Cold Blood
ITV1, 9pm
Lead Balloon
BBC2, 9.30pm

SO. Farewell then, Brian Wicklow. We salute you and your thespian alter ego, Matthew Kelly. You were an ultra-clever and highly-persuasive monster, Wicklow, you crazy old child-slayer, you, thrilling us through three series of Cold Blood with your creepily camp demeanour and acrid pronouncements.

With regard to the latter, we cannot help savouring your off-hand taunt for the frankly chunky Pauline Quirke, portraying clueless detective inspector Hazel Norton ("You've lost weight, Hazel - I mean purely in the sense of gravitas").

Ultimately, you succeeded in engineering your own bloody demise in a manner which denied justice and ensured that the chap who murdered you - poor self-torturing Jake Osbourne (John Hannah) - was more your victim than you were his, thereby reigning triumphant over him for all eternity from beyond the grave.

In truth, Wicklow didn't have any other opposition over which to triumph. For as ever, the police in Cold Blood were lazy, venal and incompetent, most of them spending their working-days in their cosily over-heating skyscraper HQ, eating takeaway pizzas and watching criminality unfold on the streets via TV news reports or CCTV.

When six undercover cops were actually despatched outdoors to tail a suspect - Wicklow's unhinged, multi-wigged child-abducting sister - they lost her after five minutes. When not engaged in failing to spot sarky comments about her size, DI Hazel wasted her time worrying about non-existent messages hidden in Wicklow's collection of religious iconography.

DI Hazel's boss, Corrie's Des Barnes, likewise hindered investigations by worrying about his career being undone by his first display of maverick initiative. DS Granger (Jemma Redgrave) simply looked bloodless while moping and pining for self-torturing Jake.

Cold Blood's sole police victory lay in the speedy deployment of gallows humour. This came when cops surveyed the bloody aftermath of Wicklow's drastic escape from handcuffs via sawing his own thumb off. "He can't get far," one detective dryly noted, "not if he's hitch-hiking."

As for John Hannah, he gave a masterly display of being a shade too thin. He was also top value as a man haunted by his past and perennially alone, wandering in a cosmos of personal torment.

Ally this to his fine facial features and silvered mane of curls, and I reckon the tres distingué John Hannah is a cert to be hired by the Blue Nile if ever they need a Blue Nile-looking backing singer for a tour.

In Lead Balloon, the singularly un-Blue Nile-esque Rick Spleen - tubby, dyspeptic and morose - suffered the showbiz agony of his best pal and chief workmate, the laconic Marty, suddenly becoming much more successful than him on comedy's top stage, Hollywood.

Luckily for Rick, Marty came back to him after five days spent lounging by LA pools being lavishly courted by coked-up, egomaniacal movie moguls. Marty realised that such a form of success would wind up killing him.

Typically, Rick hid his joy at his buddy's return. Instead, he merely pestered Marty to write him gags for a soul-destroying corporate gig on behalf of the staff of FreshLav Ceramic Toilets. Then he deliberately deleted all Marty's photos of his LA trip.

Lead Balloon: Thursday nights will be sad and hollow now the series has ended. I shall miss the saintly wisdom and tolerance of Rick's partner, Mel, and the unworldly abruptness of Michael, the cafe owner who makes Basil Fawlty look like Michael Palin.

Rick Spleen: he's a younger, more metropolitan Victor Meldrew for these savage times in which we abide. Jack Dee as Rick Spleen: a perfect study in middle-aged self-loathing, self-betrayal, failure and disgust. Haste ye back.