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.

Eyes forward (16.08.11)

Driving a London cab gives you a panoramic view both of the roads and into other drivers’ vehicles as they stop beside you and it was with that advantage a couple of years ago that I noticed that some prestige cars not only had a built-in Sat-Nav but that the same screen could show a video.

I found that surprising, as my understanding of traffic law was that any monitor must not be visible to the driver; somehow the car manufacturers had managed to circumvent the regulations by ensuring that the device turned off the image when the car moved forward. So that was alright then! Watch TV while sitting at the lights, rather than watching any jaywalking pedestrians, and once your top-of-the-range limousine reaches 5mph you can concentrate on your driving.

This was followed by putting monitors on the back headrests in the manner of an aircraft, anyone who has children must have felt that that was a Godsend, who hasn’t tried to drive with the kids in the back bored and nagging? Every parent knows the stupefying effect that television has on the young – and not so young – so moving images just inches from their noses would keep them quiet all day.

But now not content with a myriad of distractions: Radio (DAB, FM, MW LW); CD players; i-pod compatible; Sat-Navs; even staring at the 2-inch screen of an iPhone, more and more I see drivers watching TV as they drive for unlike their expensive counterparts, the cars they seek to emulate, its image doesn’t turn off while the vehicle is on the move. So with one eye on the road, they can watch the latest music video or shoot-em-up flick.

If a driver was foolish to talk on his mobile phone whilst driving he could expect three points on his license and a £60 fine, but I’ve yet to read of anyone prosecuted for watching the latest Lady Gaga album whilst driving through London’s congested streets.

The wider question must be is that how can anyone watch a television programme or movie with the distractions of driving? How can they watch anything in bite-sized chunks? Do they only have the attention span of the time it takes the light to return back to green or is it that they are so addicted to the moving image it doesn’t really matter what is showing as long as something appears on that little screen?

There have been numerous studies on our television habits. In May last year, the Broadcasters’ Audience Research Board found that viewers were watching more television than ever before, concluding that the average number of hours each person spends in front of the television each week has risen by more than 8 per cent. to 30 hours and 4 minutes. Thinkbox, the British marketing body for commercial broadcasters, defended this rise by stating that the greater choice offered by digital television, new technologies such as digital recorders, and on-demand services and yes, it’s been blamed again, the recession is encouraging people to spend more time at home. Watching of television whilst driving apparently did not enter their radar.

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.

Jack The Lad (12.08.11)

The term “lovable rogue” has been applied to many crooks over the years, most are just unpopular villains, but one from the 18th century remains known to us even today, in fact so great was his popularity over one-quarter of London’s population came to his execution.

John Shepherd known to all as Jack was a fairly diminutive chap at 5’4” and was by all accounts very strong for his size. Born in 1702 in Spitalfields he was Christened with some haste due to his frail condition at St. Dunstan’s. At six years old he was apprenticed to a cane chair maker, which didn’t last, but later following in the footsteps of his father he took up an apprenticeship as a carpenter; he was probably only accepted as his mother’s current lover had taught him to read and write.

Leaving his employer after five years he took up with a bad lot at a pub in Drury Lane called the Black Lion and would frequent an area, now developed as the London School of Economics, called Clare Market frequented at that time by prostitutes and later would become the centre for pornography.

He made friends with a criminal called Joseph “Blueskin” Blake and Jonathan Wilde known as the Thieftaker General. Wilde led a double life and was high up in what purported to be the police force at that time, he also led a group of thieves who would steal property and then he would return the stolen goods to the rightful owners for a fee. He also met a prostitute Elizabeth Lyon known to all as Edgeworth Bess who was, not to be ungallant, a woman with a fuller figure.

In 1723 Jack – who by that time had given up his apprenticeship and was partial to a drink – stole two silver spoons from the Rummel Tavern at Charing Cross. He was caught and put into St. Giles Roundhouse a prison that was situated near modern-day Seven Dials.

So far nothing unusual, hundreds of small-time crooks in London must have taken the same road to the hangman’s noose at that time.

Jack was somewhat different and would have put Houdini to shame. He overcame his first incarceration by breaking through the cell’s timber ceiling and fashioned a rope from sheets with which he shimmed down while still wearing his leg irons.

He was rearrested two years later for picking pockets in Leicester Fields (known today as Leicester Square). This time he was sent to New Prison in Clerkenwell. When later Edgeworth Bess came to visit him he broke out of prison ending up on the roof, from there jumping down into an adjacent building only to find himself in Bridewell Prison next door, this time he climbed a 22ft wall while still manacled and helped Buxom Bess along the way.

Later after being plied with a copious amount of alcohol Bess disclosed to the authorities Jack’s whereabouts, he was duly arrested and this time sentenced to death and put into Newgate. This time he loosened the bars of his window and escaped dressed as a woman. He then went into exile on Finchley Common, but Jack really was Jack The Lad and liked having money, drink and a woman on each arm.

He came back into London and was rearrested, and put back into Newgate. This time he found himself in “The Castle” which was a prison within a prison and was thought by the authorities to be impregnable. He was clapped in leg irons and chained to two metal staples attached to the stone floor. He escaped again climbing up a chimney and scaling a 60ft wall making his escape via six barred doors. Back outside a crowd formed upon hearing of yet another escape and while still in leg irons he diverted their attention by claiming to see somebody on the roof.

Thinking himself untouchable he was at large for two weeks before he broke into Rawlings a pawnbroker in Drury Lane. There he stole a number of items including a fashionable black silk suit which he proceeded to put on and went out on the lash. So conspicuous was he that inevitably he was arrested and put in the “Middle Stone Room” of Newgate and this time loaded with 300lbs of iron weights.

Loved for his escapology people pleaded for commuting his death sentence to deportation but to no avail. Taken by cart from Newgate, a journey that could take two hours, he was plied with drink along the way. At one hostelry, the City of Oxford on modern Oxford Street they gave him a pint of sherry.

When London’s population was estimated at 700,000 an audience of over 200,000 turned up for his execution. He did not die immediately as his diminutive frame was too light to allow the rope to break his neck. After 15 minutes the crowd surged forward wanting a memento of Jack which prevented his friends from cutting him down, and trying to resuscitate him.

Buried at the recently rebuilt St. Martin’s in the Fields he was known in his time as Jack The Lad and Gentleman Jack and has had over the years a huge following in popular culture. Painted while in Newgate by Sir James Thornhill the Serjeant Painter to the Crown [see illustration]; the Beggar’s Opera is loosely based on his life; he has been the subject of two silent films; and Christopher Hibbert wrote The Road to Tyburn based on his life. More recently the 1969 film starring Tommy Steele Where’s Jack was also an adaptation based on Jack’s colourful life.

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.

London Lexicon (05.08.11)

The perception that most people have of London’s contribution to the English language is restricted to Cockney Rhyming Slang, in reality, the only place you’re likely to hear rhyming slang these days is on the set of BBC TV’s Eastenders. But with a little research, you discover that the derivation of many of our words and sayings in English sometimes come from a most unlikely quarter, and London has also done its bit to add to our lexicon as I’ve discovered:

Derrick’s big idea In the 18th century Ben Johnson – who incidentally was buried standing upright in Westminster Abbey – was sentenced to hanging for murder. The sentence was commuted to branding on his thumb when he proved that he could both read and write, and was thus given the Benefit of the Clergy.

Many weren’t so lucky and would meet Thomas Derrick at Tyburn; in fact, Derrick was probably the last person they would meet here on Earth. London needed a hangman and as there hadn’t been many applicants, the Earl of Essex pardoned a rapist and a rather unsavoury character by all accounts, on condition that he would fill the post.

Hanging Days were public holidays and as the condemned had been saved up for the purpose, it made the day for Derrick rather long and arduous, for the method of despatch at that time was slow strangulation having had the cart upon which they were standing pulled away from under their feet.

Derrick’s genius was to invent gallows using ropes and pulleys that could despatch a dozen at the time; in fact, it was this method that he used to hang the man who originally gave him his job, the Earl of Essex. The irony of this tale is that the Earl’s name has long been forgotten, while Derrick’s name is used to describe a modern derrick crane.

Quicker than you can say “Jack Robinson” Sir John Robinson was Constable of the Tower of London who from 1660 until 1679 was in charge of executions and who by all accounts was a stickler for efficiency rather than solemnity. The prisoner was marched out, put on the block and shortened without any opportunity for any famous last words. He did not even have the time to appeal to the overseer by crying “Jack Robinson”.

Being at Sixes and Sevens Only in London would you find an institution dedicated to the making of clothes, which for over 300 years have had nothing to do with tailoring instead its members devote their time to personal networking and charitable works, for like most London’s guilds the Merchant Tailors are now run by the men in grey suits. Merchant Tailors who were later joined by the Linen Armourers, originally actually made clothes, it is most famous being the gambeson, a thick padded jacked worn under a suit of armour by the nobility or on its own by foot soldiers when going into battle. But when swords and pikes gave way to firearms this piece of apparel became redundant and they moved on to produce tents for the army, until even that became a pointless exercise.

Receiving its charter in 1327 it became as a result one of the 12 great livery companies in the City, so named for the distinctive clothing (or livery) that members of these venerable institutions would once wear. Early in their history, the guilds fought for their place in the order of precedence during any progress of the Lord Mayor of London. After many years of arguments with the Guild of Skinners about who should take sixth place and who seventh in the order of precedence, the Lord Mayor issued an order in the late 15th century to the effect that the Skinners and Merchant Tailors would alternate in precedence; odd-numbered years Merchant Tailors would be sixth in the order, while in even-numbered years Skinners would take sixth and Merchant Tailors seventh. Hence the phrase – to be at sixes and sevens. This alternating precedence continues to this day.

Robbing Peter to pay PaulAs Michael Caine might say not a lot of people know that Westminster Abbey’s official name is “The Collegiate Church of Saint Peter at Westminster”. During the reign of Edward VI after his father’s Reformation that ended Britain’s thousand-year monastic tradition and put power, and money, back into the hands of the Monarch, the churches were dependent on the largess of the reigning King. But St. Peter was forever asking for endowments so much so that the King decided to punish the abbey by taking away the revenue St. Peter had long enjoyed from the proceeds of the Manor of Paddington and gave them to St. Paul’s which had always been known, as nowadays, as London’s cathedral. Thus a Royal church had lost out to the London cathedral, and hence Robbing Peter to pay Paul.

Break a Leg If you want to wish an actor good luck with their performance theatrical tradition has it that you hope they “break a leg”. This curious phrase comes from a time when all London theatres had to have a licence which could only be granted by the Crown. Samuel Foote took over the running of the Little Theatre in the Haymarket but because its previous owner had published a number of pamphlets attacking the government and the Crown the King refused to grant a licence. Foote tried every means he could to curry favour with the King and in desperation found a loophole around the problem. The punters could get in for free but were expected to purchase food and drink at hugely inflated prices, a practice carried on today without free admission.

The King’s brother the Duke of York overheard Foote boasting about his horsemanship and in revenue for making a fool of the Crown decided to seek revenge. The Duke of York challenged Foote to ride with him the following morning. The next day the Duke had brought with him a horse that had never been ridden, Foote inevitably was thrown from the horse and was badly injured, he broke a leg and spent weeks recovering.

Stricken with remorse and wish to make up for what he had done the Duke granted Foote the Royal licence for which he had waited for so long. In 1766 the Little Theatre became the Theatre Royal, Haymarket a title it has enjoyed ever since. The phrase “break a leg” is now used by the acting fraternity to wish one good luck, but maybe it should be “break a Foote”.

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.

Falstaff’s Curse (29.07.11)

A curious tale relating to the land known today as Seven Dials and St. Giles exists; it claims that this district will be forever cursed. With modern Oxford Street at its northern boundary, Charing Cross Road to the west, with Endell Street and Long Acre at its east and south respectively, this small area still retains the layout of many of its original medieval streets, which until the mid-19th century was a dense warren of tiny courtyards and alleyways, where large numbers of criminals and prostitutes lived.

A medieval leper hospital existed there amid open fields and the parish church to the north of the neighbourhood – St. Giles – is dedicated to the patron saint of lepers.

Developers erected houses for artisans and skilled tradesman in the 16th century, with Samuel Pepys commentating on the desirability of the area, but within a few years it had degenerated into an overcrowded and dangerous place.

For years St. Giles church officials paid for a last drink at the Resurrection Gate public house for the condemned on their journey down Oxford Road from Newgate Prison to the gallows and Tyburn. The old Oxford Road now renamed St. Giles High Street follows this route but the Resurrection Gate has been rebuilt by the Victorians and renamed The Angel Inn.

If the condemned man had been a resident of the area extra guards would try to stop any rescue mission as he popped into The Resurrection Gate for a swift half. More often than not the condemned would disappear into the Rookeries, as Seven Dials was known and would never be found.

London’s plague of 1665 began here before wiping out a quarter of London’s population and 100 years later William Hogarth depicted the area in his famous engraving “Gin Lane”, which depicts the effects of alcohol and poverty. Charles Dickens called the area Tom All Alone’s in Bleak House, and it wasn’t until the 1880s when much the Rookeries were demolished to make way for Shaftesbury Avenue and New Oxford Street that the area became accessible to the visitor.

But the strangest fact about this area is that businesses fail to thrive with a turnover rate far higher than elsewhere.

Those in the theatre business regard the Shaftsbury Theatre nearby as jinxed with a higher number of flops than other West End venues. Centre Point, that large office block at the area’s north-western corner, which is now listed, was a London scandal for a decade because it was regarded as so ugly no one wanted to lease office space in it.

St. Giles Church, completed in 1712, is a rare example that has escaped Victorian “improvements” and the bombing in the Second World War, now has facing it this area’s newest addition – Central Saint Giles – a garishly clad office retail complex, itself standing forlorn almost empty as testament to Falstaff Curse.

Why is this small corner of London so unlucky? In 1417 Sir John Oldcastle – reputed to be the model for Shakespeare’s Falstaff – was burned here at the stake on the order of King Henry V. Legend has it that as the flames rose around him Sir John is said to have cursed the land and surrounding area on which he was to die as well as the executioner, the king (who died six years later), and all his descendants.

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.

Boney’s Body Parts (22.07.11)

All cabbies know the location of Napoleon Bonaparte’s nose but few would have realised that at Christie’s in 1972, an appendage belonging to the Emperor of a more personal nature appeared at auction.

Bonaparte died in May 1821 and with claims as to the manner of his demise no fewer than 17 witnessed the autopsy which was carried out the day after he died by his own doctor, Francesco Antommarchi in the company of 17 witnesses, including seven English doctors and two of Napoleon’s aides, a priest named Vignali and a manservant. The Emperor instructed that his heart be removed first and sent to his wife Marie-Louise but that vanished before it could be delivered. The stomach was examined next and it was generally agreed that cancer was the cause of death, although recent claims include the suggestion that he was poisoned. Nothing else is recorded as having been removed during that surgical examination.

Decades later it was commonly rumoured that Napoleon’s penis had been cut off and had been stored away carefully during the autopsy.

No recorded confirmation exists of this and if true one can only suppose that when all 17 had their backs to the corpse Boney’s manhood was quickly snipped off with nobody noticing afterwards he had something important missing.

However, in a 1913 lecture, Sir Arthur Keith, conservator of the Hunterian Collection at the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons (certain Napoleonic organs were supposedly in the museum’s possession), ventured what seems to be the indisputable opinion that, given the number of witnesses, the brevity of the autopsy (less than two hours), and the fact that the guy was, come on, Napoleon, the loss of the penis would not easily have escaped notice.

Napoleon’s friend Vignali who administered the last rites was left a large sum of money in Napoleon’s will as well as numerous unspecified “personal effects”, and later Napoleon’s manservant claimed In a memoir published in 1852 in the Revue des mondes that Vignali had indeed been the culprit who removed the body part, although the claim was never corroborated.

In 1916 Vignali’s descendants sold his collection of Napoleonic artefacts to a British rare book firm, which in 1924 sold the lot for about $2,000 to a Philadelphia bibliophile, A. S. W. Rosenbach. The inventory at the time refers to “the mummified tendon taken from Napoleon’s body during the post-mortem”.

During the 1930s A. S. Rosenbach was displaying the “tendon” in a blue velvet case and describing it as Napoleon’s penis. It later would be the centrepiece of a display at the Museum of French Art in New York, how that could have been described as art is anybody’s guess – but Damien Hurst get away with it. A newspaper at the time contradicted Napoleon’s assertion that he was well endowed describing the exhibit as “something like a maltreated strip of buckskin shoelace or shrivelled eel . . . one inch long and resembling a grape”.

At Christie’s London auction house in 1972 the punitive penis was put up for sale complete with the velvet-lined case, but having failed to reach its reserve price was withdrawn, probably not for the first time when it was in full working order leading a scandal-mongering British tabloid to trumpet, “NOT TONIGHT, JOSEPHINE!”. Eight years later it popped up again in a Paris auction house and was brought rather appropriately, by John K. Lattimer, a retired professor of urology for $3,000. At the time of writing the penis is still, as it were, in Professor Lattimer’s hands.