For those new to CabbieBlog or readers who are slightly forgetful, on Saturdays I’m republishing posts, many going back over a decade. Some will still be very relevant while others have become dated over time. Just think of this post as your weekend paper supplement.

Chubby cherub blamed (02.09.11)

As any fireman will tell you there is a myriad of causes attributable to the origin of a fire and in the aftermath of The Great Fire of London dozens of theories were put forward. We blamed the French – as always – in the guise of a deranged silversmith, Robert Hubert, who confessed and was promptly executed, it was discovered afterwards that he had arrived in the country two days after the conflagration. William Lilly, a famous astrologer, was next in the frame having predicted a major fire in the previous year; he only just managed to save his neck by persuading a special committee of the House of Commons of his innocence. Next, the Catholics were accused, they were always a popular whipping boy since the Reformation, and no doubt the Jews were also held to blame.

Now we have strayed into the blaming culture for one simple reason, this week, based on around 20 years of historic data, a study published in The Lancet claims that by 2030 as many as 48 per cent of British men could be obese. Why you might ask has this anything to do with a fire nearly 350 years ago? Well bear with me on that one.

As you might imagine the City Fathers thought long and hard about the fire’s cause and the destruction of their city and decided to erect in Cock Lane, which it was claimed was at the western limit of the fire’s destruction, this little statute. The Boy on Pye Corner was deliberately made fat (although by modern standards he appears just a little chubby) to add emphasis to its inscription:

The Boy on Pye Corner was erected to commemorate the staying of the Great Fire which beginning at Pudding Lane was ascribed to the sin of gluttony when not attributed to the Papists as on the Monument.

So there you have it, junk food was to blame.

Curiously the original building on this site, which was demolished in 1910, upon which the Boy was placed, was a pub called The Fortunes of War and was favoured by the resurrection men who sold corpses to the anatomists at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital opposite. The corpses fresh from road, river, grave and hangman’s noose or just murdered were exhibited in an upstairs room by the landlord, labelled with the finder’s name and presumably with a suitable price attached.

The name of the alley – Cock Lane – was first recorded in 1200, and probably signified a lane where fighting cocks were reared and sold. In the late Middle Ages Cock Lane was the only place north of the Thames where brothels were legally sanctioned, handy is if your cabbie refuses to go south of the River.

For those new to CabbieBlog or readers who are slightly forgetful, on Saturdays I’m republishing posts, many going back over a decade. Some will still be very relevant while others have become dated over time. Just think of this post as your weekend paper supplement.

The New Centurions (23.08.11)

Now before you start reading today’s little missive I must add a cautionary note. If you haven’t reached your thirtieth birthday my words of wisdom will have no relevance in your life and I suggest you just chat amongst yourselves for the next five minutes.

According to the latest research, no doubt funded by the insurance companies who stand to gain from its results, one in five of us currently living in Britain is likely to survive beyond the age of 100. That should mean if purchasing term life insurance your premiums would be lower – which they’re not – and if you are a silver surfer your pension annuity would give you less – which it does.

I didn’t sign up for this kind of nonsense, my granny lived to be 97; when she was a young woman the Wright Brothers made their first flight and before she died had watched a man land on the moon. In her day the “experts” regarded 67 as your life’s expectancy, but many of her generation died in the trenches of the First World War and many more had their lives shortened by their experience of warfare, so much for their sixty-sevens worth.

The biblical notion of three score years and ten might have had some relevance in the Middle East 2,000 years ago (my bet is that most workers just managed one score year and ten), but today another score should be added to our longevity prediction.

If in 2047 I were still active, independent and financially viable (all three, of course, two out of three is not acceptable), then I suppose I could live with it, but that possibility seems increasingly unlikely.

Politicians have realised this and deferred our pensions, at the same time reducing the number of years they need to clock up to receive their own full Parliamentary pension.

With NHS resources stretched to the limit, let alone when we baby boomers become octogenarians or older, is extended old age something we will have to live with in the future, or will future administrators decide that in global terms resources are being wasted on the old and corrective measures are necessary? The realities of Soylent Green and Logan’s Run are beginning to seem less outrageous as the years march on. I can’t see myself in 2047 negotiating London’s streets in my cab, mind you I’ll be lucky to find my way to the toilet at 100. While most of us without gold-plated pensions will find they’re minuscule after 35 years of retirement.

So 20 per cent. of us will get a letter from the King (or Queen you never know), but will be unable to reach down to the doormat and pick it up?