The most beloved figure of the twentieth century was a homeless man. Bowler hat, cane, trousers three sizes too big, shuffling through a hard world that kicked him at every turn and never once managing to kick him back. Audiences on every continent adored him because they knew him. He was them, and he refused to be miserable about it.

The man who created him had more reason for misery than almost anyone watching.

He was born in a South London slum in 1889. His father drank himself out of the picture and died young. His mother sewed shirts for pennies until her voice and then her mind gave out. One night, mid-song on a music hall stage, her voice cracked and the audience of soldiers jeered her off. The theater manager, desperate, pushed her five-year-old son out under the lights to fill the silence. The boy sang. The soldiers roared with delight and threw coins. His mother carried him home. It was the last time she performed, and the first time he did.