The calendar page shows a grease-stained photo of a young, hopeful-looking Mr Whippy, circa 1988. It flutters from August to November.
The 1960s Bedford CA’s public name is Mr Whippy. Privately, in quieter moments, he calls himself Gerry. Among those who know him better, his nickname is ‘the great blue-and-yellow sarcophagus’.
In his heyday, he was also known as ‘Rodney’s Whippy’ and was out on every beautiful day, trundling down Berkshire’s small residential lanes, dishing out cones to local children. Things are different now. His body’s structural integrity is highly dubious, and his engine runs mostly on hope and cheap diesel. As autumn closes in, he shudders into hibernation in his parking spot: a damp, unlit corner of a rented, disused industrial warehouse in Slough, nestled between a defunct bouncy-castle business and a pallet of slightly illegal fireworks that didn’t get any takers for New Year's Eve.
Rodney – the human in charge of Gerry’s destiny – tucks him away, promising that the coming season will be ‘the big one’: the year they finally secure that coveted summer seaside pitch in Bournemouth. Of course, Rodney has been saying this since 1995.
Winter is a cycle of enforced deprivation and existential dread. Gerry is a cynic. He’s seen it all: sticky-fingered children, teenagers trying to buy Feasts with coppers, and the constant, nagging jingle of Greensleeves that haunts his mechanical dreams even in the off-season. He hates that tune. It’s the soundtrack to naïve joy, a concept he finds utterly ridiculous.
In the warehouse, Gerry isn’t alone. Parked next to him is Bertie, an early-1980s Ford Transit – smug, white, low-mileage – a delivery van that spends its winters waxing lyrical about the efficiency of modern logistics. ‘As befits a white van,’ Bertie boasts, ‘I was always in the M25 fast lane.’ Gerry just wishes his carburettor could reach Bertie’s accelerator pedal.
Hibernation is less a peaceful slumber and more a slow decay. Gerry is convinced that rust is not a natural process but a passive-aggressive complaint lodged by Mother Nature against poor maintenance schedules. He spends his long, silent months pondering the fleeting nature of human happiness, the inevitable disappointment that follows the promise of a ’99 Flake, and the sheer audacity of a business model relying entirely on clear skies and high temperatures… in the UK.
He observes the world through his blocked, leak-prone sliding window: grey skies, perpetual drizzle, people rushing past with their ‘serious’ lives – a stark contrast to his own seasonal absurdity. He secretly revels in their misery. The thought of their cold, determined faces makes his tired condenser hum with a tiny flicker of satisfaction.
Now and then, Gerry overhears Rodney talking about fitting an upgraded generator and maybe a new sign with a pair of LED-lit cones. Gerry scoffs internally. Upgrades? Isn’t that like putting lipstick on a pig? I’m an ice-cream van, not Mr Muscle.
The world still ends in November, but the story reaches its cynical peak around February. While everyone else anticipates spring, Gerry simply calculates the probability of mechanical failure, factoring in Rodney’s lack of technical skill. He knows exactly what will happen when the first warm day arrives: the Greensleeves tape will be inserted once more, and the cycle of temporary joy and sticky disappointment will begin again.
And he’ll be there – a silent, rusty, old blue-and-yellow van – selling artificial happiness to a world that deserves better, one cone at a time.
The true secret of his life is simple: the off-season is just the main season without the pretence.
Dimitri's piece was inspired by a recent video shared on the BBC News website.
Main photo © Teamjackson/iStock. Ice cream photo © Nissan.
