Monkeys’ business

As if stirred by the sound of a twopenny cornet, if not quite the candyman’s trumpet, memories march from throughout the region.

There have been recollections of di Palmas and Dimambros, of Minchellas and Martinos, of Pacittos, Quadrinis and, hail, Fellas well met.

What, too, of celebrated singer Chris Rea, son of a Middlesbrough ice cream trader? Far and near, there appear to have been an awful lot of Reas.

Before proceeding, however, it is necessary to issue a warning.

Today’s column has monkeys’ blood on its hands.

SO where to start? Alan Vickers, in Sunderland, an ice cream historian who clearly it would be hard to lick, sends a long list of Italian emigres – barrow boys who made good.

The Dimambros appear to have been thickly spread across the northern half of County Durham, horse before the cart before signs of the chimes.

The de Lucas were in Darlington, the Minchellas around South Shields, de Grecos in Middlesbrough, Quadrinis in Witton Park, Valentes in Stockton and Atiglio Giacinto – never heard of him – in Shildon.

Jon Glen, now head of Terrington Hall school near Malton, recalls childhood Sunday afternoons back in Pittington, near Durham, where Sherburn Hill Salvation Army would play around the village with the bells of Mrs di Palma’s ice cream van somewhere in close disunison.

“Do you wanna de monkeys’ blood?” the lady would ask. Jon was never quite sure.

“Had I known it was raspberry sauce I might have said yes, but the thought of monkeys’ blood on the beloved ice cream was always offputting, so I declined.”

There’s a supplementary email. “I bet Mr Whippy never did monkey’s blood,” it says.

THERE are two further problems with monkeys’ blood – the term seems to be peculiarly North-Eastern but, then again, aren’t we all – the first being where to place the apostrophe.

The Eating Owt column has a similar difficulty with goats’ cheese. It probably depends how many goats, or monkeys, were involved in the operation.

The other is etymological.

knickerbocker glory is said to owe its iridescent identity to knickerbockers – the explanation, like the trousers, seems loose fitting – but whither monkeys’ blood and why is an ice cream with a flake called a 99?

The most recent dictionary on these shelves includes 9/11 (“the events of September 11, 2001”), 999, 911 – the American equivalent of 999 – and 99, though without any hint at its origin.

Ice cool as always, Gadfly readers are invited to help – though, just once, it’s 99 per cent that they can’t.

ETHEL Hand, in Bishop Auckland, not only recalls the days when Eddie Rossi and his brother sold ice cream from a barrow – she’s 91 this week, and must be wished the happiest of birthdays – but many others of that peripatetic persuasion.

The Bishop Auckland area alone had many offering the Rea thing, Gabriele’s and di Palma’s were well established, Quadrini’s sold from a motorcycle and sidecar.

Ethel also recalls that Eddie Rossi would get the kids to mind his cart while he joined in their game of cricket. The Gabriele’s guy would play football with us in the back alley behind Albert Street in Shildon, thus assuming a status akin to the angel Gabriele.

We innocently assumed him to be Gabby himself, but probably he was Charlie from Chilton. The games were ever-friendly, but still there was monkeys’ blood everywhere.

WE’D also recalled the late Peter Jaconelli, extrovert ice cream king of Scarborough, former borough mayor and improbable pin-up boy – there may be other descriptions – on the 1980 holiday brochure.

Alan Vickers’s list includes a Diamond Jaconelli in Houghton-le- Spring. Like a sixpenny sandwich, they may have been quite thickly spread.

John Maughan, in Wolsingham, not only remembers Eddie Rossi – “a true gentleman” – but his brother, known as Horace. Told that John was taking his family on holiday to Scarborough, Horace advised him to go to Jaconelli’s ice cream parlour and mention his name.

“Sure enough, they confirmed that Horace was a relative and we had free ice creams all round. Happy days.”

MORE Italian connections, Marie Marsh recalls her Second World War childhood in Bury where soldiers were billeted in a nearby mill and the Catholics would march to Mass every Sunday.

Marie’s father would invite them back for musical evenings, among them Toni Rossi – “a brilliant pianist”

– from Consett.

Marie only came across the surname again after moving to Richmond, wonders what happened to Toni and his ambition to become a concert pianist and if he were any relation to Eddie. Doubtless we shall learn more.

NOT everyone appreciated that picture of Peter Jaconelli wearing a handkerchief on the front of the holiday brochure promoting Whitby and Scarborough – the two towns never lay easily in the same local government bed. Harry Mead recalls being in Whitby on the January day that the brochure was published.

“Look what we’ve got to promote the charms of Whitby,” a furious resident told him. “Jaconelli’s belly”.

IN Easington Colliery, the village where on Sunday they mark the 60th anniversary of the great pit disaster, John Todd recalls a coffee bar called Bimbi’s – “quite close to the Hippodrome” – and another, further down Seaside Lane, known as Equi’s.

John and his troops would stroll between the two on Saturday evenings, nip in if affluent to put a tanner in the juke box. Bobby Vee – “another Italian” – was favourite back then.

In Easington Village was a chip shop called Regalfry, run by another Italian – “a very jovial chap” – who’d display on a cork board the calling cards of all the pop groups who’d divert from the A19 for a fish supper.

In Sunderland and down the Durham coast they still call such things “lots”. That’s another little etymological enigma.

“The only card I can remember is Long John Baldry’s,” says John, now in Barton, near Richmond. “I wonder if he had to buy enough lots for the Hoochie-Coochie men, cramped up in the back of the Transit, as well?”

WHICH leads us down the A19 to Chris Rea – 60 gone March – whose grandfather was one of 729 Italians drowned when the ship deporting them to America was torpedoed during the war and whose father, Camillo, ran an ice cream business in the Boro.

“It was very popular, deservedly so,” remembers Stan Coates, in Guisborough, though a Pacitto’s man himself.

Chris, who started out as a labourer and therapy chair salesman, doesn’t get back much. “The Middlesbrough I knew has changed a lot,” he once said. “The area I grew up in doesn’t exist any more. It was knocked down about 1977.” His tastes in ice cream are, sadly, not recorded.

…so finally to Café Bungalow, a familiar landmark overlooking the harbour where Sunderland meets Roker sea front.

Once, it’s said, there was a fourfinger signpost nearby – one indicating the village, a second the beach and a third the Bungalow. The fourth pointed towards the sea.

“Germany,” it said.

We looked in for an ice cream after a Saturday stroll round Seaburn – lovely people, great views, knickerbockers truly glorious.

They suggested we take a seat, quickly bought coffee and cornets.

The lady hovered, a squeezy container in her hand the size of a small fire extinguisher.

“Monkeys’ blood?” she asked. Mrs di Palma, where wert thou at that hour?