtful at first, Bridges slowly warms to the idea when he is invited into the laboratory to observe a blond secretary masturbating with a giant glass vibrator containing a television camera.

By 1956 sex expert Alfred Kinsey had already generated front page headlines and huge book sales with "The Kinsey Report", so Cloughie was far from the first scientific sex pioneer. But he will always be admired for the sheer scale and breadth of his research on sexual activity, and for leading Nottingham Forest to European Cup success in both 1979 and 1980.

There are 12 episodes of Master of Sex. Difficult to see how Channel 4 are going to spin it out for as long as that, and one can't help wondering whether this commission is not more about cheap, soft-core titillation than it is about the history of sexual research.

Clough went on to marry his research assistant Virginia Johnson in 1971. He was, without doubt, one of the greatest scientific researchers of his generation, and also, in my opinion, the best manager England never had.

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I missed the first episode of The Young Montalbano on BBC4, but luckily, next day, I was sent a DVD copy to review.

A prequel to the late-Nineties Italian pot-boiler Inspector Montalbano – a show I also somehow managed to miss, this Sicilian cop series is set in the very pretty fictional seaside town of Vigata.

Clad in a polo neck and a heavy sheepskin coat, beardy male lead Michele Riondino plays Montalbano – a man with a firm belief in justice, a deep disdain for corruption and an all-embracing love of seafood and pasta.

The two hour long, feature length opening episode contained more dialogue than any television series I have ever watched in my life, the characters barely pausing for breath as they crammed wordy speech after wordy speech into every scene. At one point I yelled at the screen, "For the love of God stop talking for a moment!" But to no avail.

This much dialogue would have difficult to process at the best of times, but add to that the fact that the whole thing was sub-titled, and the experience fast became quite exhausting. There was hardly enough space on my TV screen to fit all the words, and I occasionally had to press PAUSE in order to catch up with my reading. Thankfully, most of this dialogue was related to plot and backstory, but quite a large percentage of it, in true Italian style, was concerned purely with detailed descriptions of food.

Ragu and braised lamb, linguine alla vongole – ten minutes into the show and I've switched to the TV in the kitchen so I can watch while cooking pasta and popping open a bottle of Valpolichella – and this at 1.00 am in the morning.

Montalbano's boring, plain girlfriend Mery (played by Katia Greco) brings me back down to Earth with a bump. What's he doing with this woman? She only seems to show up when she wants a quick shag or someone to nag. Or maybe a nice prawn tagliatelle or salmon carbonara in a creamy sauce.

Food plays a huge part in this show. At one point our hero appears with what appears to be a plate of spaghetti vongole and offers it to one of his prisoners in a cell. He seems to think this will make the interrogation more civilised. Can you imagine the desk sergeant in The Bill whipping up a quick squid vermicelli for one of his prisoners? I don't think so.

There was some action. At one point, two cars collided with each other at 6 miles an hour in the town square, causing slight damage to the driver side front bumper on a Fiat. Insurance details were not exchanged and one of the drivers got slapped in the face. The James Bond franchise has nothing to worry about.

Comedic relief comes in the form of the copper who runs the switchboard at Montalbano's nick. The joke seems to be that this man speaks faster than everyone else (which is tricky), plus he's a bit deaf and he gets everyone's name slightly wrong. I can't decide if this character is inspired by Manuel from Fawlty Towers or Officer Crabtree in 'Allo, 'Allo.

The Young Montalbano is nice to look at. The scenery is beautiful, and the whole thing feels a bit like a Sicilian Bergerac, in a white wine sauce, with a green side salad. But for non Italian speakers, I fear that life may be too short for 2 whole hours of Montalbano every week.

Let's face it Freddie Highmore has always looked like a creepy kid with something very scary going on behind the eyes.

Even when he was being shown around that Chocolate Factory with his grandad, you couldn't help wondering if he was going to produce a meat cleaver at any moment and start chopping the other kids into tiny pieces.

Not one of my favourite movies of all time, but Charlie & the Chocolate Factory is movie that would definitely have benefited from a nice gory shower scene.

Freddie's all grown up now with a golden ticket into a sinister new setting, and Norman Bates is clearly a role that he was born to play. Baddies are so much more interesting when they're cute.

Universal's stylish prequel to Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho" is set in the present day, which does rather break the spell, particularly as the motel itself seems to have got stuck somewhere in the early 1960′s.

But the awkward sexual tension between Norman and his foxy cougar of a mother Norma Louise (Vera Farmiga) more than makes up for any loss of period detail.

Directed by the excellent Tucker Gates, Bates Motel begins when Norm and his mum arrive in a new town, determined to make a fresh start for themselves. It isn't long, however, before they're carrying bodies down to the cellar and lying to the local mascara-wearing police chief.

It's all very "Welcome to Night Vale" but without the Dog Park and the strange lights in the sky.

I'm guessing the only reason they moved the story to the present day was budget. It would obviously have cost a fortune to dress every exterior shot with 60′s cars and 60′s extras, and it does make it quite hard to mentally connect with the Anthony Perkins version when young Norman pulls a 4G smartphone out of his pocket.

This is history in reverse. I might try watching it in black and white in order to restore at least some of the atmosphere of the original.

In the movie, Hitchcock very cleverly killed off his heroine early on, leaving Bates as the only character the audience could readily identify with. Using this device to get everyone in the theatre to root for the killer right from the start was a sensational new spin on screen writing, and helped to establish Hitchcock as one of the foremost film makers of his generation.

Whether or not we'll be able to stay on Norman's side for an entire series remains to be seen. A man who's attracted to his mother and likely to kill at the drop of a hat is difficult to love, and the success of this new incarnation of the franchise will no doubt sink or swim on how well they pull off that tricky balancing act.

Bates redemption's begins in the second episode, when his cocky half brother shows up and starts bullying him and his mother. Ah, that old trick. Bring in a character who's an even bigger monster than the monster and draw the sympathy of the audience – like the way Sybil Fawlty makes us feel sorry for Basil. Good spin. Hitchcock would be proud. The problem is, I think Norman's probably going to kill him.

That being the formula, looks like every episode will feature Norman dispatching someone he perceives to be a bigger monster than he is, or who severely gets on his tits for some reason. Dexter meets Room 101.

I enjoyed the first couple of episodes of Bates Motel, but there is something a bit annoying about watching a show when you already know how things are going to turn out in the end. Whatever happens, poor old mum's going to end up dead, her decaying body propped up in a chair in the bedroom. Which is no way for a foxy cougar to end their days.

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We should know by now, from bitter experience, that when a copper is coming up for retirement it's a sure sign that something very, very nasty is about to happen.

So when DC Len Harper (David Threlfall) walks out of the nick for the final time we've already guessed that he's soon going to be taking on the biggest challenge of this life. Maybe all police officers should simply start work on the first day of their retirement. It might dramatically improve the crime statistics.

"What Remains" begins with a flashback as chubby, innocent-faced Melissa (Jessica Gunning) moves into the attic flat of No 8 Coulthard Street. Something about Melissa says "victim" right away. We fear for her safety. Our sphincters twitch uncontrollably in our trousers.

Clearly something's not quite right about this house. For a start, it looks exactly like the property in Simon Pegg's "Spaced", and several of the residents appear to have recently relocated from either Lark Rise or Candleford. There's also at least one familiar face from "Luther" which is scary in itself.

Poor old Melissa should pack her bags and leave right away, but instead, in true "Scooby Doo" fashion, she climbs up into the loft on her own and gets strangled by a mysterious stranger.

So, whodunnit? Grumpy old maths teacher Joe Sellers (David Bamber) is straight into the frame. For a start he has one of his ex-pupils Liz (Denise Gough) locked up in the basement, and he tups her wheezily at every opportunity. Meanwhile young Liz is less of a prisoner than we might think, and is secretly boffing the big eared boy from upstairs (Russell Tovey), while his very pregnant girlfriend is busy painting the nursery an unpleasant shade of duck egg blue.

While all this is going on, we discover that prior to the murder Kieron Moss (Steven Mackintosh) was cheating on his journalist girlfriend Patricia (Claudie Blakley) by regularly popping upstairs and using poor Melissa as a human trampoline. Following this athletic intercourse it's hard to see how the architectural integrity of the house survived, but somehow the building remained standing long enough for the murder to take place.

Other suspects include a couple of bitchy lesbians on the second floor (one of whom likes to bully the other by tying her up with straps), and Kieron's teenage son Adam, who spends the whole time trying to get into the knickers of his father's girlfriend. What's not to like? Everything and everybody.

I enjoyed this 4 part BBC1 drama, but it really was quite difficult to identify with any of the characters. They were all, at best, flawed, and most of them were just downright nasty.

Even with this in mind, I don't think any of us were prepared for the final episode, which left the claustrophobic and carefully distressed set littered with corpses and splattered with claret.

There was us thinking there was only one killer on the loose, and the woodwork turned out to be crawling with psychopaths – the denouement making the climax of Macbeth look like a picnic scene from The Famous Five.

OK, it was all a bit contrived, particularly when DC Len reached for his bow and arrow, but the twists and turns were so expertly engineered by writer Tony Basgallop that in the end we would forgive him anything.

Stylishly directed by Coky Giedroyc, "What Remains" turned out to be one of my favourite drama series of 2013 so far, but sadly I don't think there's going to be a second series. Everyone's dead.

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