Stop sniggering at the back! Yes, yes, My Husband Won’t Fit really is about a man’s appendage being of dimensions too great for his wife to accommodate. And it’s probably just as well that this Netflix series doesn’t bear the title of earlier renderings of this unfortunately autobiographical story, such as My Husband’s Penis Won’t Fit (the name of the manga version). Played by Natsumi Ishibashi, Kumiko enters into college life from a sheltered upbringing in Japan’s sticks – as well as from the clutches of a domineering mother – where she is untutored in the understanding of human impulses. She remains placid, accepting and unassuming even years into her marriage with sensitive, considerate Kenichi (Aoi Nakamura) – years in which having a sex life has proved almost impossible, but not for want of trying. Still, husband and wife are a devoted couple, doing everything together in a relationship with emotional ties strengthened by an absence of physical bonding and cemented by an unbreakable trust. Until … One almost shares the pain of betrayal as the delicate Kumiko makes her discovery: a loyalty stamp card, of the type used to qualify for a free coffee, recording Kenichi’s visits to Big Boobed Girl at a brothel in town. Everything in their lives to this point has been low-key, even their attempts at sex have been as riotous as a Quaker meeting house. Amusement comes inadvertently, with social and professional awkwardness; tension with how the otherwise contented couple will cope with a problem even baby oil can’t fix. So are we watching a drama speckled with subtle comedy, or a poignant comedy with understated dramatic hillocks? If, by the 10th and final episode, there has arrived no innocent explanation for Kenichi’s enthusiastic patronage of Big Boobed Girl, will docile Kumiko visit her wrath upon her husband by mutating into a raging harpy? Let’s hope so. You go, girl! HBO’s political comedy Veep returns for its final season If only politics could be this much fun – and even half as smart. Already climbing the slippery polls of viewer preference after the first instalment of its seventh and final series, Veep , on HBO and HBO Go, remains comedy’s great pomposity puncturer, slaying every deserving target before it: the vacuous, obscenely rich potential campaign donor; clueless deputy chief of staff; uninformed communications director; and patronising, pretentious presidential hopeful. Stumbling through the minefields of the campaign trail is Julia Louis-Dreyfus as Selina Meyer, the vice-president (and sometime president) of the United States. In common with rivals and running mates, Meyer won’t take a breath without advice on how much spin is required to make it look good in the media; and as the show’s farewell run begins, she is reassuringly ready to stoop lower than a serially bankrupt Republican to guarantee herself a tilt at returning to the top job. Not that the names of the associated political parties lampooned are even mentioned, because that would be overegging the obvious pudding. Instead, Veep delights in the professional and personal absurdities (to which we all subscribe) making politicians a breed apart. “If you want me to use my own goddam words then write me something to say!” Meyer tells an aide, before ordering him to drop the subject of immigration because “it’s a little too issue-y”. Her political credibility is sacrosanct, so Meyer, struggling to articulate why she wants to be president, instructs her speech-writer to “put down something about how I want to give the American people a better deal, or some f***ing crap like that”. Although the boundaries between political reality and satire have evaporated since 2016, the creators of Veep have still managed a bang-up job. So here’s my campaign slogan: Vote with your remote!