I have licked several tasty things in my life. As a heterosexual male I can list my most favoured feminine hangouts, yet when it comes to my number one taste sensation it is wholly masculine in nature.
I absolutely adore a Mr Whippy ice cream!
Indeed, in applying the legal process of statutory interpretation I believe that I am literally addicted. Infatuated. Hooked.
The creamy, light, sublimely textured oracle of orgasmic opulence dances on my tongue like a tsunami of tease!
I like it best semi-naked – one flake. Not a full Monty double 99.
According to legend Cadbury assert that in ancient Italy the king had an elite guard numbering 99 men, creating the notion that this number was simply the best. For me, the Mr Whippy is the monarch of all taste, and a flake is no more than window dressing.
If there was a Tinder of taste I would always swipe right.
However, to fully understand my not-so-secret love affair I owed it to myself to explore the heritage of my ideal dinner date.
In 1958 Dominic Facchino founded the Mr Whippy ice cream van company in Birmingham, seeking to replicate the huge success of Mister Softee in the United States. Like the trademark ‘Hoover’ and its association with all types of vacuum cleaners, over the proceeding decades ‘Mr Whippy’ has become synonymous with all types of soft ice cream pumped by dedicated machine into a cone in the traditional tapered twirl.
There remains a degree of uncertainty over the principal inventor of this iconic, soft, sweet, and sensual masterpiece, but I kind of like the tale that connects a certain lady, perhaps best remembered for her inverse attributes. Margaret Thatcher, aka ‘The Iron Lady’, and British premier from 1979 to 1990, did work as a food chemist for J. Lyons and Co., who partnered with Mr Softee to produce an ice cream mix that could be dispensed mechanically.
It is nonetheless an incredible feat of sustenance engineering as according to Monica Burton, editor of Eater.com, soft serve ice cream is at least fifty percent air, or in technical terms the ‘overrun’. A veritable capitalists dream – making a profit out of thin air. Surely Mrs Thatcher did have a guiding hand?
Knowing that I am probably buying more fresh air than substance doesn’t upset me at all and adds to the emotional experience. After all, aren’t all truly naughty things expensive?
The prelude to the incoming Exocet of erotica is, of course, the ice cream van jingle. Throughout history there have been several, including the familiar rendition of ‘Greensleeves’ which is guaranteed to provoke a meerkat pose as I strain to locate the vehicle in order to beat any five-year-olds to the front of the queue. I don’t mind the harsh stares of parents as I muscle in, since I feel that as I am old enough to remember the original Mister Softee jingle (composed by song writer Les Waas in 1960) I deserve to get in there first. The kids have their whole lives in front of them.
Not that this important element is purely arbitrary. In the United Kingdom the Code of Practice on Noise from Ice-Cream Van Chimes Etc. in England 2013 determines, amongst other restrictions, that the jingle shall not jangle for longer than twelve seconds at a time, nor more often than once every two minutes or within fifty metres of schools (during school hours), hospitals, and places of worship. If this legal requirement has ever been enforced, then I’m a Dutchman. As New Zealand politician Sir Timothy Richard Shadbolt reminisced in his book ‘A Mayor of Two Cities’ when reflecting upon his Dutch memories, “One good thing I remember in Holland was hiring bikes for five cents a week and peddling to Belgium. We got lost in the countryside amongst the canals and windmills; it was such an adventure. In the middle of the Hague people sold ice cream, a bit like our Mr Whippy.” He could have cited the Van Gogh museum, Anne Frank’s house or the De Hoge Veluwe National Park, but no, he felt it prudent to reference this country of culture with my dietary darling.
As I lick my lips in anticipation of my next hit, I am aware that the science behind the explosion on my tongue is all down to TRPM5. A study published in Nature Journal in 2005 identified microscopic channels in our taste buds which become more intense dependant on the temperature, thus sending stronger signals to the brain. My TRPM5 facility must be on a par with the National Grid!
In 2010 psychologists Karla Baur and Robert L. Crooks, in their book ‘Our Sexuality’, contended that taste sensations promote the release of dopamine, a neurotransmitter that sends chemical messages to our sexual organs, thus eliciting sexual responses. A Mr Whippy has never caused me brain freeze but perhaps this biological bombardment explains why I feel more than just lush after a few licks.
Am I alone in this love affair with Mr Whippy? Should I row back from my obsession? Do I need professional help?
Perhaps not.
According to the author and poet Charles Baxter, “Forget art. Put your trust in ice cream.”
And who would dare argue with Don Kardong, veteran Olympian, who ominously warned, “Without ice cream, there would be darkness and chaos.”
On a more philosophical note, L.M. Montgomery, the Canadian author of ‘Anne of Green Gables, published in 1908, posed the presumption, “I guess ice cream is one of those things that are beyond imagination.”
But the quote that sums up the pure excitement that is Mr Whippy must be reserved for humanity’s ultimate compass point. The sage of all sages. The word of truth – Forest Gump – who simply exclaimed, “Lieutenant Dan, I got you some ice cream. Lieutenant Dan, ice cream!”
I would draw the line at sharing my Mr Whippy, as this is a purely personal pastime, but who knows what I might be willing to lick afterwards?
Please excuse me now since my highly attuned ears have just picked up the distant jingle jangle of Greensleeves and like Pavlov’s dogs I am salivating.
Mr Whippy – I love you!
Footnote:
The beauty of change that will ensure that the Whippy experience will live on forever …
© Ian Kirke 2021 and uncredited photographs