Whipped Into Shape

There’s really nothing quite like those fond memories from childhood that a million tequila slammers just can’t erase.

I always considered that growing up in regional Australia made me the luckiest little nose-miner in the world. Of course it wasn’t until my jaded adulthood (or should that be adultery?) that I realised every brat on the planet is conditioned to think the same thing.

One thing I have discovered since though, which truly makes growing up in Australia a kick arse affair, is the unique experience that is Mr. Whippy. For the benefit of my international visitors, Mr. Whippy is a guy who drives around suburban streets on the most appallingly hot days of summer, playing a wonky version of Greensleeves from a megaphone mounted on the top of a clapped-out old pink and white van that defies the laws of physics (and roadworthyness) by still being able to move.

I remember being something like eight years old and chasing frantically after a rooted old Bedford van that’d only stop every couple of blocks. How Mr. Whippy was ever able to understand the orders of twenty panting, exhausted children who’d ran, pedaled, and scootered after him halfway across town I’ll never know, but there he was, dutifully filling cone after cone with fresh, energy-restoring soft serve ice cream for something ridiculous like a dollar at a time.

Of course with time things change and I’m no longer a little boy forced to pound across scalding hot tarmac with a broken rubber thong trailing behind me, attempting to trip me up. I’ve wised up to Mr. Whippy and his sneaky ways – now I just chase after him in my car and if he doesn’t look like pulling over soon enough I’ll just lean on my horn and flash my lights until he relents and pulls into the curb to allow me to order a choc-dip with nuts.

The one thing that did take me an eternity to catch onto however, was that no matter where you go Mr. Whippy drives the same van. They’re all pink and white and all have exactly the same sign-writing. Over the years they’ve received an upgrade starting off as old Bedford rattlers with ‘powered by Holden’ badges on the flanks and becoming previous generation Ford Transit vans with short wheelbases and high roofs. Every single one of ‘em.

I think I was a little bit freaked out when I realised this. Is it the same Mr. Whippy from South Australia now serving me half-melted gelato in Queensland, and I didn’t I pass him on my way through New South Wales? You have no idea how disheartened I was to learn that ‘Mr. Whippy’ isn’t just a bunch of jovial chaps who’ve all decided they like the look of a particular paint scheme for their ice cream vans – nay, Mr. Whippy is a franchise, and with this discovery it’s safe to say that the sun-soaked child inside my mind died a horrible and painful death. One deprived of ice cream.

Of course ten minutes later I’d bounced back, and for some unknown reason had a mad craving for a frozen dairy treat of some description. I sat there contemplating what to do about the situation when, over the din of the traffic outside what did I hear? Why, none other than the faint strains of Greensleves in the air.

I raced outside, clutching my pocket change and looking up and down the street, waiting for my pink savior to appear, and indeed he did as if heaven-sent. This time there was no chase, he pulled up just a couple of feet from my doorstep. I approached the window, looked at the available options painted on the side window and went ahead and ordered the same old thing as always. “One choc-dip with nuts please” and just seconds later that was exactly what I had.

I buried my face into the creamy, nutty, chocolatey treat in my hand. Then stopped. It’s the middle of fucking winter – why the fuck is Mr. Whippy out and about at this time of year? And even more perplexing, how come I didn’t have to chase him into the next suburb before he’d pull over?

I stopped and turned around, glancing back at the pink Transit van in my street. There he was: all grinning face, white apron and hairy forearms. Just like every other Mr. Whippy in the country. Exactly the same. Exactly! I suddenly lost my craving for ice cream and all the while the hairy Mediterranean guy in the ice cream van just kept looking at me and smiling, not smiling in a happy, customer-service way though. Smiling in a now-you-know-too way. An uncomfortable you-know-too way.

Which is why I’ve decided this weekend, to start scouring the papers for a good second-hand short wheel base Transit van.