And here are the details…

BBC Two is “terrified” to announce that Psychoville, written by Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton, will return for a one-off special programme to be shown next year, and a new, six-part second series.

The dark comedy thriller was centred on very different characters, who each received an anonymous mysterious letter claiming: “I know what you did…” The last series episode concluded the story at Ravenhill Hospital, for the completely insane, with a huge explosion. In the new series, all will be revealed as to who managed to survive the blast.

The first series of Psychoville, shown earlier this year, has recently been nominated for two British Comedy Awards.

Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith said: “We’re delighted that BBC Two commissioners have responded in the right way to the notes we sent bearing the words ‘We know what you did’. We look forward to being able to tickle and terrify our audience once again – preferably at the same time.”

Cheryl Taylor, Controller of Comedy Commissioning, said: “It’s great news for all, including all the dedicated Psychoville fans that this wonderfully creative series from Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith will return to dazzle and delight BBC Two viewers next year.”

Executive producer Jon Plowman said: “We are thrilled that our twisted baby, Psychoville, has been re-commissioned. We look forward to intriguing and scaring the audience next year and the year after”.

Scary titles

Jelly not so Jolly

And then a sudden pull-back and we find we’re in a suburban post office in the present day. It’s the first– and best – gag in this opening episode of Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton’s seven-part comedy thriller. While evoking the spookiest corners of Victoriana, it then turns the lights on and we can see everything’s actually a little bit silly.

So could it be that this half of The League of Gentlemen have outgrown their love for the macabre? Actually, no, because Psychoville is dripping with it. This early feint aside, it doesn’t feel like much has changed since 2002 when we said our goodbyes to Royston Vasey on TV.

Indeed, when we return to the action after the titles, we find Reece Shearsmith still got up as a spooky clown. Granted, “Dave” may not be “in” (rather than Papa Lazarou, Mr Jelly talks like Shearsmith’s permanently apoplectic factory worker Geoff Tibbs) but it’s brave to invite early comparisons with one of the League’s most iconic characters.

Although the comedy is set across different towns in the UK, everywhere, it seems is filthy. This is a dark world, of scurrying people and mounting terror. Joby Talbot’s musical score is ever-present, with urgent strings, and fingers scraping up the violin neck. Nothing of the modern world is really allowed in anywhere – midwife Joy (Dawn French) speaks of video tapes and “DBB”, while Maureen Sowerbutts (Shearsmith again) amuses herself on a Bontempi.

Psychoville feels like a pastiche of everything Pemberton and Shearsmith thrilled at when they were kids. For some reason, I had assumed they’d be done exploring their formative influences by now. But no. Thing is, I’m not sure I’ve got the stomach for this stuff anymore, and certainly not the fascination. Daubing “Fuck pig” on a wall in faeces, and spraying a kitchen with semen is actually, weirdly, a bit boring.

This reservation aside, some moments still shine through. It was always between the punchlines the League scored big, and so it is here. Mr Jelly arrives for a children’s party, insouciantly throwing his fag onto the lawn. After purloining a cup cake with his hooked hand, he asks “Where am I going?” as he ambles off down the hall, looking for the kids’ party. Meanwhile, blind Mr Lomax (Steve Pemberton) mumbles something about: “That blackie cleaner, she tries to trick me”, and the ringleaders at the murder mystery dinner cheerfully instruct their roomful of amateur detectives “Don’t forget your clue packs!” as they trot off to inspect a faux cadaver. It’s these tiny strokes that truly delineate the scene. They’re dabs of light on a murky picture.

So what next? Do we care what the blackmailer will do? Well, actually, I think, yes. Despite the unwelcome stench of familiarity hanging over the project, Psychoville does at least deliver us an intriguing premise and some strong cliff-hangers. David Sowerbutts (Pemberton) has “done another bad murder”, for one. But, if they don’t open the curtains – and leave them open – somewhere early in episode two, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll stick around.

I knew, incontrovertibly, that the mould had been set when we sat up late one evening to watch La Dentilliere on BBC2 and discuss the finer points of French cinema. It will come as no surprise to you whatsoever to learn that I never got an Action Man for Christmas. Or a ticket for Deep Throat. For some obscure reason, Father reckoned that the onset of puberty was a prerequisite for that one. Killjoy. Think of the playground kudos a viewing of that would have given me. Not to mention all the Wagon Wheels I could have eaten and a squint at William Stewart’s Mayfairs.

Look, this preamble is leading somewhere, just bear with me.

Anyway, the second film that I ever did see was Monty Python and the Holy Grail. The old man was big on Monty Python. Still is, in fact. It flew over my head, and I hated every single minute of it. No, make that every second of it. It was the unfunniest thing that I had ever confronted. Still is, in fact. Somehow reading my stunned silence as approval, Father then unilaterally decided that I should be allowed to stay up late to watch Spike Milligan’s Q shows or the Python crew whenever they were on the small screen. Now, this presented me with a major dilemma. On the one hand I would have to watch alleged comedy that left me dry. But, on the other, both shows contained (especially Spike’s) the odd flash of boob. And rather large boobs at that. And scantily clad females. Scantily clad females with rather large boobs. Look, when you’re 10 years old, these things matter. So, for the sake of my dad (and also the curious – and not entirely unpleasant – sensation of something strangely different happening in my underwear) I decided to do my duty as a dutiful son and watch ‘em all. I was, of course, rewarded with no laughs, several stiffies and the embarrassing experience of a wet dream. But, as your man from The Korgi’s winsomely opined, everybody’s gotta learn sometime.

Right, with me so far? In a nutshell, the man with no name meets the boy with soiled sheets who harbours a pathological hatred for surreal comedy. There’s a Fellini movie hiding in that sentence somewhere. Oh how I hated surreal comedy. Still do in fact. Despite my tender years, the die had been cast. I much preferred the likes of Porridge. Them versus us, don’t let the bastards grind you down and all that. For all their frolicking with lumberjacks, Hell’s Grannies, silly walks and dead parrots, the likes of Python were the bastards. A lifetime of Pimm’s and privilege gained you an entry card into Oxbridge and Footlights. Thereafter, a chap from the BBC (himself a Pimm’s man) saw your Fringe production and instantly offered you a gig on the gogglebox. I know how it works. Well, that was the whisper on the playground anyway. I’ll bet those shitehawks never had a sugar sandwich in their playpiece.

This whole train of thought and burgeoning chip on the shoulder attitude culminated in the by now infamous incident some years ago wherein I lamped a couple of braying, ruddy-faced Tim-Nice-But-Dim types during a best-forgotten Fringe performance. That it was during a horrendous performance of dreadful, surreal stand-up should come as even less a surprise to you as my long childhood of Action Man-less Yuletides. That I did it in character (don’t ask – my one man performance redefined the parameters and pushed back the boundaries of the word shite) was not so much a testament to my thespian abilities but more of a ringing endorsement for the dubious substances my character willingly partook of on stage. Though I do, bizarrely, remember effeminately slapping one bloke, much to the amusement of the crowd, yelling, “I’m genial Harry Grout and you, my son, are a charmless nurk.” I’m not proud of that. Honestly, I’m not. I am proud of the fact that I made one of the blokes stamp his feet with rage and call me an “odious big turd”. Genial Harry Grout didn’t like that. Not one little bit. So he slapped him again.

So, there/here we are. A veritable field of Maris Pipers on one shoulder and Mantovani conducting a violin concerto on the other. But I did stop worrying about comedy and learned to love it all. Or most of it. Face it; the BBC doesn’t make it easy on a boy. The schedules are strewn with the carcasses and festering remains of dead comedy. Some of them – the truly awful Coupling for instance – are still beating (that one should have been aborted at some point during the gestation period). I could write a better sitcom than that. Then again, Rupert the freaking Bear could write a better sitcom than Coupling. So could Yogi – but not Winnie the Pooh. Oh no. There’s something of the Hundred Acre Wood about Coupling. Think about it. The names insanely assail my consciousness like the Cathars would some peasant village in the Dark Ages – The Fitz, Two Pints of Lager, ‘Orrible, Celeb, Operation Good Guys – right, that’s enough. We could be here all day. And if here is the graveyard of hideous, eternal damnation that is BBC Comedy, then we most definitely do not want to be here.

Some of you would much rather be in Royston Vasey instead. Not literally, of course. But not me though. I’d rather be back watching Milligan shuffling across the screen zombie-chorusing “What are we going to do now?” (I’m sure he would too) or even, god forbid, Python. I’ve tried so hard to dig the cult of The League of Gentlemen but I’d be just as well trying to dig the Cult of Sol Invictus. Gnosticism aside, this one goes way, way over my head. I’ve watched every episode and it leaves me stone cold. Not a single laugh. Not a hint of a guffaw or a titter. And I feel strangely bad about this. Some of the people I respect the most in life adore this yet I think it’s indescribably awful. Predictable plots, lame characters, lousy writing, dull direction, an overblown sense of self-importance and ludicrously self-indulgent. Well, not quite indescribably awful then.

Yet somehow I return to the prose of Cyril Connolly, who said that “Hate is the consequence of fear; we fear something before we hate it. A child who fears becomes an adult who hates.” and I wonder if my mournful mien recognises an element of discordant truth in those powerful words. Or am I just severely hacked off that I wasted a half hour of my life watching this when there was a Linda Lovelace documentary on another channel? I never did get to see Deep Throat, you know. I could have bought the video. But I bought an Action Man instead.

Last episodes in comedy serial are often grand affairs.

The final League of Gentlemen combined the usual bizarre mix of humour (electrocuting a boy and his bird in the same episode as employing the bookish pun “hoist by my own pet toads”) with an attempt to provide some much required closure. Unlike soaps, sitcoms make constant references back to the premise that underlies the “sit”. Final episodes usually involve threatening the continuation of the series’ central concept.

For The League it would require true eclecticism to fulfill such a climactic brief. So we saw shades of Brookside(the epidemic), All Creatures Great and Small, Monty Python (the charity shop ladies),The Wicker Man (again) and even Charles and Di’s wedding (as Barbara refers to her spouse incorrectly as “Charles David”). As the episode unfolded strand upon strand converged.

Yet, strangely enough, all of the best stuff was the peripheral business. The Trivial Pursuit sketch (lifted from their radio series) saw Charlie and Stella point-scoring in fabulously familiar fashion, replete with consummate, confident performances (particularly Gatiss’ hair). This was quickly followed with Iris vs Mrs Levinson – another high octane argument, and another climax within a climactic episode (with some great cod-soap dialogue: “I pity you lady” says Iris in her best Rita Fairclough fashion).

Other sketches provided fine entertainment too: Legz Akimbo’s grotesque, issue-led theatre perfectly captured the worst excesses of such touring companies convinced that half-baked representation and theatrical “magic” will suffice instead of proper sets. In general the direction and tone remained as fluid, cinematic and “uncomedy” as it has ever been. However, this was the concluding episode and a convergent point was required.

So, it was at the Local Shop that the series found its slightly unsatisfying conclusion. A poorly rationalised lynch mob allowed The League the indulgence of a Hammer House style ending. As Edward and Tubbs burnt in their shop it became apparent that the laughter track had been missing for some minutes, and a realisation dawned that this time the affectionate acknowledgements of cinematic influences had temporarily taken ascendancy at the expense of the humour. On this occasion The League‘s genuine cultural enthusiasm had strayed a little too far into self-indulgence. As the series credits rolled for the last time, one was left hankering for one final sketch or joke.

Make no mistake, this has been an extraordinary series, building conspicuously on the grotesque and referential material initiated first time around. The density of allusions and breadth of humour has genuinely extended the medium. Whilst others attempt to further the existing boundaries of comedy (The Fast Show pushing the comedy catchphrase to the nth degree), The League has looked not to pastiche genres but to embrace them, employing dramatic conventions to enhance drama not comedy. They have embarked for a destination of their own, abandoning the perceived duty of modern comedy (to further progress the work undertaken by Coogan et al) and have instead concentrated on creating a world that reflects their own preoccupations. In retrospect it is clear that they have composed a complex, intertextual body of television that retains an earthy sense of humour. Their challenge now is to ensure their evolution is not at the expense of this delicate equilibrium.