OBVIOUSLY we must start with a review of Doctor Foster (BBC1, Tuesday). And I have to say the finale was a bit of a disappointment.

Doctor Foster is the best of the recent bunch of BBC dramas, which have been ludicrous, silly, and melodramatic. I’m thinking here of the daft Trust Me, and the absolutely bonkers Top of the Lake. Doctor Foster shares the same traits in that there were plot holes and implausible storylines, but at least it was stylish and compelling, and always madly enjoyable.

Yet I just can’t leave these plot holes: they niggle at me. If this was a novel it would be eviscerated by literary critics, so why should TV viewers have to put up with it? Why should a literary audience not be expected to accept a heroine who claims her work is the very thing that gives her strength and standing yet hardly ever turns up for a shift?

This noble doctor spent most of her time in the kitchen removing white wine from the fridge, or zooming around Parminster in her grey Hyundai — a car carefully chosen to make her sensible, respectable, motherly, but which was still able to rev and roar when she pondered a murderous drive. This isn’t realistic, a reader would say. Why does the doctor never doctor?

And what of her dull little son? Tom began moaning that mummy is never at home (yes, apparently she was always at work ... ). Mercifully I have little experience with teenage boys, but I can’t imagine they grumble when they get home to find the house empty. I assume they say “Yasss!” and immediately raid the fridge and retire to their room to play their Xbox. Do they look mournfully at the clock and wonder when mother will return to make din-dins? No! They’d phone in a Domino’s and enjoy the freedom.

More niggles followed: Simon has no money in his bank account but was still taking taxis everywhere. Why was Gemma willing to make herself an accessory to a crime by leaving handwritten instructions for Simon’s suicide? Why was she so eager to let herself be struck off the medical register? How can she be the respectable, clever woman we knew her to be, and who suffers dreadfully when her domestic ideal is trashed, when she became so utterly reckless and cavalier?

Had Gemma been a “chav” or “ned”, or a chaotic woman always in despair, then the ruin of her life and marriage wouldn’t have been so appalling. It would just have been another terrible thing on her terrible list. But careful, diligent, decent Gemma had assembled a lovely life full of cars, kitchens and gravel driveways, paid for by her noble career and cemented by her standing in the town as a good doc. How could such things have been assembled if she was, simultaneously, a woman who melted her wedding ring in acid and then pumped the deadly solution into syringes and carted them around in her doctor’s bag for months?

But we can grit our teeth and overlook these holes because, hey it’s only TV, right? As long as we tune in for the allotted 60 minutes then the channel will reward us with enough drama to merit that attention. That’s why the finale was so disappointing: the drama failed us. No-one died!

We might forgive the flaws if we’re rewarded with rollicking drama. The finale certainly kept teasing us with that promise — Simon capering on the motorway; the agonised breakfast where he sloshes down Jack Daniels with his eggs; having his very last meal in a Premier Inn; the icy Gemma detailing how Simon’s death will not be painless — and then ... a big fat nothing. Not a single body. All we had sulky little Tom hoisting his bindle and heading off to London or wherever. So the brat left home? Big deal. He’s almost 16, and he did it of his own free will. Hardly a tragedy, yet the drama tried to chuck it at us like some Madeleine McCann terror concerning a poor little missing child. So instead of death and tragedy we had Gemma restored to her role as respectable mummy (so let’s forget all about the acid syringes and suicide plans then?) standing on the doorstep pleading for her lost lamb to come me.

Ugh! You could practically smell the freshly baked cookies wafting out of the kitchen door as the fierce woman lapsed into boring old mummyhood, hanging about the house. I assume the third series will just be called “Mrs Foster”. Because there must be a third series; what else would excuse this limp, cowardly cop-out of an ending?

SO, if Doctor Foster turned out to be a bit weak and watery, you’ll be glad to hear Curb Your Enthusiasm (Monday, Sky Atlantic) is back. This is a sitcom of unbelievable guts and bravado.

Nothing is off limits here. Past episodes have joked about Holocaust survivors, an incest support group, cerebral palsy ... the list goes on and on.

In the first episode of the new series, Larry offends Islam by penning Fatwa! The Musical. Soon the Ayatollah places a fatwa on his bald head and he has to hide from murderous Iranians, as well as an angry lesbian he has managed to offend.

Richard Lewis is also insulted as he grieves for his dead parakeet and thinks Larry hasn’t shown enough respect. Perhaps he would have done, says Larry, if the dead bird had been a parrot or a toucan. “I don’t live in a Cuban dance hall,” yells Richard! Glorious is the only word for this show.