The White Van Man

Jimmy Springfield was a bit of an arsehole, he liked to paint things he wasn’t allowed to. According to him, he was a street artist, but most everybody else thought he was a mindless vandal. Recognition of his talent was all Jimmy really wanted, he even signed his work, “Pranksy,” in honour of a much more famous street artist he revered.

‘You’re wasting your time, Son, his dad said, it’s been done before.’

‘Besides,’ his best mate said, ‘everybody knows who you are.’

‘Yeah, that’s why you’re on probation for defacing public property.’ His dad reminded him.

‘But the public toilets needed brightening up.’

‘Maybe, but not everybody finds pictures of David Cameron masturbating and Theresa May on the bog with her knickers round her ankles funny.’ Dad pointed out.

‘Especially when it was so bloody lifelike.’ His best mate added.

Jimmy was unrepentant: he needed to do something really different. After a lot of thought he had a lightbulb moment. So in the middle of the hottest summer in living memory he decided to paint his Transit to make it look like it has just driven through a snowstorm.

Commandeering his dad’s garage he spent a fortnight painting his masterpiece: and that is what it was. The van was painted so perfectly it looked like it was covered in six inches of snow. The blue on white shadowing and perspective was spot on. On the side panels, Jimmy had painted icicles hanging from the roof and frozen water runnels down the dull grey coachwork. The edge of the windscreen was painted with snow to imitate the clear space where the wipers had swept it from the glass: he’d even added glitter to the paint so it sparkled in sunlight like real ice.

Jimmy was so pleased with his work as soon as the paint dried he took it for a drive around town. As he drove down the high street, all the people stopped to stare and little kids out shopping with their mums pointed and shouted, ‘LOOK MUMMY.’ Some folks reached for their smartphones ready to Facebook and Tweet their pics. Out on the by-pass, cars flashed their lights and trucks blew their bullhorns. A big smile lit up Jimmy’s proud face.

Reckoning he’d made a big enough impact, Jimmy prepared to take the next junction and return home, but the van had other ideas. The engine made a loud metallic clatter and stopped. Fighting the lack of power steering, Jimmy managed to guide it onto the hard shoulder and brought it to a halt where it bled boiling water and black oil onto the road and engulfed itself in a smelly cloud of steam.

‘I’m an artist, not an engineer.’ Jimmy told the man from the AA who came to tow the van to the nearest garage.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ he asked the bloke in the garage workshop.

The mechanic lifted the bonnet and peered into the machinery beneath. He took a small torch from a pocket in his overalls and shone it into the greasy depths. When he finished he stepped back and rubbed an oily hand across his face smearing it with dark lines. He shook his head and looked at Jimmy.

‘Engine block’s cracked, Mate. You forgot the anti-freeze.’