by 
That ice cream van that is sitting outside your front window with the irritating Colonel Bogey tune playing around the clock can go and do one; it has emerged.
It’s Easter bloody Monday, it’s pissing with rain, and there’s shag all on TV. Furthermore, your wife has reminded you, you have a bloody work assignment to complete, because you went self-employed like the stubborn fool you are.
“The last thing I need right now is that gormless cheery twat Whippy Steve telling me it’ll be summer soon and how nice the grass is looking,” said Simon Williams, or you, as you are known to yourself.
“And if he offers me a 99 and says ‘That’s a kind of ice cream, not your age grandad’ with a snorted laugh, so help me I’ll ram a Nobbly Bobbly up his Divinely Creamy Mivvi.”
Every year for the last ten, the sound of the first ice cream van of summer has sent you into a spiral of depression as it reminds you of the unrelenting march of time and your own mortality by thinking about the fun you pretend to yourself you used to have as a kid on summer holidays and all the summer festivals you couldn’t afford to attend when you were in your twenties.
“And the burger van on the industrial estate can cock off and all,” added you.
