Alan Fairley: July 2023

Sounds of the seventies – a phrase that rekindles all sorts of memories for those of us who were privileged to have grown up during what was undoubtedly the greatest decade in the history of music.

Depending on your individual taste, your mind might, on hearing the phrase, be transported back to the early part of the decade when Simon and Garfunkel dominated the charts for weeks with the iconic “Bridge over Troubled Water”. It may spark memories of cheesy pop classics like “Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep” by Middle of the Road or glam standards like “Tiger Feet” (Mud), “Wig Wam Bam” (Sweet) and, of course the Bowie/Mott the Hoople collaboration which spawned “All the Young Dudes”.

Hard rock specialists Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple and Black Sabbath were also supremely active amidst the cornucopia of musical magic which sparkled throughout the ten years in question.

A week or so ago, however, I was reminded of the 70s by a sound which I hadn’t heard for many years.

No – it wasn’t the harsh thwack of Numph’s feared leather belt as it struck my outstretched hand at school.

No – it wasn’t the sickening sound of the ball hitting the net behind me during my unspectacular career as a goalkeeper.

No – it wasn’t a wooden ball encased in leather, shattering the stumps during my even less spectacular spell as a cricketer.

It wasn’t even one of the songs already referred to.

It was, in fact, a medieval ballad known as Greensleves attacking my ears, the conduit for the music being the chimes of an ice cream van arriving outside my luxury Edinburgh apartment (which, incidentally, boasts uninterrupted views of the Castle and Arthur’s Seat).

I hadn’t seen, or even heard, an ice cream van in years. I didn’t even know they had them in Edinburgh, so as I watched the local kids swarm around this mobile oasis of delight, my mind was transported back to my teenage years in suburban Glasgow where such vehicles were very much an integral part of the community.

Where I grew up, there were two visits from ice cream vendors every day.
One arrived at lunchtime, a small van with the Walls logo on the side, driven by a smart gentleman in a white tunic who dispensed the goods from an open window on the vehicle.

The selection was basic and uninspiring.
No Mr Whippy style cornet, no ice lollies, no sweets – all you got was a hexahedron shaped slab of processed ice cream, a bit like a bar of soap, which the man in question unwrapped and inserted into the orifice of a a suitably shaped cone.

Nice and simple.
Get in, get it done and get out again.

In the early evening however, it was a different story. A much larger van would rock up and not only did it sell ice cream. It dispensed a wide range of sweets, ice lollies and glass bottles of fizzy pop which, in the West of Scotland, went under the collective name of ‘ginger’ as well as cigarettes, in packets of 20, 10 or even singles.

The ice cream itself provided a vastly contrasting experience to that of the Walls lunchtime run.

No processed slab this time, the cones were filled by scoops of the appetising arctic-white substance from a seemingly bottomless refrigerated container and adorned with such delicacies as raspberry sauce, chocolates sauce, crushed nuts (ouch!) or, if you were feeling flush, a Cadburys flake (a 99 in these parts).

On special occasions you could come away with an oyster or a single, or possibly even a double nugget.

For the uninitiated, a double nugget comprised two chocolate coated slabs of fondant on either side of two scoops of ice cream, held together by a solitary wafer.
In summary the type of van which would keep Glasgow dentists in business for many years.

I was a regular at the evening van.
Not, however, because I was addicted to ice cream.

The main attraction within the van was the girl behind the serving hatch.
I knew her from school and she went under the rather intriguing name of Nancy Gammes.
Nancy, it has to be said, had a cracking pair of legs which were suitably enhanced by the ridiculously short skirts she chose to wear.

As a result this testosterone fuelled teenager made a regular bee line to the van whenever the chimes sounded, handing over what was left of his pocket money to purchase random Black Jacks (am I allowed to say that?), Mojos and Fruit Salad chews while attempting to gain Nancy’s attention with a variety of clumsy chat up lines.

I won’t bore you with the outcome of my efforts in that direction.
Some things are better left unsaid.

It wouldn’t be a story about ice cream vans in Glasgow without a nod to the notorious ice cream wars.
In the interests of self preservation I won’t go into detail (it’s all on Google) but it’s a widely held opinion that the vans were utilised as a means of distributing drugs to users around the city’s housing schemes.
My only take on the matter relates to an experience I had a few years ago while visiting my daughter in Maryhill.

On hearing the chimes in the street I, as a doting grandad, took my two young granddaughters to the van to buy them ice cream.
We waited at the end of a small queue, behind two teenage lads.
When the two boys got to the front of the queue. They turned to me and said ‘you go first, pal.’

On a lighter note the ice cream van industry has provided many classic moments of comedy.

One I remember was from the Likely Lads Christmas special in 1974 when James Bolam’s character announced he was buying an ice cream van as a means of attracting female attention.
His mate Rodney Bewes told him…
‘Your chances of pulling a bird in that are…..wafer thin!’

More recently Scottish comedian Karen Dunbar produced a classic comedy moment in a Chewin’ the Fat sketch when, after serving two pre-pubescent boys with ice creams from her van and asking if they wanted anything else, one of them responded with ‘aye gies a swatch of yer fanny’.
You can have a swatch yourself….

Which reminds me – whatever happened to Nancy Gammes?