DATE: April 3rd 1786 Feast of Saint Richard of Chichester WEATHER: Filth OUTLOOK: Rosy

Saint Richard of Chichester was a farmer’s boy who studied hard and became Chancellor of Oxford University. He was later a bishop and, it is reported, dropped the chalice at Mass without a drop being spilt. In later life he preached the Crusade, gaining many recruits in Kent and Sussex, especially among unemployed sailors… He is the Patron Saint of Coachmen, an allusion, presumably, to his cart driving childhood.
     Sadly, Saint R of C has far too many acolytes; the traffick in London is now so bad that areas of the city are locked solid. Apart from the noise and the danger of being crushed beneath hooves or wheels, the defilement of our thoroughfares is unspeakable. I know that there are many who express a great love for horses but it cannot be denied that their presence, in vast numbers, creates the most appalling mess and stink. Not to put too fine an edge on it, we are in danger of drowning in doings.
     I have written to the Lord Mayor, one Tom Sainsbury (a grocer-made-good, I believe), suggesting that a toll be levied on all horses, oxen, donkeys and mules entering the city’s centre on working days during the hours of daylight. I was careful not to mention asses as the term might easily be misconstrued. This toll, which I thought might be termed the Conspurcation Charge, could be collected by Officers appointed for that purpose, stationed, like Jeptha’s guards, at the points of entry. Those officers would be required to keep accurate accounts and would be paid an hundredth part of the tolls collected as salary, which would amount to a pretty penny! The system would need to be policed, of course, but there would still be a massive profit which could be used to pay for street cleaners, the balance going to charity.
     Many a time and oft has Lightfoote hit upon an idea which, is his own mind, seemed nothing short of genius, only to have his hopes and ambitions dashed upon the rocks of inertia and indifference. This time, however, I am convinced that I am on a winner. Who could possibly object to such a scheme?
     It is fairness itself: the more muck, the more money! I allowed myself a moment’s indulgence in the thought that the scheme might well result in my name being blest by those as yet unborn who would benefit from Lightfoote’s Levy.
     It was with a light heart, therefore, that I made my way to the April meeting of the Stonic Lodge. The showers associated with that month had manifested themselves plentifully during the day and the streets were reduced to quagmires. Covent Garden was a sea of equine excrement; an image from Dante’s Inferno: the fifth circle, where the wrathful and the gloomy are tormented in the Stygian lake. Feelings of wrath and gloom were certainly awakened in Lightfoote as he trod, lightly, across the fetid flow.
     Upon gaining the safety of the Yorick Tavern, I immediately ordered a flagon of what my doctor always refers to as “cleansing ale” – downed it, and chased it with a glass of warm gin. A number of my brethren stood before the fire, steaming gently and smelling, more than faintly, like the rubbing house on Epsom Downs. I decided to share with them my vision of a finer, fresher, filth-free, altogether more fragrant London…
     To my amazement, my enthusiasm for a traffick reduction scheme was not shared, not even a little bit. Among the objections put forward were that such a scheme would deter visitors and thereby have a detrimental effect upon shopkeepers (we are, after all, as that awful Adam Smith recently observed in his brainless book, “a nation of shopkeepers…”).
     Theatres, cockpits, chophouses, coffee houses, ale houses, bawdy houses and the Houses of Parliament would all cease to function. Schoolchildren would not be able to get to school. Workmen would not be able to get to work. Chimneys would go unswept; dung uncollected; felons unhung and the dead unburied. In short, Lightfoote’s Levy was greeted with derision.
     There was no ceremony. Our candidate for the second degree was unable to attend due to having been run over by a wagon in Wigmore Street. Instead, we were treated – rather as one is treated with leeches – to a lecture on the Steward’s Lodge, Number One Hundred and Seventeen, which meets just round the corner from us, at the Shakespeare Tavern.
     I returned home dejected and depressed – not my usual demeanour at the end of a Lodge night! Mrs. Lightfoote, seeing that something was amiss, brought me a rummer of brandy and asked me what the matter was.
     Bless her! Here, at last, I would receive a sympathetic hearing. I outlined my idea to her. She listened attentively, smiled at me, patted my head and told me not to be so silly.
     The cost of keeping horses was expensive enough, she pointed out. I should think of the effect that my proposals would have on people like her brother, in the Kings Road, with his three Italian stallions: Alpha, Romeo and Lancer.
     My heart sank; my precious dream was crushed beneath the wheels of a Chelsea Troika…