A Revealing Look Into What Matters In A Small Van Full Of Fish And Apples And Military Hats

If you were plotting charm in printed advertising materials over the 20th century, as I think one of you probably should, I think you’d end up with something like an archetypical bell curve, centered somewhere around the late 1950s to early 1960s. As an example, I’d like to cite this 1963 brochure for the Ford Anglia Delivery, built by Ford of Dagenham, which was British Ford’s biggest factory, right around London. It’s charming aigh eff, and also very revealing about what an early ’60s van driver cared about when it comes to small vans.

The Anglia was one of Ford’s most popular small cars in the UK, with the name started in 1939 as Ford UK’s smallest and most affordable car. It was a pretty conventional-looking car for the era, and pretty conventional mechanically, similar to the slightly larger Ford Prefect.

The most famous Anglia is likely the fourth-generation model, introduced in 1959 and having the distinctive reverse-raked rear window:

This one is likely best known today because a famous book/movie series about a sorta messianic kid who goes to magic boarding school incorporated a flying one into the plot.

But there were also commercial versions of the Anglia, and that’s the one I want to talk about this morning, because that’s what this brochure I’m all smitten by is about. These commercial versions were adaptations of the wagon version:

…but were different from the B-pillar back, having a much boxier cargo-holding body at the rear:

Look at what the copy of this brochure points out as important features: “visible front wings, big rear windows, ease of entry.” This tells me that cargo vans of the era were hard to see out of, hard to gauge the dimensions of, and as a result delivery drivers likely smacked into lots of other parked cars and parking meters or trees or letterboxes or whatever.

That makes sense! Also, the copy mentions that the van is well-suited for a “pizza house, florist, liquor store, radio & TV business, repair shop,” and that just makes me wonder if midcentury Britain really used the term “pizza house?” I guess in America we used to call them “pizza parlors” which is really pretty weird, too. We never talked about “taco parlors” or “taco houses.” No, as anyone with any education knows, the eatery descriptor “house” is reserved for waffles, and that’s it.

Okay, maybe pancakes.

Oh also, and as a combined word, steak.

But that’s it.

These commercial versions of already inexpensive cars were, predictably, quite austere inside, with no glove box door, headliner, or carpet. The rear load floor was plywood, which was touted as a feature, and a passenger seat and visor were optional extras. If you were curious, adding a passenger seat ate up 12 cubic feet of load space.

My favorite part of this brochure, though, is this sorta whimsical cutaway of a fully-laden Anglia van. Let’s look at what was crammed inside:

It’s an interesting choice how they decided to do this fun collage approach instead of actually showing the van filled with stuff, which might make one a little suspicious. Also, the choice to use what looks like a living room armchair in place of the driver’s seat is also eyebrow-elevating, I guess to convey how comfortable the seats are.

But look what’s in this thing: a big box of fish, another big box of apples, a literal trash can full of trash? Or at least an umbrella. There’s also what ay be a bag of…cement? A drum? And what seems to be the concept of chess, along with, let’s count, six different types of military headgear.

There’s also some wicker dressmakers’ dummies, which were sort of a staple of showing what sort of crap could fit in a van back in the day.

I wonder what sort of business would require this peculiar set of objects? Your local produce/music store/dump/military surplus/fishmonger? Where you could also play chess? Wasn’t there a chain of those places in the UK, called something like Nigel’s Nuttery or something?