I recently read an article about the history of ice cream trucks, and let me tell you, it was not the sugar-coated story I expected. Sure, there were sprinkles of nostalgia, tales of the UK’s beloved Flake 99 cones (soft-serve with a Cadbury Flake chocolate bar jammed on top), and sticky childhood memories. But then came the turf wars, bacteria-laced “penny licks,” and actual murder. Murder! Over ice cream routes. Who knew that being an ice cream person could land you in the witness protection program?

The piece, by Olivia Potts, was published on Longreads in August. It kicks off in Scotland, introducing John Harkins. At age five, Harkins almost triggered that dreaded ‘can we meet after class?’ conversation because he insisted the color brown was “cola” and blue was “raspberry.” The kid wasn’t wrong. When your parents run an ice cream truck and your playroom is basically a slushy machine, it’s vocational training. Today, he is a decorated ice cream man in Scotland, proving that sometimes childhood obsessions stick the way sprinkles stick to a toddler’s fluffy cheeks.

The author then takes us to England, specifically her own childhood in South Shields, a windy seafront town where ice cream was practically part of the civic DNA. That’s where I learned that “monkey’s blood” (a delightful gory nickname) is not, in fact, something sinister. It’s raspberry sauce. (Although if I’d asked for monkey’s blood on my sundae as a kid in Chicago, I’m pretty sure DCFS would’ve been called.) Her favorite was the “oyster”, a wafer shell dipped in chocolate and coconut, filled with soft serve, and drowned in monkey’s blood. Forget pearls, this oyster came with soft serve, and I’d take that trade any day.

Of course, the article points out that being an ice cream vendor isn’t all Flakes and fairy tales. The weather dictates the job. Weddings get skipped for sunny days, and entire families get pulled into the business like it’s some soft-serve mafia. (Picture the Godfather theme song, but played on tinny truck chimes.)

Back in Scotland, the history takes a darker turn with the infamous Glasgow Ice Cream Wars of the 1980s. Rival trucks fought over turf, intimidation escalated, and one night ended in tragedy when six people were killed in a firebombing. All this… over who got to sell cones, crisps, and cigarettes on certain housing estates (the British version of U.S. housing projects or large apartment complexes, which were government-built to provide affordable homes for working-class families, often on the outskirts of cities). Suddenly, what started with cones ended with coffins.

And let’s not forget London’s contribution: the Victorian “penny lick,” where you licked your ice cream out of a reusable glass before it was dunked in mystery rinse water and handed to the next guy. Health inspectors later found “hair, coal dust, fleas, and other bugs.” (Turns out the real surprise flavor was cholera.)

The UK also instituted ice cream truck music regulations like it was nuclear weaponry. For years, vans could only play their jaunty tunes in four-second bursts, once every three minutes, and never near schools, churches, or hospitals. (Because nothing says “bad timing” like Greensleeves blaring outside a funeral.) The rules were relaxed in 2013, allowing trucks to enjoy a luxurious twelve seconds of jingle time. However, locals have complained for decades that the cheerful tunes are more reminiscent of “death chimes” than delight.

Despite all the wars, germs, and bans on jingly Greensleeves trucks, ice cream vans still roll on. Now some are TikTok-famous, cranking out “cold trays” with nine sauces and a diabetic’s nightmare of toppings. Others are vintage beauties decked out for weddings. But the magic is still the same: a jingle plays in the distance and a gaggle of kids sprint down the block like meerkats. Someone (probably me) always ends up elbowing their way to the front of the line. Funny thing is, the folks inside the truck are just as ice cream-obsessed as the mob outside of it.

 The pros never seem to tire of it despite swirling soft serve all day. Every ice cream man and woman, the article mentioned, still eats the stuff, religiously. Some confessed to consuming at least one cone a week, while one veteran admitted to downing three or four a day, plain and simple. Imagine scooping vanilla for decades and still wanting more. That’s not just a job, it’s devotion.

The article made me realize that ice cream trucks aren’t just about the cones (Truthfully, the only thing I ever wondered about ice cream trucks was what would happen if they broke down. Free ice cream for all, right?). They are about nostalgia, joy, and also rebellion, and chaos, all swirled together.

 Whether it’s Scotland’s dynasties, England’s monkey’s blood, or London’s flea-flavored penny licks, the ice cream truck isn’t going anywhere. For me, those tinny chimes will never hit my ears the same way again. Let’s be real: the fleas, turf wars, and hygiene nightmares won’t stop me. If those tinny chimes play, I’m out the door sprinting down the block like Flo Jo,  waving my five-dollar bill and elbowing my way to the front of the line.