Now, so sadly, that Barry Cryer has gone, so many of the nation's landlines have also fallen silent. You did not get emails, text messages or FaceTime requests from Barry. You got proper, old-school, in-your-ear landline calls. If that phone rang, then you knew it was either a loft insulation scam or Barry Cryer - and if it was indeed the latter, then you knew that you were in for a treat.

He was the kindest, most generous, most supportive of people. Even though his openness to technological innovations seem to have ended around about the arrival of the most primitive word processor, he remained otherwise fully engaged in whatever, and whomever, was new and interesting and amusing in this progressively peculiar world - and he always had a new joke, or three, that he was in a hurry to share with his friends.

Having lived through so many great periods of humour, and worked with practically everyone who made them great, he was, of course, the most consummate and captivating of comic storytellers. It might be about Morecambe & Wise, or Tommy Cooper or Frankie Howerd, or one or another of the countless other stars he had helped make shine, but every anecdote was an affectionate insight, judged so well in its witty realism as to let just enough light in on the magic.

He was equally entertaining when finding laughs in the here and now. Indeed, if you were ever lucky enough to appear alongside him on some radio, TV or stage show, you would know that the highlight of the occasion would be when he would take a break outside, light up a cigarette, lean against the wall and, in that chesty chuckle of his, tell you the funniest tales for free.

He was near-ubiquitous in a fickle business for the best part of sixty years. Aside from his many official contributions over all of those decades of entertainment, you can also see him, if you look carefully enough, lurking somewhere in the front row of most of the talk shows and big variety events of those times, ready to slip one of the stars another, better, line whenever they felt that they could do with some off-camera assistance. His formal credits thus tell only half the story of how invaluable, and extensive, his input actually was; he gave just as much again without any trace of his name scrolling down the screen.

He wrote for Jack Benny, Bob Hope, George Burns and Phil Silvers; for Richard Pryor, Billy Connolly, Joan Rivers and Dave Allen; for most of the best stand-ups, satirists, sketch artists, impressionists and comic character actors of the past half-century or so. Dust for fingerprints in all the aisles of the comedy archives and none will prove clearer, nor more widespread, than those of Barry Cryer.

He was one of those rare comic writers who could be anything and everything that was required by the producers and performers of the moment, from a crafter of timeless bespoke designs to a supplier of fashionable off-the-peg items - and, rarer still, he could provide it all with a pitch-perfect comic precision. Like all the very best, and most versatile, of comedy authors, he combined the skills of the psychiatrist with those of the ventriloquist, able to tap into what made a talent tick, or impose the animation himself when it was absent, and was careful, in sight and sound, to leave not the slightest sign of his special labours.

It was a gift that grew naturally inside of him, but it was honed during years of hard graft. Born in 1935 in Harehills, Leeds ('The Full Bronte'), he dipped into and dropped out of an English Literature course at his hometown university, having distracted himself doing comedy in college revues ('I'd got no showbiz ambitions. I just thought, "I'm enjoying this"'), and then dabbled with an act in the local clubs, before a chance encounter with the then-popular TV magician, David Nixon, encouraged him to try his luck as a full-time entertainer.

Travelling by train from Leeds down to London in 1957, with a seventeen-day return ticket tucked inside his pocket, it wasn't until the sixteenth day of his stay, on a dark and wet Wednesday morning, that he got an audition at that showcase for bare women and brave stand-ups, the Windmill Theatre. Telling his first set of jokes to the sound of a pianist playing Heartbreak Hotel, he was hired to start that very lunchtime, and ended up returning to improvise five more acts through to the end of the evening.

He was then put straight on the treadmill of doing six solo spots per day, six days per week, for the next seven months (at the bottom of the same bill that featured Bruce Forsyth), straining to get laughs from an audience of stony-faced rain-coated men who were only there for the nudes. It was, as he would put it, 'a crash course in how to ply my trade'.

He first began getting noticed at the start of the Sixties, when, after a spell treading the boards in satirical musicals (and scoring a number one single in Finland with a song called Purple People Eater), he was writing some artfully louche material for the drag artiste Danny La Rue's nightclub act. The already well-established Denis Norden sought Cryer out after one of these performances in order to shake him warmly by the hand. 'I never knew,' he said with an admiring smile, 'that there were so many cock jokes in the world.'

Someone else who soon became a fan of his material was comedy's foremost fixer, David Frost. Always looking to expand his band of regular writers, he ended up giving Cryer his major break in television on The Frost Report (1966-7) and Frost On Sunday (1970). 'A lot of doors started opening up for you,' he would say, 'once you were with Frosty the Showman.' Indeed, from then until now, Barry Cryer quickly became one of the key cogs in the mechanics of British comedy.

He could, and sometimes did, work alone, but he would always prefer being one part of a typewriting duo or trio. His collaborators would include David Nobbs (It's Tommy Cooper, 1969-71; The Two Ronnies, 1971-87; Sez Les, 1973-76; Secombe With Music, 1980-82), Graham Chapman (on the Ronnie Corbett sitcoms No - That's Me Over Here!, 1967-70, Now Look Here..., 1971-73, and The Prince Of Denmark, 1974; Doctor In The House, 1969-70; Marty Back Together Again, 1974), John Junkin (The Morecambe & Wise Show, 1972, 76 and 78; Hello Cheeky!, 1973-79), Johnny Speight (Francis Howerd In Concert, 1974; The Thoughts Of Chairman Alf, 1998), Peter Vincent (again on The Two Ronnies as well as Have A Harry Christmas, 1977; Have A Happy Birthday, 1978; The Ronnie Corbett Special, 1979; The Russ Abbot Show, 1986-91; Frankie Howerd On Campus, 1990), Ray Cameron (multiple Kenny Everett series between 1981-88, and the US sketch show Assaulted Nuts, 1984), Dick Vosburgh (Stars And Garters, 1963-65; At The Palace, 1970; Who Do You Do? 1972-6) and Graeme Garden (Hamish & Dougal, 2002-7).

His invaluable gift as a co-writer was his equable adaptability. He could engage with the most obdurately fixed of funny thinkers and draw on (rather than diminish) their distinctiveness by finding the best ways to bring them a sharper focus.

Some of his partners, such as the dilatory, day-dreamy and increasingly drunk Graham Chapman, needed plenty of nudging; the odd one, such as the occasionally edgy John Junkin (pictured), needed calming; while a few, such as Ray Cameron ('a man of big ideas and bigger plans'), benefitted from some tactful reality checks. Cryer was able to complement each one of them so as to keep the project on an even keel.

What he relied on most from them was the shaping of a structure ('I was never that good at the "what happens next" bit'). What they took most from him was the dynamics of the dialogue.

An example of the countless times when this combination clicked was the 'Pet Shop' routine that he and John Junkin came up with for The Morecambe And Wise Show in 1978. It was a fairly simple run-of-the-mill sketch situation - Ernie is the eager-to-please shopkeeper and Eric and his wife are the troublesome customers - but Junkin developed the details at a decent pace and Cryer distributed the right kind of lines, as the opening section demonstrates:

An example of when the collaboration lost some of its balance and Cryer's own strengths saved the day would be the 'Butler of the Year' sketch that he and Junkin co-wrote for the same show. The basic routine, which saw Eric and Ernie compete against each other to persuade Donald Sinden to crown them the most valued valet, was blocked-out mainly by Junkin, and as a comic conceit it was not only somewhat ill-fitting for its two stars but also ran on rather too long at ten minutes. Cryer's lines, however, which were modulated so nicely for Morecambe in particular, kept distracting from its deficiencies.

This was a skill that usually worked so well that, in its subtlety, it was appreciated far more by those who spoke the lines than by those who watched and listened. Cryer knew more than enough practicable gags to pack into any performance, but he also had the sensitivity to pick and personalise them for each particular performer. 'My job,' he said, 'is to capture the individuality of the comic,' and he did so far better than most.

He was also blessed with a brain that only required the slightest of stimuli to start bouncing ideas around like balls in a lottery machine. Hearing one story, one line, even just one word was all it often took for his mind to start generating multiple (and usually much funnier) comic alternatives. 'I wish I could just once mention something to you,' Ray Cameron often exclaimed more in awe than exasperation, 'that didn't remind you of something else!'

I once asked him if he had a method for overcoming writer's block. He answered that the best way to avoid it actually happening, if you found yourself working on your own, was to stick stubbornly to your own instincts - no matter how hard you are straining to come up with something that will suit a particular comic - and never allow any doubt to intrude as to whether or not the performer will end up finding it funny: 'I never, ever, say to a comic, "This is funny". I only say, "I like this..."'.

He also said that, although the dread that can radiate from the sight of a blank page seldom disrupted any of his own sessions ('You take a run at it in a white heat,' he said of approaching each new routine, 'then if it isn't good enough you screw it up, throw it in the bin and start again and you just keep going'), his strategy, on the rare occasions when it was required, was to type something ridiculous - such as at the start of a script for Ronnie Corbett: 'It's morning. We discover Ronnie wanking' - and then laugh at the thought of it until something more practicable popped into his mind.

It was the combination of his seemingly inexhaustible improvisatory skills, backed up by an internal filing system stuffed-full of every serviceable line that he had ever written, heard or read, that made him such an effective and assured host, or guest, of comedy panel shows (as well as, quite often, their warm-up man). As the MC of Jokers Wild (1969-74), for example, he made it look deceptively easy as he sat back and let the in-form guests lap up the laughter, but stepped in to save the out-of-form ones from a dispiriting silence (such as when he said in response to a rare misfire from Chic Murray, 'It must be hell being a pioneer, Chic').

Then, of course, there were his weekly masterclasses of wit and whimsy as a regular team member of I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue (1972-2021), which saw him wander quite contentedly all over the hills and valleys of the most enchantingly unpredictable of comic landscapes, dreaming up new definitions ('Direction - an aroused Welshman'; 'Osmosis - early Australian prophet'; 'Hashtag - a party game where you chase each other for drugs'), improbable pairings ('Cross a length of tartan with a bag of flour and get...a self-raising kilt'), alternative company slogans ('Tesco's: Every Lidl hurts'), revised punchlines to proverbs ('Don't try to run before you can...pull your trousers up'), brutal reactions to chat-up lines ('Do you have a map, because I keep getting lost in your eyes' - 'You'll be at home in one of them, because I've got a stye in it'; 'What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?' - 'I'm here because it says LADIES on the door!'; 'If being sexy was a crime, you'd be guilty as charged' - 'You'd get off - lack of evidence'), striving to sing Fight For The Right To Party to the tune of Danny Boy or Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick to The Girl From Ipanema, or just pondering his next steps for Mornington Crescent.

Unlike most of his fellow comedy writers, Cryer could easily have performed a fair amount of his material himself - his first-ever review (in the Bradford Observer back in 1955) had asked the rhetorical question, 'Where else could one find a more natural comedian than in 20-year-old Barry Cryer,' before adding: 'His versatile performances, ranging from superb compèring to off-the-cuff patter, are a delight,' and he would always say himself that his temperament was more that of performer than a writer - but he was probably just too nice, and nowhere near needy enough, a person to push himself permanently into the spotlight.

He was also, perhaps, simply too knowing, too conscious too much of the time of all the wheels and pulleys that worked the machine to truly lose himself, like some comics can, in the aura that they occupy. 'I'm not remotely original,' he always insisted. 'I tell stories and jokes and sing songs. The Erics and Ernies and the Tommy Coopers had an indefinable element - funny bones.' They also, he was far too modest to add, had an all-too definable element - funny writers, and Barry Cryer was one of the best.

Crucially, he always had that essential authentic respect for others' ability that was never compromised by a competitive element. Like one of his greatest heroes, Jack Benny, he was the most generous of audiences in the presence of fellow funny people, laughing louder and longer than anyone else whenever he heard or saw them do something spot-on.

Some people are drawn to comedy because of the compensating lure of the praise, popularity and power that they have craved. Barry Cryer was attracted to it simply because of his indefatigable desire to share what lifted his own spirits, and his unquenchable love of hearing other people laugh. 'Tell me where you're working next week,' he sometimes told his audiences at the end of his one-man shows, 'and I'll come and see you' - and, given that comedy was so obviously his calling, they would have been forgiven for half-suspecting that, shouting gags through their letterbox, he really would soon be there on their doorstep.

He had his favourites for the funny calls. Alan Bennett was one of those who relished these regular telephonic interventions ('Hello,' Cryer would cackle, 'it's your stalker') that brought 'old-fashioned joy into my life'. There would be a new selection of straight-forward jokes (e.g.: 'There's a newly married couple. The husband goes into the bathroom and there's a dead horse in the bath. "Darling," he calls out, "there's a dead horse in the bath". "So?" the wife shouts back. "I never said I was tidy!"') but also, knowing his friend's addiction to the unforced dottiness of 'found' dialogue, there would be fresh fragments plucked from everyday life (such as the one from the elderly woman at a dinner party who, upon mishearing someone at the far end of the table mentioning that they had just been to the National to see Bennett's The Madness of George III, exclaimed, 'What was that about Thora Hird?', or the man found boasting in a garden centre that the sundial he had purchased the previous year had 'paid for itself already', or when Cryer himself, during a stroll around the streets in the centre of Cambridge, overheard a stern-looking green Barbour-jacketed mother snapping at a cherry-red trousered father, 'Remind me to tell Austin that there was no main verb in that sentence!').

He would, however, happily stretch the usual circuit of calls whenever the opportunity allowed. To pick up the phone on such happy occasions would plunge you straight onto the factory floor of the Cryer quipperies, being served up all kinds of comic concoctions still piping hot from the blazing ovens.

He loved subtle, socially-rooted humour and characterful comedy (he was, after all, a lifelong admirer of J.B. Priestley), he liked the lean and neat nature of a crowd-pleasing gag ('Picasso was burgled and did a drawing of the robbers. Police arrested a horse and two sardines'), and he enjoyed indulging in the gentle exercise of wordplay as his comedy equivalent of early morning callisthenics ('Did you hear about the man who swallowed liquid Tipp-Ex instead of Viagra? He woke up with a massive correction'), but he also relished the simple and defiantly unaligned pleasures of pure silliness, such as was captured in one of his favourite jokes:

A man walks into a pub and the landlord's astonished. Half of the man's head is half of a huge orange. 'So sorry to be nosy, the landlord says, 'but why is half of your head half of a huge orange?'

'Well, I was cleaning up in the loft,' the man says. 'And I found an old lamp. So I polished it up, and a genie came swooping out of it, saying, "May I grant you any three wishes, master?'"

'So I said, "I'd like to have a million pounds - and every time I take the million pounds out of my pocket, another million appears there".'

The genie said, 'Your wish is granted. And your second wish?'

The man says, 'I'd like a big house with a hundred beautiful ladies in it.'

'Your wish is granted,' says the genie. 'And your third wish?'

'I'd like half my head to be half of a huge orange.'

One of the things that often struck you, as you reflected on the latest bout of laughter with which he had left you, was just how humble this remarkable man still remained. Describing his long and illustrious life as having been 'dogged by good luck', he liked to claim that he had not so much had a career as merely experienced 'a series of incidents', which he had managed to survive thanks largely to a steady supply of 'cigarettes and lager'.

He also delighted in volunteering stories that suggested how hopelessly inconsequential he was, such as the one where a hospital porter came up to him when he was preparing to film outside the building and asked him for his autograph - 'Certainly,' said Cryer, reaching for his pen, prompting the porter to laugh: 'You didn't think I was serious, did you?' - or the one, a couple of weeks later, where he was recounting that very incident to a taxi driver, whose innocently amused response was: 'Coh! Imagine that happening to someone well-known!'

Such charming self-deprecation, though never forced, was, fortunately enough, never going to fool his audience. Anyone who spent any time with Barry Cryer realised that they were in the company of somebody special - not just because of how easily he made them laugh, but also because of how naturally he behaved like their friend. He had a great talent, and a good soul.

'I'll let you get back to your life,' he used to say, with another chesty chuckle, at the end of each of his calls. How much duller that life will seem now that those calls have come to a close.

He once remarked: 'I think you should thank anyone whose work or personal actions have given you pleasure and I make no apology for that'. Nor, indeed, should any of us: thank you so much, dear Baz, for brightening our lives for so long.