Dermot Morgan became famous in Britain as Father Ted in the surreal Channel 4 comedy series of the same name, about three bizarre priests living on a tiny island off Ireland’s west coast, but in his own country he was known for so much more.

His friends, colleagues, admirers and fans in Ireland were delighted that Morgan had finally reached the big time, but regarded his British television success as no more than his due after years of struggle and setbacks at home as he courageously took on the monoliths of State, Church and Establishment. His sudden death at 45 has sent shock waves around the country; Irish radio and television was dominated yesterday by tributes, with some of those interviewed close to tears.

Morgan was, quite simply, the most influential Irish humorist of the past 20 years; a writer, a stand-up comedian with an outstanding talent for mimicry, a hit recording artist and – more than anything else – a savage and uncompromising satirist. Scrap Saturday, the radio show he created in the late 1980s with the writer and producer Gerry Stembridge (featuring Pauline McLynn, later to become Mrs Doyle of Father Ted), took as its targets lazy, self-serving and sometimes corrupt politicians and civil servants. At times it seemed as if the country stopped in its tracks for half an hour on Saturday morning, but it was dropped at the height of its popularity by RTE after, it has been said, political pressure. Fans of the show – and that meant most of Ireland – were outraged.

But not as outraged as Morgan. Always angry, always committed to chipping away at the sometimes impenetrable rock of complacent bureaucracy to find the nugget of truth, he once more went on the offensive, attacking those who had dropped the show and railing at a system where freedom of speech could be stifled. This closed off avenues of work in Ireland, making his later British TV triumph so much more gratifying.

After studying at University College, Dublin, Morgan became a teacher. He started submitting scripts and ideas to a popular television show and made the occasional appearance. He did stand-up in an era before the phenomenon of comedy clubs. “Being a comedian in Ireland in 1977 was very grim,” he said. “There were no outlets. I don’t know how the hell I cobbled together enough gigs or appearances to get on a ladder towards something comedy-wise. It wasn’t a particularly hospitable environment. I went to trade union clubs, all sorts of places, to get a start. They were crap and so was I, to be honest with you! I was trying to find my metier.

“I genuinely say with a sense of wonder that I managed to get a career out of it at the end because I was a bit of a lost soul at that time. I wanted to do stuff that was satirical and taking on the establishment and bring a laugh and a poke and a slag at them. I think that out of stupidity and doggedness, or dogged stupidity, or stupid, stupid doggedness, I managed to stay on the track.”

He gave up teaching to concentrate on comedy, and in the early 1980s created the imperishable television character, Father Trendy, an ingratiating priest who prided himself on his knowledge of popular culture and his ability to relate to young people but who was really as hopelessly out of touch as his older colleagues.

To capitalise on his growing fame, RTE tried to fashion Morgan into the Dave Allen mould – a bit of chat, a few sketches – but it was tame stuff for someone with such an inventive, mercurial mind and was not a success. Not until Scrap Saturday did he find a true home for his awesome talents as a debunker of cant and hypocrisy.

Perhaps it was the well-meaning but ineffectual buffoon Father Trendy that Graham Linehan and Arthur Mathews remembered when they started casting Father Ted. Although Morgan was no great shakes as an actor, he was perfect for the role, backed up by McLynn, the veteran comic actor Frank Kelly as Father Jack and the stand-up comedian Ardal O’Hanlon as the spectacularly dim Father Dougal.

The success of the series transformed Morgan’s life and confirmed the strong self-belief that had kept him going through the bad times. “Father Ted had a profound personal effect on me in that it took the monkey off my back, that terrible feeling of frustration and being undervalued.

“We all like to be valued, we all like to think that we’re recognised in some way. I don’t mean being recognised on the street, I mean credited with being able to do a good job. After Scrap Saturday I thought I’d done enough to probably be allowed to sup at the table, and when the table was promptly whipped out from under me I was considerably disappointed.”

That Morgan’s life should end the way it did is almost unbearably poignant. After filming the last studio scenes for what is now likely to be the final series of Father Ted, followed by a party on Friday, he collapsed and died at a dinner party he was hosting at his Richmond, Surrey, home two days before his 46th birthday [NB: incorrect]. And his mind was buzzing with new ideas.

Off-stage he was especially passionate about football and enjoyed the material rewards of fame. Known as a mischief-maker with a black sense of humour, he didn’t just turn on the comedy for his audiences, but was endlessly entertaining, full of impressions and ad libs. He is survived by his partner Fiona and his three sons.

If Morgan was an angry humorist, that anger was fuelled by a passion for Ireland and a strong desire to change things for the better. His life was short but immensely influential, and he had the satisfaction of seeing some of those changes taking place. The past 20 years have seem the country grow and reach a new maturity as hitherto hidden scandals and horrors are unearthed. Morgan helped the process with his finely-honed weapons of savage humour and scathing contempt. Ireland owes him a debt of gratitude that now can never be repaid.