Almost 20 years ago in a column in The Times, Alan Coren quoted Robert Benchley’s views on what to do on the death of a humorist. He recalled: “Go somewhere that has a piano and drink until they throw you out.” Alan went on to muse about what an admirable approach this would be as, even by the 1980s, pianos had disappeared from public houses, so the search for one would be lengthy and well lubricated. His extraordinary wit took his words to newspapers, magazines and books and his chuckle to radio and television. He had so many fans that if there is still a bar with a piano, it will not be short of customers today.

The most appropriate place for such a musical watering hole would, of course, be Cricklewood, north-west London, that was Alan’s home for 28 years. His frequent references to the loft where he banged out his pieces on an ageing typewriter and to the garden that he overlooked while writing made this one of the most familiar patches of land in the country for his many readers.

When finally persuaded that he should use the money he had accumulated to move elsewhere his sadness at leaving his suburban citadel was obvious. He lamented cocking his head for the last time to direct an ear towards the “nocturnal hum” of Cricklewood and how he would miss all the “ghosts” that he felt lived in his garden.

The Coren wit was rooted in the Coren wisdom. He was both a keen student of human beings and intrigued by the subtleties of language. He wrote an academic thesis on punctuation at a time when the subject was far from fashionable. For him, words were like the stars in the night sky, familiar perhaps but fascinatingly beautiful. He must have employed millions of them in his long and diverse career yet they never lost lustre.

His reference to Robert Benchley was part of a tribute to Basil Boothroyd, a fellow Punch writer. He had been, Alan declared, “the most professional writer I have ever known and consequentially the most self-punishing and the least self-satisfied”. The same can now be said of him.