An article by the Economist about Norman's life and personality. All information from
http://www.economist.com/node/17248920
WHAT a chirpy little fellow that Norman was! All puppy eyes, rubber legs and innocent smiles, even when the world was crashing round him. Show him a grand piano, and he’d have to dive into it. Suggest a manhole, and he’d plummet straight down it. Run a cable across the road and he’d go flying into next week. He’d fall over his own shadow, or box it into a pulp behind the sofa; he’d fall over his own feet, and saunter on singing.
It’s true they didn’t find him uproarious everywhere. He’d rock them in the aisles in Blackpool, but raise only a shrug in New York. His mime of eating a sandwich on a fast-moving train would leave them cold in Glasgow, but make them fall about in Tehran—and in Moscow and Buenos Aires and, very oddly, in Tirana, where perhaps the only possible reason was that they were as mad as himself.
He was born grinning, it seemed. He was certainly born small, and never made much progress after. The littlest in his gang at school, the tiny cabin boy aboard the
Maindy Court sailing for Argentina, almost the scrawniest in his regiment in India in the 1930s. Everyone’s mascot, jester, dogsbody, hoping to foil the punches by rolling over and begging for a pat on the head. He was five-foot-four on a good day, easily dwarfed by bosses, army sergeants, aristocrats or rivals for the willowy girls who strolled into his life. When his second wife walked out on him in 1968 he couldn’t help remarking, bitterly, that she had left him for someone handsomer and taller.
Smallness shaped Little Norm, but poverty taught him something, too. As a boy, thrown out by his drunken father, he slept rough in London and stole to eat. The gutter wasn’t a bad place, considering. He learned things there, such as how to lift eggs very nimbly and delicately from a stall and secrete them, uncracked, in his pockets. He also acquired the trick of making his lower lip tremble when asking, his pathetic face only just above the counter, for a free pie from a coffee stall. By the time of his first hugely successful film, “Trouble in Store” (1953), he could stretch the pathos really far: to the point where, soaking wet after a tumble into a duck-pond, he sadly serenaded his love in a teashop, and then found he had nothing in his pockets to pay with except one small, wriggling fish.