The comedian was one of those characters who comes on as a cameo and steals the show. He saved my groom's speech from disaster, too

It might be overstretching it to say that Ray Presto, the cult comedian who died last week, saved my marriage. So far, my marriage has not needed saving and if it did I doubt it could ever be put right by a man in his 70s saying things like: "This morning there was a tap on my window. I'll never use that plumber again." But it wouldn't be a lie to say that Presto certainly helped save my groom's speech.

Having to give a speech is one of life's more terrifying moments. The key, as most comedians would surely tell you, is to start with something funny. While making a recent best man's speech, I found this harder than it seemed – I wanted to begin with the funniest story I had, but it involved the groom over-applying genital wart remover and burning layers of skin off his penis during a romantic weekend in Whitby. It wasn't an opening gambit you wanted to bellow in front of the groom's mother through an amplifier. (In the end I went with: "I don't know why Dave's worried, there's probably not enough time to tell the story of how he burnt the skin of his penis in Whitby", which struck some sort of balance.)

At my own wedding, the groom's speech was filled with thank-yous to bridesmaids and boring stuff like that, but needed something to spark it off. On the numerous occasions I've burned my own penis to shreds during a romantic weekend in Whitby it has been no laughing matter, so that was off the agenda. Minutes before my speech, a friend said: "Just slip in some Presto, it'll be fine."

So I did, lifting wholesale from his routines. "I'm a bit out of sorts," I said. "When I was by the bar earlier, the peanuts started speaking to me. They said I was a very talented and good-looking man. I was really pleased, but then, as I walked past the cigarette machine, it said I was ugly, and a bit of a prat. Luckily the barmaid explained it all. She said the peanuts were complimentary, but the cigarette machine was out of order."

I relaxed and everything went OK after that. It was a terrible joke, but it somehow worked. This was key to Presto's oeuvre; he seemed to be a throwback to the 1970s, but there was a glint in his eye so you spent the act confused as to whether he was sending that era up. To judge by an obituary on comedy site Chortle, Presto – real name David Shaw – had an interesting life. He was a committed hedonist, penning the 1972 book Choose Your Pleasure before writing columns for Penthouse. Yet the obituary was also sad: his real desire was to be taken seriously as a writer (his latest project was apparently a commentary on the phone hacking scandal) and he never realised his dream.

It's strange to think that someone with such thwarted ambitions can still have a big impact on other people's lives, yet never know this. I caught Presto by chance at one of his open mic performances and spent the following months retelling his jokes, watching his MySpace clips and wondering what he did when not on stage. But he wouldn't know this, let alone that he helped put my wedding day speech on track.

Hearing of Presto's death made me think about the other bit-part players in my life – the people I'd ascribed important roles to, as if directing my life like Philip Seymour Hoffman in Synecdoche, New York. People such as Rave Grandad, the long-bearded pensioner who would show up at techno nights in Leeds around the turn of the millennium, silently dancing to terrible psychedelic trance tracks as if holding a free bus pass was no barrier to putting in a 10-hour shift under the strobes.

These are the real cult heroes in life. They're your personal treasured characters who have come on for a cameo and stolen the show. In the screenplay of your existence, they're Steve Buscemi – brief, charismatic and usually with a funny face.

Another such character was a friend of a friend called John Iacovelli, who I was told wrote incredible songs (as a music journalist, I've heard this a lot – you take it with a pinch of salt). Iacovelli was odder and funnier than almost all the pop stars I've met. He once told his friends he was having a week's holiday in Cardiff. They didn't believe him and, sure enough, when they went to his house he was in his living room, drinking fortified wine and listening to Noel Coward. He just wanted a week's peace and quiet.

Amazingly, his music was even better than I'd been told. One track, Crumbs, is to my mind one of the most beautiful love songs ever composed. It concerns a guy who can't get over his ex, however terribly she treated him (hence the title – "All she ever fed me was crumbs"). The opening line is heartbreaking: "Although we no longer dance, I've got evidence … because I kept the ticket stubs." He was also funny with his despair: "I let the garden grow, on the bit you used to mow. I blubbed when the bath got scrubbed." It could have appeared on the Magnetic Fields' landmark album 69 Love Songs. Instead, I doubt 69 people have heard it. Unless they're close friends, or attended one of about a dozen open mic nights he played in Leeds around 2008, before deciding he didn't have the motivation to pursue things further.

How many other genius songwriters, authors, painters, writers, comics and characters are out there, whose gifts will barely be recognised but will stay with a select few for ever? Harry Deansway, who frequently booked Presto, asked him shortly before his death what he used to do before he retired. Presto said: "I was unemployed." His joke reveals a deeper truth – in a way these personal cult stars are permanently unemployed, their talents unrewarded with money. Yet by touching people so greatly they provide untold riches, even if it's not they who reap the rewards.