If there is a secret of comedy, I have yet to find it. Indeed, to use a rather overworked quote from William Goldman in his book Adventures in the Screen Trade: "The single most important fact, perhaps, of the entire movie industry, is that 'nobody knows anything'. Not one person in the entire motion picture field knows for a certainty what's going to work. Every time out it's a guess and, if you're lucky, an educated one."

For 'movie industry' read 'television industry', and Goldman's wisdom of 1983 still holds true.

By far the most enjoyable aspect of my work has been and is working with writers. This is partly because I've done a fair bit of writing myself over the years - from songs to journalism to some odd books and most recently a screenplay that's hanging about waiting for a read-through at the Soho Theatre in July - and partly because my first involvement in comedy was with a couple of old friends and former band mates. They had written some hit shows, and were looking for a script reader at a time when my first foray into TV had ended with me signing on and looking for work. They were called Laurence Marks and Maurice Gran, and they had recently set up a company, Alomo, on the back of the success of Birds of a Feather.

Looking back, the Alomo model has been very influential in how I think things should work, because the company was led and driven by writers who were also executive producers of their shows, and run by a man, Allan McKeown, who believed that investing in creative talent and letting them get on with it was the way to create successful television.

But at the time, I absolutely knew nothing, so Alomo was my foundation course. Being a script reader is an odd occupation. There's a classic way of doing notes in which you briefly summarise the script, describe it in some detail, offer an opinion on what works and what doesn't, and end with a recommendation.

While reading is a recognised way into the industry, I learned very quickly that the classic way of doing things is a complete waste of time. From my work with Alomo onwards, I must have read - taking competitions and College of Comedy applications into account - maybe 10,000 aspiring scripts or part scripts. And the depressing fact is that no more than 100 were any good. The tragedy of comedy is that many people think they can write it and hardly anyone can.

A lot of writers feel that sitcom consists of people telling jokes, invariably in the same voice, with no differentiation between the characters. A lot of writers approach sitcom by beginning with someone waking up, invariably when the alarm clock hasn't gone off, and they're late for something important like the first day in a new job. They go through a day in which this happens and then that happens, all with hilarious consequences, and the script ends with them going to bed. So there's no structure, no surprise - it's just an extended anecdote.

Equally, there's a belief that if a show has a novel setting then it's bound to be commissioned because that setting hasn't been seen before, not realising that if it hasn't been seen, there's a strong chance that the setting doesn't work.

Through reading unsolicited scripts, I came to realise that the most important thing to look for wasn't a show that could be made, but writers who could be fostered, who had the ability to create involving characters and the ability to be funny. Technical stuff like structure and building jokes can be taught - being funny can't.

My second lesson - once I'd been asked to join the company and script edit Birds of a Feather - was that the whole process is a negotiation, and that writers and actors are in a constant state of tension. Writers believe that what they have written will work, if the actors perform it properly. Actors believe that they can't perform properly if they don't feel comfortable with the words or the motivations and consistency of character which lie behind the words. Both writers and actors feel that whatever the show may be, it's theirs.

There's an old saying that in a first series actors are pleased to be working. In a second series they'll announce - my character wouldn't say that; and in a third series they'll claim - I wouldn't say that. Writers create the characters and stories, but on screen it's the actors who are judged.

Script editing is an odd discipline. It used to be just the writer and a producer/director. Then producers and directors separated their roles. Then script editors arrived en masse. Alan Plater once told me that he thought the proliferation of the script editor coincided with the introduction of computers. You're doubtless too young to remember stencils, but basically one would roll a stencil into a typewriter, and the impression of the keys would make holes on a waxed paper, which was then attached to a duplicating machine and printed. So a 60-page script would require someone to type 60 separate stencils which would be printed individually.

As you can imagine, rewrites were a complete pain, and were thus quite minimal because each stencil had to be retyped. So essentially early drafts were shot. Now, with copying and pasting on a computer, there's no limit to the amount of script changes, and because people can change things, they do right through the process.

I'm not arguing for a return to the typewriter, and if script editors hadn't come into being I wouldn't have had my career, but it's an example of how technology has driven the possibility of fiddling about.

Equally, moving from film to tape to digital tape to tapeless recording, has allowed for a lot more fiddling at the editing stage. When I started to work in television, programmes were recorded on one-inch tape, and you'd prepare your edit on paper or on VHS tape. If there were notes from someone once the edit had been completed, then another tape was needed, meaning that the picture quality would be one generation worse. So edits had to be extremely precise. I remember the awe I felt when an editor brought in a laptop with an Avid program, and sat at the next desk putting a show together digitally.

So edits can become an exercise in people saying could we try this, could we try that, can we go back to what it was, and so on. I found a colleague who produced a pilot recently slumped over his desk, having just completed the eleventh edit in the light of notes from higher up.

I guess the lesson from technology is that rather than speeding things up it can often slow things down by allowing people to have notes, and notes and then some notes. So while they - and of course I - really know nothing, there's considerable scope for playing around with ignorance.

In my view, and this is a philosophy I carried over into producing and executive producing and will take out into the world with me, the job of someone who works with a writer is to help that writer express what they want to express in the most effective way. I see it as like being in a studio with a sculptor, standing back and saying - 'that arm's looking bit wonky'. In other words, it's offering perspective and asking questions like - how would it be, if? Or talking about character consistency or repetition of story or pace, or it feels like it needs a joke there.

A script is the writer's creation, and that notes should be more in the area of suggestion than direction. Though, of course, sometimes one has to be a bit bossy in terms of language or libel or stuff that might lead to an adverse Ofcom ruling or a telling-off from the BBC Trust.

Working on shows has taught me that good scripts evolve, and that reading something on the page is never as good as hearing it read aloud, even if the readers might be people in the office rather than proper actors. Some things read as if they're funny on the page and aren't funny when you hear them. And, in fact, vice versa. I've seen writers suddenly quiver when a line that seems neutral gets a big laugh. So hearing, rewriting and tweaking is essential, and the lesson there is that humility is a useful quality.

I produced a first (and sadly last) series by a new writer, who was offered a great deal of help from people with a great deal of experience, and chose not to act on it. In the writer's view, the scripts were fine, and it was thwe actors who weren't doing it properly. So while it's true that nobody knows for a certainty what's going to work, I would argue that listening to people who have been there and done it successfully helps to make a guess an educated one.

While writers need to listen to notes, and consider them, they also need to be strong enough to resist a suggestion that feels wrong. It's the writer's script, not an executive's. A New Yorker cartoon of a few years back showed a man on the phone in a Hollywood office saying: "We've just got the script from the focus group. Fabulous!"

I began by quoting William Goldman to the effect that nobody knows anything and the most anyone can do is take an educated guess. I've touched on my own education, and how I feel I've come to earn the right to guess. But, really, like everyone else - like the increased layers of people with a say - I don't really know what's going to work and what isn't. Only the audience decides that.

So thanks to everyone who has read this intermittent blog over the years. I'm not planning to disappear, and I hope to see you elsewhere soon.

The first script of the evening - Champs by Ben Syder and Jonathan Wright - was the winner, with Ben and Jonny receiving a £1000 option fee for further development of their script, a show about two friends from Yorkshire getting to grips with life in London.

The final script, Human, Right? by Tom Glover was the runner-up, with Tom winning a £500 option fee. The show is set in a small, under-funded human rights charity with a reputation for colourful stunts.

Although the plan was to make two awards, the judges decided to make a special award to Sophie Petzal for her script The God Committee, about a pregnant teenage girl and the four potential fathers. The emotion of the situation shone through.

The judges deliberated for an hour, and there was some lively discussion before the winners were chosen and the results were announced.

For the three writers who missed out - Dan Brierly, Wally Jiagoo and Nimer Rashed - there was both sympathy and admiration. The quality of all the work was extremely high, and the judging process difficult. Trying genuinely to say that everyone who made it to the last was a winner, and that we want to stay in touch, doesn't really make it easier.

A collaboration between the BBC College of Comedy and TriForce Promotions, the competition sought scripts which reflected the diversity of life in Britain. There were just over 300 entries. The short-listed writers had to submit complete scripts for a workshop in October, and then rewrote the opening pages - some quite radically - to provide a maximum of 15 minutes for the performance.

The next stage is to develop the winning scripts to the point where they can be put into the commissioning process and compete with other projects for a pilot or a series commission. Winning the competition is the first step on a rocky road, but we'll do our best to heave as many rocks out of the way as possible.

Those are some of the things I learned when the College and CBeebies Production collaborated on a writing workshop in Newcastle earlier in the month.

The workshop combined in-depth exploration of three successful shows with the seven writers devising, developing and refining individual ideas for a live-action comedy series, which they presented at the end of the week to Kay Benbow, the Controller of CBeebies.

The main lesson I took away, though, is how difficult it is to make successful television for this particular audience, and how rewarding it must be to get it right. Unlike CBBC - where comedy is essentially a scaled-down, broad-brush, sillier version of adult shows allowing writers to unleash their inner child - CBeebies demands a recognition of the developmental stage of the audience.

It's an audience that needs clear signposts, logic, uncomplicated story-telling and a pace that allows for understanding. So writing isn't about talking down. Rather, it should meet the audience where the audience is.

Michael Towner, who produces the Justin Fletcher sketch show Gigglebiz, and who ran a session at the workshop, described two screenings of the pilot. The first was for three- and four-year-olds. They watched in silence, then at the end erupted, repeating lines and acting out the sketches. The five- and six-year-olds laughed and interacted with the show as it was being screened. Both enjoyed it, but approached it in ways which reflected their age.

ZingZillas is a hybrid show involving music, comedy and narrative, with the educational goal of introducing children to different forms of music and different instruments through human guests in each episode - the ZingZillas themselves are monkeys who live on an island which also features the megalithic Moaning Stones.

According to the series producer, Tony Reed, in initial development each episode featured an interwoven A story and B story, a plan which was jettisoned in favour of a single plot with clear signposts. The climax of each week's episode is 'The Big Zing', when the monkey band plays with the human guest, and there is an element of jeopardy each week - will the plot allow the ZingZillas to sort it out in time for their big number? Fortunately, it does.

The third show to be examined in depth was Grandpa in My Pocket, in essence a sitcom, in which James Bolam as a mischievous grandfather has a shrinking cap which allows him to wreak havoc, seen only by his grandson, Jason Mason.

Its co-creator and co-producer Mellie Buse, says the key to the show's success is that at its heart it has a true, touching and recognisable relationship, albeit one with an unusual twist. If a show has reality at its heart, then it's possible to build 'bonkersness' around it, Mellie said, something as true of Father Ted as it is of Grandpa.

Our three case studies, as well as the wisdom of colleagues from the children's area - Barry Quinn and Katie Simmons - provided a great deal of advice for writers wanting to explore the pre-school area, but while the advice appears perfectly straightforward, the reality of getting things right for the audience seems rather less so.

So adding to the first paragraph, I also learned that catch-phrases are good if they come from character; that familiarity is important; that reading something you've written to a child in the target audience can be very illuminating; that there is always another audience to take into account - that of parents and adults; that there can be antagonists, as long as they receive a comic come-uppance; that shows should be educational in a broad sense; that characters should regularly remind the audience what the story is about; that the world should be a world that children would like to live in; that a show should have a theme; and that structure is as important in writing for children as it is in writing for adults.

Of course, a number of these are rules that span any age-group, but some aren't, and it was a week where I learned a lot and the world was full of primary colours.

Saturday sees the end of the All Mixed-Up sitcom competition, with a showcase which I'll write about next week.

So, in alpahbetical order, these are the scripts and writers.

Gypos by Daniel Brierly is about a family of Irish travellers who live under the Westway in London. Daniel is currently doing an MA in screen writing at the National Film and Television School.

Human, Right? by Tom Glover is set in a human rights charity. Tom has several theatre projects in development, including work with the National Theatre Studio.

New Money by Wally Jiagoo is about the fall-out from a work syndicate's lottery win. Wally is on the Royal Court Unheard Voices scheme, and works in film as well as theatre.

The God Committee by Sophie Petzal is about a young woman and the four potential fathers of her unborn baby. Sophie is studying scriptwriting at Bournemouth University, has worked in film and live comedy, and is also a journalist in print and online.

The Marvellous Ascendancy of Jerome J Knight by Nimer Rashed is the tale of a man plucked from obscurity and handed a position of power in a talent agency. Nimer has won awards for his work in film, theatre and non-fiction writing.

Champs by Ben Syder and Jonathan Wright is a slacker com about two flatmates. They both write and act for theatre and television, and have won awards for their work.

Each of the scripts has an individual voice, and each offers a diferent style of comedy, so it will be exciting to meet the writers at a workshop later this month and see how the scripts have progressed from ten pages to full length. We'll be reading each script aloud at the workshop and I hope throwing up thoughts so that the writers can produce new drafts in time for casting and planning the showcase on 4 December.

In the end, we had just over 300 entries, which is obviously fewer than the number of applications to the last general college scheme, but very respectable given that this was a competition on a specific theme, with quite a tight deadline.

The standard of entries was exceptionally high, so coming up with an initial long list of thirty was hard. Agreeing on a manageable long list of fifteen was even harder and took a day of re-reading and debate.

However, the fifteen have now been chosen and written to, and I will be writing to the people who nearly made it, which I'm sure they will find as depressing to read as I will find the emails sad to write, but from which I hope they will find encouragement. I'll get those emails done as quickly as possible.

Themes and styles varied widely, but most of the entries were really interesting in the way that they dealt with characters we don't normally see and worlds we don't normally encounter. Only a handful were completely off the brief, and only with a very few did I feel that a character in an existing script had been tweaked for competition purposes and given a different voice.

There were some excellent jokes (a few unbroadcastable), some arresting characters and some very interesting scenarios, so the whole reading and assessment process was a pleasure, if rather intensive, not least because there were wildly varying tones, from broad to subtle.

The fifteen scripts are now being read by four people, who will be sending me their top sixes by the end of the week. I'll then tally up the votes, check that the six still want to be involved, and announce who they are and what their scripts are about.

Have I learned anything so far? Apart from the fact that we can't yet deal with the Celtx format and that PDFs are a good way to send scripts to people, I've learned that there is still the possibility of an original sitcom idea; that a lot of writers seem to have responded to an opportunity they didn't think existed; and that being a drag queen can be a sticky business.

Called All Mixed-Up, the competition is looking for proposals which reflect diverse Britain. Writers who can demonstrate some professional achievement are being asked to submit the first ten pages of a script to the college, with a limit of six characters and three settings.

Full details of how to enter are set out in the terms and conditions

The best six scripts will be workshopped in preparation for a showcase with a professional cast at the Soho Theatre on 4 December, where a celebrity panel will choose the best two for further development by BBC Comedy. Both scripts will be optioned, with the winner's option worth £1000, and the runner-up £500.

The competition is being run in association with Triforce Promotions, which promotes talent across a multi-cultural network of people in the media industries.

The aim is to encourage work by fresh voices, and to provide promising writers with an opportunity to develop their professional skills.

Writers of the next best six scripts will be invited to attend workshops on 4 December, and to join the showcase audience.

I hope that the competition will attract entries from writers who may feel their lives are not currently reflected in television comedy, and will introduce us to funny and fresh new voices.

The college is also planning with CBeebies a four-day workshop to explore the creation of a new comedy for viewers aged from four to six. Invited writers will be given an insight into the CBeebies audience, hear case studies on hit shows for the channel including Gigglebiz and Grandpa in My Pocket, and work together to develop ideas for a live action programme.

The workshop will be held in Newcastle in November.

Watching CBeebies is always a pleasure, I think. They have some excellent shows, and I'm very excited to be exploring whether the college can add to them.

It was a show with a large cast, set in a pub at, oddly, Sunday lunchtime, and the script visited the various dramas taking place around the tables and in the booths. Among the cast was Joe Tracini from Coming of Age, playing the product of a sperm donation desperately in search of a father.

The piece was warmly received by the audience, and there was enthusiasm first from Lucy Lumsden, then the BBC's comedy commissioner, and subsequently from Danny Cohen, the Controller of BBC3.

However, Danny felt that the all-in-one-place, Sunday lunchtime setting was a bit limiting, and suggested that the show should get out and about more, following people's lives. We discussed with John a smaller cast so that the audience could focus on a more manageable group of people, and where physically the show might be set. We also focused on what the show was about in an overall sense, and what it should be called.

And that was the beginning of the journey which turned Sunday Lunchers into The Inn Mates, taking as the basis that it's a show about friendship, about relationships, and about finding your place in the world.

John first had a go at rewriting the original script, but it seemed to make more sense for him to write another one to the new brief rather than making the old one fit. The second script seemed so fresh and funny that we decided to import one strand from the original and make the second script the pilot.

We knew that we wanted Joe Tracini to reprise his role, but we also needed an unexpected and interesting actor to play his 'father'. It was gratifying both that Neil Morrissey liked it, and that he was free for our filming dates in May. Meanwhile, our casting priority was to find fresh, funny actors who, like the writers in the college, had done a bit but not a lot.

The results are now out in the world (online at https://bbcbreakingnews.pages.dev/blogs/bbcthree/2010/08/exclusive-watch-new-comedy-inn-mates-online-now.shtml) with a TV transmission at 9.30pm on Monday 9 August) and it's over to the audience to tell us how we did, and whether they would like to see more. The point of a pilot is to test things out, to see what works and what might not work, so we'll be eagerly waiting for comments.

Meanwhile, the second year of the college produced some excellent writing, some interesting projects, firm interest in the writers, but no pilot, although that would have been the icing on the cupcake.

Now, in its third year, we're running the scheme in a different way, with three targeted initiatives being planned. We're close to having everything in place, and I'll announce what's happening here as soon as I can.

Rather than sticking to my structure scripts, my Belfast-based colleague Raymond Lau decided to use the time to brainstorm a show. The result has been a four-episode order from BBC Radio Ulster for a comedy about coping with aspects of modern life, and I was able recently to get on to a plane and go and help come up with a format for the show - a spoof magazine programme.

Not all the writers were able to get to the meeting, but it was very good to meet the ones who made it, and we did some useful work. Now the show is taking on a definite shape, being guided by Raymond with me helping out, with recording scheduled for February and transmission for March.

It's great that the College was able to stimulate something creative (and great of Radio Ulster to want it). The standard of jokes in the pub afterwards reached the depths that I always expect to be reached when a bunch of comedy writers get together. Better in the pub than in the show.

From Belfast (via the Emirates), I went to have my second experience of Scene and Heard, that extraordinary charity which produces drama by children from the Somers Town area of London, about which I've written before.

Young writers, aged between nine and 11, produce ten-minute plays which can feature objects or animals, but not people. They work with professionals who help develop the plays, which are then professionally directed and performed.

The results are never less than engaging, frequently extraordinary, generally hilarious and very often very touching, as bits of real life creep in, with references to anger management, divided families in different countries, and a burning desire to change circumstances.

Most of the plays have brilliant opening lines. A peacock demans: Where are my yodelling practice notes?', while a rather camp golden tap declares: "The old queen keeps leading me on," which made me laugh a lot, as did "people really like bubbly wines in Blackpool".

Then there are the touching lines: "I'm not really in love, I just want somewhere to stay", and "I'm a pair of earrings. I don't have a life."

There was an interesting piece about someone who stood out through being different, went to a place where he fitted in, and was then unhappy because he wasn't unique, quite an insight for a 12-year-old.

So it's well worth keeping an eye on Scene and Heard.

Playing a cyber shark with some distinction was Bruce Mackinnon, and actor I worked with on a show called Home Again, and currently playing an acrobat in Daniel Peak's new BBC1 sitcom, Big Top.

As is traditional with virtually every new BBC1 sitcom, Big Top has received a massive critical kicking, both in newspapers and on writers' forums. I can never quite understand the snobbishness of aspiring comedy writers, who tend to unite in loathing any show which is popular with audiences. Two Pints and My Family spring immediately to mind.

Getting the first series of any show to work is hard, gaining acceptance for a new show on BBC1 is harder, and having a sitcom commissioned on any channel is a major achievement. So I'm very pleased for Danny, who I've known since his early success in winning the BBC Sitcom Talent competition with The Bunk Bed Boys, and with whom I've worked on and off over the past eight years.

It's good for comedy if any new narrative show works because it creates demand for more sitcom rather than stand-up or comedy entertainment, so I hope that Big Top beds in, both because I love narrative comedy, and the more there is of it, the more opportunities there are for writers.

The best news is that a script we developed during the first year of the college has been commissioned for a pilot by BBC3, a tribute to the talent of its writer, John Warburton, and very pleasing indeed to us. It is currently called The Inn Mates, and is being made in the new year by my colleagues in Comedy North, which makes sense since John lives in Manchester. I will be joining Jon Mountague from Comedy North as executive producer.

As things develop in terms of director and cast I'll return to it here, but to have got from an early draft to a pilot commission has been an interesting process and illustrative of the way development works.

When I first encountered the script, then called Sunday Lunchers, it involved a cast of, I think, 22. So my first note to John, after saying how much I liked the script, was to suggest that a cast of that magnitude was completely impractical, both in terms of finance and logistics.

The show was designed to take place in real time over Sunday lunch in a pub carvery, with some major characters as the focus but a number of vignettes as we dipped in and out of conversations. While all the vignettes were funny, they proved a bit of a distraction from the main story and the main people, so we embarked on a process of pruning as we worked towards the college showcase in March.

In the end there was a cast of twelve, which felt like enough to do justice to the setting, but also not too many to get in the way of a main story and three sub-plots, and for the showcase 15-minute extract there were ten characters, which made for a busy quarter of an hour.

The showcase performance went down very well, so it seemed a good idea to put the show into the commissioning process as a potential pilot for BBC3, since that is currently the channel which offers most pilot opportunities.

However, aiming the show at a particular channel meant that channel requirements had to be taken into account, so while older characters stayed, the central characters needed to be reimagined as younger. If this had meant doing violence to the script, then we wouldn't have undertaken it - fiddling with something just to get it on risks destroying its soul, and this is certainly a show with soul.

John did that work, but in conversation with the channel there was a debate around whether the show should be a single-location piece - a la The Smoking Room, or whether it might benefit from seeing the characters in their lives outside the pub. There was a preference for the latter, which in turn meant revisiting the script to explore how it might work.

Not surprisingly, John was a bit boggled. It seemed as if the basis of the show he had created was being destroyed, and that massive rewrites would be needed. But once the dust settled, getting out and about made sense in terms of seeing characters in action rather than hearing them talk about action, and also because it was perfectly feasible to move a scene from the pub elsewhere without changing a word.

So we submitted the revised script, it was put into the commissioning mix, and last week we heard that we were being asked to make a pilot.

As I say, I'll report on the process as it continues, but there are a couple of things to learn from the story so far. One is that it's pointless to write more than one script of a potential series, since a producer and broadcaster can make radical suggestions. Another is that notes and requests can throw what a show is about into focus. This was devised as a large bunch of people in a pub every Sunday lunchtime, whose lives did not greatly intersect. It is now about a smaller bunch of people who use the same pub, and their connection in the pub and outside it.

Warburton news aside, we're in the middle of a two-day workshop this week, where we've been reading aloud and talking about the scripts which will be showcased next March. We're having a session with Sam Bain and Jesse Armstrong, discussing their lives and times and how their careers managed to overcome an early script rejection from me. And we will be going to meet the head of radio entertainment, Jane Berthoud, to talk about radio needs and opportunities.

I'll write more about the workshop shortly, and also about exciting developments in Belfast when I return from a visit there at the end of the month.

Meanwhile, I have recently discovered (decades late) the Parker series of noir novels by Richard Stark. In an introduction to one of them, John Banville says that part of Stark's method is 'what can go wrong will go wrong'. This is good for crime fiction, but also for comedy, I think.

Back soon.

The programme was a mixture of old and new, in the sense that we again had the pleasure of a visit from Paul Mendelson. We had a joint session with Susan Nickson and Tim Dawson, beacons of BBC3, and we were also joined by Kevin Cecil and Andy Riley, who brought along the cards which they use when planning an episode. Working with a three act structure, they write each element of the script on a separate card, including who is in which scene and what happens in it. By strewing them on the floor, it's possible to see if events are happening in the correct order, if someone disappears from the story for too long and, as Andy demonstrated, the cards can be moved around by foot. Much more helpful than having the information on screen.

We repeated the psychology of character session, heard from a producer, a director and a commissioner, and devoted two sessions to examining structure, which is something that everyone had requested.

So here, with apologies for the length, is my breakdown of a Fawlty Towers episode (we also looked at an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm in a similar way). Fawlty Towers, of course, is effectively farce plotting, which is probably the most difficult form to pull off. But the engineering of the scripts, the ruthless application of consequences to every action, and the brilliance of almost every joke line being part of the plot means that there are general lessons, irrespective of comic style.

I'm here for the rest of the week, then on holiday, so if there are any comments I'll do my best to answer them before I go. And (disclaimer) this analysis is my own and not to be regarded as definitive. I watched a DVD and made notes on each scene, which isn't a bad thing to do if you want to teach yourself.

FAWLTY TOWERS

Character, structure and plot in The Kipper and the Corpse

Scene one - Bar, night 1

The Major is talking to Mrs Chase about her dog. There is a shitzu joke in the second speech and a lap/Lapp dog joke shortly thereafter. So the first laughs come early. Mrs Chase asks Basil to get a saucer of milk for the dog. Basil tells Manuel to get it. Dr Price arrives and asks if it's too late for dinner - he really feels like sausages. Sybil says dinner is over, but he can have a sandwich. She tells Basil to make it. An older man with a younger woman head for bed.

This scene establishes a number of things. First, it sets up the hierarchy of character. Basil tells Manuel what to do, but is in turn told what to do by Sybil. We see that Basil kow-tows to favoured guests. Second, it sets up the two episode sub-plots: Mrs Chase's dog, and Dr Price's desire for sausages. It suggests that the older man/younger woman might be a sub-plot. But there is no indication of a main story.

Scene two - Reception, night 1

Sybil is gossiping to a friend on the phone about the older man's latest young woman, when they arrive to pick up their key. Then a queasy man - Mr Leeman - arrives with some friends who say they will see him in the morning, then specifically at 9.30 in the morning. We learn twice that he is not feeling well. He asks for breakfast in bed, about which Basil makes a fuss, forcing Mr Leeman to say goodnight.

The older man/younger woman again feel like a sub-plot, but in fact they disappear from the episode after this. Given the precision of the story engineering, and the fact that they're not intrinsically funny and have no lines, they feel possibly like leftovers from a previous draft, or had a third appearance which was cut in the edit due to the length of the episode. Whatever the reason, they do not contribute to the story, and with over-long episodes the rule is always to preserve the story rather than jokes.

Sybil's phone conversation suggests that she regards the guests as a source of amusement and gossip.

Although the main story is not yet clear, there are strong hints in the repetition of Mr Leeman's morning meeting time, and of his illness, that the story of the week is going to be about him.

Hence, these two scenes would equate to the end of Act One.

Scene three - Dining Room, Day 2 (the rest of the piece takes place during the same day)

Dr Price orders sausages for breakfast from Polly, which is the first time we see her. There is a feeling of competence about her, underlined when Manuel can't understand that Mrs Chase wants tepid milk in a bowl, and not a saucer, for her dog, which Polly explains to him. And an extra cushion to raise him closer to the table.

This scene develops the dog and sausage sub-plots.

Scene four - Kitchen (continuous)

Basil walks into a busy scene, reading aloud from the paper about striking car workers. Sybil isn't interested. She has been preparing Mr Leeman's breakfast, and gives Basil the remaining kippers to return to the fridge. He is concerned that they are well past their use-by date. Sybil says it's all right.

We are reminded of Mr Leeman, and the idea is planted of out-of-date food. We infer that Basil is somewhat right wing, and the motif of strikers is revisited when Manuel later says he is on strike.

Scene five - Dining room (continuous)

Manuel returns with milk, and a cushion for the dog. After some business with the cushion on the table and the bowl on the chair, the dog bites Manuel. And then bites Polly. Mrs Chase orders sausages for the dog.

Further dog development. More sausages. And Polly is motivated to poison the dog.

Scene six - Kitchen (continuous)

Basil is still worrying about the kippers. Sybil tells him to bring up Mr Leeman's breakfast, and reminds him that the laundry men are coming later. Polly is putting pepper and Tabasco on the dog's sausages for revenge.

Further dog and sausage development, and planting the later arrival of the laundry men.

Scene seven - Staircase (continuous)

Basil is bringing Mr Leeman's tray upstairs.

Scene eight - Bedroom (continous)

Basil enters Mr Leeman's bedroom, Room 8, to find Mr Leeman expressionless and propped up in bed. Basil continues his rant about striking car workers, and tries to get a 'thank you' which isn't forthcoming.

It is quite clear that Mr Leeman is dead, but Basil's disinterest in people - other than those who appeal to his snobbery or self-interest - does not allow him to notice this.
Thus, in this scene it's clear that Mr Leeman is the subject of the main story, and the fact that we know he is dead, whereas Basil does not, establishes a sense of comic anticipation. Putting the audience ahead of a character can be useful.

Scene nine - Staircase (continuous)

Basil going downstairs passes Polly coming upstairs with milk, which had been left off Mr Leeman's tray.

Scene ten - Kitchen (continuous)

Basil complains to Sybil about Mr Leeman's rudeness in not responding. Sybil is filling a laundry basket.

More comic anticipation, and a visual reminder that the laundry men are coming. We also see Manuel getting salt.

Scene eleven - Dining room (continuous)

Basil goes into the dining room, to see that the dog is distressed. Mrs Chase is unhappy.

Both a continuation of the dog sub-plot, and a possible harbinger, in that Mr Leeman was complaining of being ill the night before, and a sub-text of food poisoning - accidental or deliberate - is emerging.

Scene twelve - Kitchen (continuous)

Terry gives Manuel Dr Price's sausages to serve. Manuel is putting salt on them when Polly arrives to announce that Mr Leeman is dead. Shocked, Manuel keeps pouring. Sybil and Polly leave for Room 8. Basil comes in, learn that Leeman is dead, realises he served Mr Leeman date-expired kippers, and rushes...

Scene thirteen - Staircase (continuous)

...upstairs, passing Sybil coming down on her way to fetch Dr Price.

Scene fourteen - Bedroom (continuous)

Basil joins Polly, who has stayed in the bedroom. He panics about the kippers and tries to get rid of them. Polly says Leeman had been dead for hours. Basil has to amend his joy to assumed grief when Sybil returns with Dr Price. The doctor puts him on the spot - why didn't Basil notice Leeman was dead? Polly tries to help, but fails.

Scene fifteen - Staircase/Reception (continuous)

Basil, Sybil and Polly rush downstairs, discussing what to do with the body. They have to move it from the room because another guest is arriving. Sybil says to put the body in the office until the undertakers arrive. As Sybil makes up Leeman's bill, which she will tuck into his wallet, Polly phones the undertaker. Basil grabs Manuel, and takes up upstairs to wrangle the body. Dr Price comes down, and says he has to report the death to the coroner. He goes back to try and get some breakfast.

Scene sixteen - Landing (continuous)

Polly keeps watch as Basil and Manuel manhandle the body, disguised as laundry, along the landing. The elderly Miss Tibbs, coming the other way, picks up a pillow which has fallen from the body, won't be shooed away, and in the kerfuffle the body is revealed. Miss Tibbs has hysterics, and starts to cry 'murder'. Basil encourages Polly to slap her, and when helping to guide Polly's aim manages to knock Miss Tibbs out.

Two guests, Mr and Mrs White, are coming upstairs, so both Mr Leeman and Miss Tibbs are dragged into the nearest bedroom. Which turns out to be that of the Whites. Polly tries to stall them, but they are insistent - they need to collect some things before going out. Basil locks the door.

Scene seventeen - Bedroom (continuous)

We see that the bodies have been stashed in the wardrobe.

Scene eighteen - Landing (continuous)

The bedroom door is opened.

Scene nineteen - Bedroom (continuous)

The Whites come in. Miss Tibbs is coming round, and is making noises from the wardrobe. The Whites are curious, won't be distracted, and then Miss Tibbs starts to bang on the wardrobe door. The Whites demand that she be let out. She is, but she is incoherent, and meanwhile Polly notices that Mr Leeman's arm is visible. The Whites are stunned.

This is the end of a continuous sequence from Scene three to Scene nineteen. It is marked by a fade out/fade in, whereas until this point there have been cuts.

Scenes twelve to nineteen are almost exclusively devoted to the main story, but Dr Price's sausages and the theme of poisoned/lethal food recur.

The continuous action, the use of stairs and of physical movement, creates a great sense of urgency. Sybil and the doctor are calm, contrasting with Basil's mounting panic. The problem of what to do with the body occupies much of the episode. Sybil's suggestion of putting it in the office until the undertakers arrive is eminently sensible. It is Basil who complicates matters by not being straightforward, and Polly, the other sensible one of the four, always wants to help Basil out rather than joining Sybil on the side of logic.

This is now halfway through the episode, and though the fade in/fade out might suggest a 'mid-point of Act Two', in fact the main story continues to develop rather than setting off in an unexpected direction.

Scene twenty - Office (check loc)

Sybil is trying to comfort Miss Tibbs, but is not really listening (oh, I know).

Scene twenty one - Reception/Office

The Whites are on the phone booking alternative accommodation. As they leave, Basil, Manuel and Polly come downstairs with Mr Leeman, and prop him on a chair in the office.

Scene twenty two - Office (continuous)

The Major pops in for a chat, sees the body, and treats it with equanimity.

Scene twenty three - Hall (continuous)

Basil rushes into the hall, to find Dr Price asking for his breakfast.

Scene twenty four - Dining room/Kitchen/Dining room (continuous)

Basil goes through the dining room to the kitchen and starts sausages cooking. He hears Miss Tibbs banging the reception bell and demanding to speak to him, and closes the door. He goes to the dining room to apologise to Dr Price, hears sounds of distress, and rushes out to find...

Scene twenty five - Office (continuous)

...Miss Tibbs passed out next to Mr Leeman, with Manuel being ineffectual. Sybil arrives and asks why they put the body in the chair. They set out to bring the body to the kitchen, but another guest comes downstairs, so they divert through the front door.

Scene twenty six - Hotel steps, exterior (continuous)

The Whites, just driving off, see Basil and Manuel with the body. Polly waves them back in as the coast is now clear. We hear the Whites, distracted, crash the car.

Scene twenty seven - Hall (continuous)

Basil and Manuel carry in the body, but are waylaid by Mrs Chase, who demands that Basil call a vet for her ailing dog.

Scene twenty eight - Kitchen (continuous)

Basil and Manuel bring Mr Leeman into the kitchen and put him on a work surface. The kitchen is filled with smoke, because Basil has forgotten the doctor's sausages. The doctor comes in, and says they have to get the body away from food. Basil and Manuel put the body in the laundry basket.

Scene 29 - Hall (continuous)

The Whites come in and go upstairs. Basil and Manuel bring the laundry basket into the hall, watched by a man. Basil calls Sybil, without response.

Scene 30 - Office (continuous)

Sybil is giving Miss Tibbs a medicinal brandy.

Scene 31 - Kitchen (continuous)

Basil apologises to the doctor, and starts cooking more sausages.

Scene 32 - Dining Room (continuous)

Manuel is cleaning up, removing tablecloths, etc. He and Dr Price have a set-to about whether breakfast is still available. Manuel says no. Basil comes in and pokes Manuel in the eye.

Scene 33 - Reception (continuous)

Sybil gives a guest the key to Room 8. Mr Leeman's friends arrive to pick him up. Basil and Manuel arrive with the laundry basket. The friends say they are meeting Mr Leeman, and ask Basil if he knows where Leeman is. The woman in the group says they have come to collect him. Basil mistakes them for undertakers. He opens the basket, but there is no body inside. Polly comes in and says the fresh laundry has arrived. She, Basil and Manuel rush out.

Scene 34 - Outside Hotel (continuous)

They stop the laundry van.

Scene 35 - Dining room (continuous)

Dr Price is sitting at a table, while smoke wafts from the kitchen.
Scene 36 - Hall (continuous)

Basil and Manuel bring in another laundry basket. "He's in this one."
One of the friends says they have come to collect him to take him to a meeting. Basil tries to recover the situation. Sybil emerges to deal with the situation, while...

Scene 37 - Stairs/Bedroom/Bedroom (continuous)...Basil and Manuel bring the body upstairs to Room 8, which is now occupied by a man in a dressing gown blowing up a sex doll. They take the body into the Whites' room, which is in darkness, but the Whites are in residence.

Scene 39 - Stairs/Hall/Kitchen/Hall (continuous)

Basil and Manuel take the body back downstairs and into the kitchen. Dr Price is cooking his own sausages. Basil wants Manuel to help him put Mr Leeman back in the basket, but Manuel goes on strike and gets into the basket himself. Basil is holding the body by the feet as Sybil emerges with Mr Leeman's friends. He props the body up in front of the hat rack, and shields it. One of Leeman's friends wants his hat. Basil stalls. Polly tries to help.

Miss Tibbs arrives, demanding to talk to Basil. The Whites come downstairs in a state. Mrs Chase turns up, saying that her dog has been poisoned. Dr Price emerges, saying that the sausages are off. Basil says that Sybil will explain everything.

As the crowd converges on her, Basil climbs into the laundry basket, and is carried off by two laundry men. Miss Tibbs turns to see Mr Leeman's propped-up body and has the vapours. Sybil shouts: "Basil!"

Scene 40 - Exterior Hotel (continuous)
The basket is loaded on the van and driven away.

This final scene brings together the dog sub-plot, the doctor's breakfast sub-plot, the poisoned/lethal food sub-text, and ends the story in a logical, if not an entirely satisfyingly dramatic way. There is no resolution - logically, there can't be, so Basil disappears, leaving Sybil to sort out the mess, and us to wonder how much punishment he'll receive when he gets home.

With the sitcom form dedicated to a return to the status quo at the end of each episode - in the sense that characters don't change their relationships, albeit that their circumstances can change - then this episode achieves that in the pattern of Basil mucks up, Manuel complicates, Polly tries to head off disaster, and Sybil (we assume) sorts it.

In this script nothing is wasted. Everything (apart from older man/younger woman) contributes to story, whether it is story unfolding in the present, or seeds being planted for later flowering.

Although the method of Fawlty Towers is one in which Basil - like Larry David - is the author of his own misfortunes, there is little moral context and there is a cruel element which does not have consequences. Basil is physically abusive to Manuel, and in this episode Polly kills a dog which, in any other show, would lead to an outcry from the audience.

Sadly, we had to discriminate, but I had a meeting with the girls and their parents, where we talked through the script and what they needed to do to add an extra ten minutes. They went away, it went quiet for a bit, and then they wrote to say that, all things considered, they were children and would rather play with their Sims. Which was fair enough.

I remembered Jayne and Lauren last night when I spent an astonishing two hours in a small theatre in north London. Under the umbrella title Jumping for Joy - The Uplifting Plays,the audience was treated to nine short two-handed pieces by writers ranging in age from nine to 11.

It's a venture called Scene and Heard that is now 10 years old, and was inspired by a similar project in New York. It entails professional directors, script editors and actors working with children from the ethnically mixed, socially deprived area of Somers Town in north London to develop ten-minute plays for performance, the aim being both to encourage the children's creativity and increase their self-esteem.

Human characters are not allowed. The plays must feature either animals or inanimate objects. So last night involved the second biggest mountain in the world and a private detective hyena; a scorpion and a posh lavatory, and a recipe book and a toe fungus bacteria, among others.

The results are extraordinary - hilarious, touching, and unexpected. From time to time there are hints of the children's real world - two pieces mentioned anger management, for example - but their lives feature more in the sub-text. There is a lot going on in these plays, not least in the dialogue, which offers lines to make professionals jealous.

I was particularly moved by the story of a male pterodactyl and a female pair of glasses. The pretodactyl has been captured and is forced to fly rubbish to a dump. He can't escape, because if he flies out of London he will be electrocuted through the collar he must wear. Working together, he and the glasses manage to rob the Queen's fortune, so that she achieves her dream of exchanging glass for see-through diamonds, and he buys his freedom and can fly with her outside London.

Slavery, economic disparity, romance across the classes and freedom are large areas for any drama, and here they were cleverly and satisfyingly dealt with over a few minutes by 10-year-old Alfie Robinson.

Equally touching was the story, by nine-year-old Suban Abdirhaman, of the weather forecast and a water pistol being trapped in and escaping from a drawer. The weather forecast came from a family of weather forecasts and really wanted to be a gymnast. The water pistol wanted to be a real gun in the army. Again, by working together they managed to achieve their dreams, despite a rather awkward and mistrustful relationship.

These plays aren't cosy. They are clear-sighted, and not all of them have happy endings, despite a laughter rate that equals the most popular audience sitcom.

It made me wonder, though, how many of the Somers Town children, having been given a foundation in drama, will go on to become writers. Will they decide, like the Talent girls, that it's too much like hard work? Will they persevere with writing, only to lose heart when they encounter the harsh professional world?

It would be lovely to think that I'll get an e-mail at some point from Jayne and Lauren with a script attached, and that some of the Scene and Heard writers will go on to suceed but, of course, as Sims are replaced by the real world, the place of writing is bound to diminish.

But the Scene and Heard plays seemed to me to carry some important lessons for grown-up writers. They were all about something real, they were direct, and they weren't afraid to confront emotion. I often respond to scripts from new writers by saying that characters should have the capacity to make audiences cry as well as laugh, and sometimes they respond negatively to that advice. One this week said that he had been writing a simple comedy, which was funny for the sake of it, and he didn't see the need for characters with depth.

That's fair enough, and shows like that get commissioned, but I think all writers should aspire to create scripts with emotional depth. The Somers Town children weren't thinking in those terms, but did so none the less. I suppose that it's a harder thing to achieve the more self-consciousness arrives with age, leading to an unwillingness to expose oneself on the page. Adults tend to edit the imagination, and guard against disclosure, which is why last night was so refreshing and why the pterodactyl flew.

Following last years successful College of Comedy scheme, the BBC has recruited six writers to take part in its development programme over the next ten months.

Once again the writers will be mentored to produce original work, attend a residential workshop where they will explore technique and craft with established writers and producers, and be attached to a current series to learn how production works.

The scheme is run by Micheál Jacob, formerly the BBC's Creative Head of Mainstream Comedy, and executive producer of My Family, 2 Pints Of Lager And A Packet Of Crisps and The Smoking Room.

He combines running the college with developing and executive producing programmes.

He said "This is an exciting group. They all have very different styles and voices and experience, ranging from a writer who has sold a single sketch to a writer who has had a show piloted for BBC3. Working with them on their scripts is going to make it an exciting year."

The six candidates selected are:

Donna Harle, based in London, who has contributed to a forthcoming BBC3 sketch show pilot.

Gerry Howell, a London-based comedian and writer, who was a finalist in Channel 4's The Play's the Thing competition and is preparing his first Edinburgh fringe show.

Rosemary Jenkinson from Belfast, an experienced theatre writer, who has published short stories and poems, as well as receiving a number of writing bursaries.

Colin McQuaid from Scotland, who is on the writing team of BBC Scotland's Ellis & Clarke Show, and has written comedy for Radio Ulster.

Dale C. Phillips, from Hull, a novelist, screen and sketch writer, and a finalist in the BBC BANG! Theatre Play writing competition for new generation Asian writers.

Henry White, from London, has won a number of animation awards, and contributed to several sketch shows. His pilot, The Site, was transmitted on BBC3 in 2008.

When the scheme was launched in 2008, it attracted support from many leading writers, including Armando Iannucci, Sam Bain and Jesse Armstrong, Simon Nye, Jeremy Dyson, Susan Nickson and Hugo Blick, some of whom did sessions for the college.
The scheme, is designed for people who have already begun their careers and can demonstrate some achievement, such as broadcast material, a script commission or performance of their work.

The chosen candidates will be given writer and producer mentors for their original work, which will be showcased when the scheme ends in March 2010.

There will be one residential workshop and ad hoc events during the year, with sessions from leading writers, producers and directors.

This year we received 650 entries - oddly, exactly half last year's number - explained I think by the enhanced criteria for submission. A few people with no CVs to speak of tried their luck, but the vast majority were extremely qualified, a few rather over-qualified, and the selection process has been difficult, particularly in getting down to a dozen. Five of us were involved in that process, and the final winnowing will be done by nine people and me.

In a way this is a very exciting time, and in another it's a bit miserable, because while I'm looking forward to working with six new writers, I'm very conscious that there will be 644 others who are going to be frustrated and disappointed. Telling people that not being accepted for the scheme isn't a comment on their talent or their writing isn't much consolation, but since nearly everyone who applied has a career already, they should take comfort from that. Proud as I am of the scheme, it's not the be-all and end-all and, as Jeremy Dyson pointed out in Leeds on Wednesday night, a lot of a writer's life is rejection. Though being the rejector is never enjoyable.

Jeremy and I were on a panel with Phil Mealey and Kate Rowland doing a q&a as part of the Northern Laughs scheme, an excellent project involving writers from across the north of England being mentored by Jeremy, Phil and Craig Cash, and Ian La Frenais.

Not surprisingly, the college came up, and I was asked what my criteria were, and whether the fact that I run the scheme didn't mean that the writers all conformed to my taste. I think with a number of people involved in the selection process, there's no danger of it being a solo list, and as for criteria, I think we all apply the same - is it funny, is it original, am I immediately involved? And when you've got a bunch of scripts and sketches which meet those criteria, it's then a matter of who is funniest, who is most original, and whose work is the most involving?

When we have done the interviews I'll post names and short biogs of the six, so the next blog will be at the beginning of next month.

As we did last year, assessment will be in the form of an inverted pyramid, with more people being involved as the shortlisting progresses, ending with the most promising being read by the head of comedy, the creative director of the writersroom, and my executive colleagues in the comedy department, which will lead to interview invitations and then the final six.

Meanwhile, I've been doing an evaluation of the first year, looking at what worked and what might have worked better, drawing on the views of the first year 'students'. As a result, this year will be more rigorous in some areas, with strict script deadlines and parameters for how many characters and settings the scripts should involve.

There are plans to take the college on the road, with workshops in Northern Ireland and Scotland, and given that we will be running one workshop for the college writers rather than two, there will be some individual events. We also plan to link more with radio.

But first we have to find the six, a process to which I'm very much looking forward.

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Organising the showcase accounts for my absence, since it has involved quite a lot of work. We're doing half a script from each of the six original projects, with three exciting young directors and a rather amazing cast, which made me feel rather privileged when we were all together for rehearsals yesterday.

The actors include Amanda Abbington, Martin Freeman, Miranda Hart, Lucy Montgomery, Simon Daye, Geraldine McNulty, Nick Mohammed and Una Stubbs, and the writers are as excited as I am.

Actually, it's excitement mixed with the fear, but that will go away once we hear the first laugh. Which I'm hoping will be in the first few seconds.

We're starting with Spilt Milk by Trippplicate, a show set in a failing cafe, followed by Not 19 Forever by Andrew Viner, about a group of 30-something friends, and then Sunday Lunchers by John Warburton, which is set in a pub with an eclectic group of characters.
Mix-Up, by Leah Chillery, is about a young woman discovering on her birthday that she is mixed race. 4x4 by Catherine Shepherd is about a 50ish woman with four children by four different fathers, and we're finishing with Daddy Cool by Rob and Neil Gibbons, which is about a man with early onset Alzheimers and a squabbling family. Dan Antopolski is compering.

It feels as if the year has gone by very quickly, and soon I'll have to do a proper taking stock. As of now, it feels as if most things have worked, and a good thing is that I have been able to recommend the writers to colleagues who are producing or developing shows. The year has made me think more deeply about comedy and comedy writing and production - generally,stuff that one does rather than stuff one meditates on - and that has provoked some interesting thoughts, which have been further stimulated by people who comment here.

I know that all the writers will go on and prosper, which is the main and best outcome. So now it's rehearsals then showtime.