More than any other, one object in the known universe has the power to instantly and completely transform a man. In seconds, the merest contact with the keys to its power can alter the most unassuming, mild-mannered guy into a leering, tea-swilling, Page 3 ogling brute who acts like a maniac and swears at everyone and everything around him.

I am speaking, of course, of the Great British White Van.

I was reminded of this precious tradition today by a photo taken by my friend Mark, and it caused a real pang of nostalgia in me.

You see, I have felt the blessed state of being known only as White Van Man.

The first time I ever drove a white van was three and a half years ago, when I moved into a shared house in Islington. As the only resident with any real driving experience (stop giggling at the back), I was in charge of shuttling everyone’s stuff from various parts of London. And boy, there was a lot of stuff. We worked for 2 straight days loading, unloading and driving.

The “change” from Dr “Nice Guy” Jekyll (no, really, I am nice) to Mr “White Van” Hyde was an imperceptible one, but it was there nevertheless. It’s the little things that do it - in an enclosed, large van you have a blind spot about eight feet long on either side of the vehicle. Drivers who insist on pulling into this spot whilst you’re indicating a lane change can quickly cause an air of righteous rage to suffuse your being.

Going to Ikea during the course of the weekend was probably a mistake too.

Still, I didn’t fully come to realise my deep state of White Van-ness until the Sunday evening, driving to Brixton with Tom to pick up his belongings. All I remember is that at some point during the drive I’d found it necessary to use the horn whilst negotiating a tricky junction, and Tom (who I barely knew at the time) turned to me and said quietly “wow. You’re actually scaring me.”

My transformation was complete. I had become White Van Man.

But all that is in the past now.

You see, White Van culture really hasn’t made it to the US. In part this is due to the fact that proper vans (of the good old Transit variety) are scarce - if you’re shifting stuff around, you’re either in a pickup truck, or you’re attempting to control an 18-wheeler so large it has its own gravitational field. Americans don’t pussy-foot around with middle-of-the-road stuff.

Sure, there are box-vans of the kind rented out by U-Haul, but somehow they lack the magical, testosterone-boosting power of the Transit and her sister vans.

Besides, there are other two other factors at work to break the spell:

1) People don’t drink tea

You might find a half-drunk styrofoam beaker of watery 7-11 coffee in a pickup cab, maybe. But it’ll probably be festering in the ubiquitous cup-holders. As every White Van driver knows, mouldering beverages should be wedged between the dash and the windscreen so they can dislodge and spill everywhere if you ever have to brake hard.

2) Tabloids aren’t really tabloids

Okay, so there are periodicals known as “tabloids” here. There’s even a “Sun”, produced by News International and carrying the same masthead as its British counterpart. But US tabloids are generally weekly affairs, and concern themselves with two topics:

1. Celebrity couple-du-jour’s breakup. At the time of writing it’s Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. The tabloids are also skirting around “Britney’s marriage doomed” pieces.
2. The second coming of Christ. This happens every two weeks, and is also predicted to be due at other times in the coming months. All I can say is that you should repent by September 11th this year, according to a Sun from last month.

Most importantly, tabloids here do not contain half-naked 19 year olds. Whilst this means they can be freely sold in Wal-Mart, it doesn’t help their status as an essential part of the hairy, smelly testosterone-filled world which is a proper White Van.

I truly believe that there’s a little White Van Man in all of us, waiting to emerge as soon as we grasp that keyfob which lovingly proclaims “Transit”. And it’s a great shame that so many Americans will never embrace this particular inner demon.

So, my advice for any Americans travelling to Britain - forego the usual 4-door saloon at the airport and ask for a Transit. Pick up one cup of tea from an airport cafe, and one tabloid (The Sun or The Star) from WHSmiths. Wedge both of these items firmly between the dashboard and the windscreen. Then simply drive around for a few days. You’ll never look at yourselves the same way again.

Admittedly, you may wind up looking at yourselves with permanent horror, but hey, that’s the price of experience.

This article first arrived on the interwebnet on Sunday, May 1st, 2005 at 10:02 pm .
It's arbitrarily categorised as being about: Brief Notes on America, Thinking.
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