Plaudits and thanks to all those who have helped to make this book happen: first and foremost the gurus of Stan and Ollie studies: Randy Skretvedt in sunny California; Leo Brooks in Texas; Rob (‘Solo’) Stone in Los Angeles and his London counterpart, David Wyatt; A. J. Marriot in wildest England, master of the early life of Stan Laurel. All have given of their time and energy and enabled access to their archives. Thanks also as ever to Glenn Mitchell, master of the A-to-Zs of classic film comedy, who has been kind enough to fact-check this tome. Any remaining errors are, of course, my own responsibility, as are my speculations, interpretations and analyses of Stan and Ollie’s art and lives, in particular my comments on marital matters, concerning which Glenn wishes to demur from my excessive fondness for old news cuttings. Genuflections to the usual suspects in archival nirvanas: Rod Bladel and staff at New York Public Library of the Performing Arts; staff of the Special Collections of the Margaret Herrick Library at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in Los Angeles; Ned Comstock of the University of Southern California; Geraldine Duclow and staff of the Theater Collection of the Free Library of Philadelphia; staff at the British Film Institute Library and Westminster Reference Library; staff at the British Library’s Manuscript Division. David Rothman, Genealogist First Class of California, once again dug and delved for nuggets. Thanks also to Marion Grave and staff at the Laurel and Hardy Museum in Ulverston, and to the good people of Harlem, Georgia: Dave Carlsen and family for their hospitality, and the organizers of the annual Oliver Hardy Day. Special thanks to Charles Lord of Grovetown and Marshall Williams of Madison, Georgia, graceful guardians of the local lore. Thanks too to Anthony Slide, Armond Fields, John Cooper, Rick Mitz, Walter Donohue, Richard Kelly and staff at Faber and Faber, who have endured my ‘Why don’t you do something to help me?’ for far longer than should be humanly necessary. And yet again luv to Mairi, whose tolerance for the ‘Cuckoo’ song and other comical clangs and clamours has been tested far beyond the bounds of duty.