That’s why X Factor is such an astounding breath of fresh air this year. There’s no Rhydian, no Helen from Big Brother Two, no Glen from Big Brother Seven, no Imogen from Big Brother Seven…actually, it’s quite possibly just the Welsh who indulge in such cheap xenophobia-dressed-up-as-patriotism jiggery pokery, but my point remains sound. Aside from the massive failure of the north-eastern girl bands to channel local support, no band or singer has attempted to, nor has the scope to, yank on said string.

This is great news for London, because when talent is actually allowed to shine, Leona Lewis – formerly a receptionist from Hackney – happens. (When it doesn’t, Leon Jackson – formerly and currently some berk from Scotland – happens.)

And this year there’s lots of London talent to do well. In fact, aside from Laura (who hails from Manchester), London *is* the talent. There’s Rachel from Hackney, the woman who has overcome her demons and having three of her five children taken into care who has come back and is going for a pop career. Now, leave aside all the awkward questions about her background – why just three of the children? If everything’s fine now, why aren’t the family reunited? Why has she been allowed to enter this competition if these serious issues haven’t been addressed? – she’s got lungs, and then some. Her rendition of ‘Chasing Cars’ in boot camp wasn’t only the best performance from the series so far; her vocals were full-on Nina Simone-esque. Admittedly, Nina Simone when she was doing other people’s songs and not being entirely sincere, but still. The girl’s a hypnotically good singer.

Boy band JLS, too, hail from London. There’s something of the young Take That about them: they work damned hard, back it up with looks, vocals, and above all else, an unswerving dedication to fun. Between the band, Rachel and Laura, there are three acts that deserve to come out of this with a career.

Of course, not everything London has contributed has been great. Alexandra’s a London girl, but despite the fact several people I know keep trying to tell me she’s the best singer, there’s something inescapably dead in her eyes. We’re also responsible for Daniel, seeing as he originally comes from Walthamstow. People in the programme have now stopped referring to his dead wife, opting instead to notionally refer to how he’s ’such a nice guy’ who’s ‘been through so much’. But that can’t hide the fact that he’s not got the X Factor. He’s not even got whatever led to Steve Brookstein winning the popular vote three years ago.

He also leads this year’s march of the fatties. This is admittedly rather hypocritical territory for me – after a summer of non-stop binge drinking, I resemble a rather hastily-assembled suet pudding – but the line-up often resembles a new Jamie Oliver project. Have previous years been so intriguingly lardy? Take the first live show. Was it Alexandra’s thighs that were most distracting, porking out of her mirrorball dress like a pair of meat towers? Or the otherwise almightily-talented Laura, having to carefully force each fattened leg past each other inside an overly tight dress? Or perhaps Rachel, dressing like a portly landowner from a Thomas Hardy novel to sing Robyn’s ‘Heartbeat’?

Still, we can at least be proud of the fact that the UK, let alone London, isn’t responsible for this year’s true televisual car crash. Spanish Ruth – yes, I know that Dannii Minogue has kept it well hidden, but she really is from Spain – is a woman who has convinced the judges and voting public that conveying passion for music is done by looking like she has just stumbled out of a car crash. Seriously, try watching it next week – the grasping at the right side of her head like she’s incurred serious concussion, mumbling away in words that no-one can understand, and peering down the camera like a badger stuck in a trap waiting to be put out of it’s misery.

I think it’s supposed to show longing.

Still, if you see her around, grab a shovel and do the right thing. Then find 25p and vote for Rachel. This year, the Celts don’t get a look-in.

So it was shocking to see a programme that fits into both these categories be as cracking as The Wrong Door. There’s a possibility you actually saw it, seeing as BBC Three went against its usual policy of burying any decent programme it accidentally makes and not telling anyone where it is by going and advertising it. And now I’ve messed up by only writing about it after the series has finished, meaning it’s only on iPlayer now. ‘Whoops’.

The show was created by Ben Wheatley, who contributed to Armando Ianucci’s unfairly maligned Time Trumpet, and did the live action sections of the unfairly overrated Modern Toss. The Wrong Door takes on the same disjointed tone, but actually remembers to have some jokes. Even more surprisingly, every sketch is based heavily on CGI which isn’t just bolted on but is integral to them.

Take the running sketch of Melanie and her boyfriend Philip, who is boorish, aggressive, and has a tendency to eat people, given that he’s a T-Rex. It’s quite a funny idea by itself, but given that it’s executed by actors who can act, with CGI of a quality that the BBC has never mustered before (see: Doctor Who), and it’s a bit of a shocker this hasn’t already become the stuff of watercooler legend. (On the CGI front there’s also – London link! -Xotang, a ginormous angry robot who doesn’t realise that poking around London looking for things is killing thousands of puny humans.)

The deeply brutal acts committed through CGI give the show a wonderfully dark edge. And take that with the multitude of British comedy heroes – Matt Berry is a constant through the series as a pool shark, Brian Blessed appears as a train pirate on the Whore of Clapham, terrorising Southern Railways – makes it feel strangely relevant in a way that all the recent sketch show that have comprised the thirtysomething relationship mush and non-jokes of Green Wing, Spoons, and Man Stroke Woman failed so miserably to achieve.

Fortunately the entire series is still knocking around the iPlayer for a few more days, so I strongly suggest you download it, because the odds of a programme this good being recommissioned by Three seem slim.

It was frankly a miracle that Pulling is being allowed one more Christmas before it is gone for good (or, please Lord, picked up Channel Four to replace the increasingly moribund Peep Show). With BBC Three being actively pushed towards a teenage market, it’s impossible to imagine any of the great comedy shows that have appeared on it would find a home there today. Think of Sean Lock’s tower block-bound sitcom 13 Storeys High, and the quickfire Comic Side of Seven Days - a show that held the key to providing satire on Auntie without resorting to the sneery Have I Got News For You or the dreary Mock the Week.

Now think of Cohen’s biggest commission so far, plodding kung fu crime show Phoo Action, and it’s sad to say we may have already seen the last of the Whore of Clapham.

So what is there to recommend that actually has something to do with London? There’s a new series of the actually very good Sarah Jane Adventures on CBBC, which is set in my old stomping ground of Ealing, but opening with a recommendation of kids stuff is likely to leave questions over mental aptitude.

There’s the continuous news channel coverage from outside the Bank of England and around Canary Wharf, watching Robert Peston hold forth about why we should feel bad for sacked bankers. But given that I’m probably unemployed from Christmas thanks to the credit crunch, I’m not feeling very sympathetic. Besides that, there’s naff all else on this week about the capital, what with the schedules being chockful of new-season US imports and nonsense about the US election. Damned revolting colonies.

So that leaves Never Mind The Buzzcocks, which returns to BBC2 tonight at 9pm. So, necessary tenuous London link: poppet Simon Amstell is on nodding terms with a friend of mine in their home environs of the Woodford-ish area. Celebrity high five!

The show’s return is something of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Amstell can still be very funny when he has guests that can hold their own, so that the show doesn’t feel like a half-hour of c-list baiting that can be uncomfortable to watch. New guests have brought real fresh air to the show. And the writing team have either changed in the last few years or found some verve after the lean, late Lamarr years of Geri Halliwell jokes.

But in another way, things aren’t great. Bill Bailey’s going, and the replacements are not good. Jack Dee and Frank Skinner are each doing a week, but both threaten to undo the good work that was done on giving the show some youthful vigour with their middle aged grumbling. You can imagine it now: Jack Dee complaining about how he’s old enough to have fathered the Kooks, while Frank Skinner wonders why his under-30s co-panellists don’t get his UB40 joke. Hardly Amy Winehouse gobbing wine across the studio, is it?

Dermot O’Leary is doing a week too, which doesn’t exactly lend itself to a Donny Tourette-style comedy outrage moment. And tonight, Mark Ronson is on. While he may be great at making up panel numbers with his addled ramblings, the man is hardly a main stage attraction in his own right.

The revitalised Never Mind the Buzzcocks still remains the best panel show on TV, and, by extension, the best show on Dave. New episodes certainly won’t hurt. But even if the writers continue to pull their weight, the guest booking department could do with a swift kick up the backside.

ALSO SHOWING: Comedy’s big night out at the Albert Hall, the Secret Policeman’s Ball 2008, Sunday 9pm, Channel 4. It’s like the Secret Policeman’s Ball 2007, only with a significantly worse line-up. (Dear Amnesty: when you’re reliant on giving stage time to the poor man’s Peter Kay, Jason Mansford, it’s time to find a new way to raise money. Human rights aren’t that important.)