QI The Book of the Dead

and the cost (in terms of healthcare and lost earning potential) runs into hundreds of billions. Cheap food has meant that, for the first time in history, the bottom 20 per cent of earners are, on average, more obese than the top 20 per cent. The diet industry in the US alone is valued at $60 billion per annum, more than the global turnover of Microsoft and McDonald’s combined. This double hysteria – overeating then trying to lose weight again – is a long way from rural Leicestershire in the late eighteenth century.
    Lambert came from a cheerful lower-middle-class family. None of the rest of his relatives was in the least remarkable, either in size or achievement. His father was keeper of the Leicester County ‘bridewell’, or house of correction. Bridewells got their name from the original Bridewell in the city of London, first a royal palace, then a hospital and finally a prison. They were run by local magistrates and were used to keep the streets clear of vagrants, idlers and minor offenders. Keepers were salaried but were allowed to supplement their income by hiring out inmates as a source of cheap local labour. Lambert’s institution had eight rooms, three for men and five for women (it wasn’t considered appropriate for women to share a room).
    Daniel grew up living the active, outdoor life of a Leicestershire countryman. He was a passionate devotee of cock-fighting and hare-coursing, rode with the hunt and taught children to swim in the River Soar. He matured quickly, reaching almost six feet tall in his teens. He was also extremely strong; said to be able to carry huge cartwheels and quarter-ton weights and swim with two men clinging to his back. Once Lambert’s dog attacked a dancing bear that was due to perform in the town. The bear had retaliated and, to encourage some sport, its handlers removed its muzzle. When they refused Lambert’s request to restrain thebear, he felled it with a single blow to the jaw and rescued his dog.
    When Lambert’s father retired, Daniel took over the running of the prison. He was well liked by his charges, working hard to improve their living conditions and ensure all of them were treated fairly; there are even reports of inmates crying with gratitude for his kindness as they left. The only problem with the job was that it didn’t involve much more than sitting on his seat in the street outside the prison. He became a popular character in Leicester, puffing on a pipe of tobacco, striking up conversations with people as they passed or swapping tips about breeding fighting cocks and greyhounds. It was this sudden transition to a sedentary life that Lambert blamed for his rapid weight gain, but it’s probable he suffered from a metabolic disorder. Within two years he weighed 32 stones and was too big to find a horse that would carry his weight. Even simple physical tasks started to exhaust him: it was easier to sit and watch the world go by. In 1803 a prison inspector noted Lambert’s ‘constitutional propensity to ease … He is spoken of as a humane, benevolent man but I thought him a very improper person to be the Keeper of a prison.’
    Then, in 1805, the Leicester magistrates decided to close the correction house and set the inmates to forced labour instead. Lambert was awarded a one-off annuity of £50 as a thank-you, but this wasn’t enough for him to live on (it would be worth about £4,000 today). He was now thirty-five years old and his weight had crept up to 50 stone, making it impossible for him to find work. He couldn’t even squeeze into a standard-sized coach to visit the races. By the end of the year, out of money and deprived by his immense size of the hobbies he loved, Lambertfound himself practically housebound. Things weren’t helped by a string of visitors wanting to see if the rumours of Leicester’s ‘Human Colossus’ were true. One pushy man from Nottingham pressed for admission on the grounds that he had a particular favour to ask. Lambert eventually let him in only for the man to ask the pedigree of a local mare, information readily available from the owner. Lambert, who had by now developed a smart line in witty put-downs, answered, ‘Oh! If that’s all, she was got by Impertinence out of Curiosity.’
    Annoying as these visitations were, they helped him conceive a plan. In early 1806, he surprised everyone by renting a house on Piccadilly in London. He announced his arrival with a flurry of handbills and newspaper adverts: for