Trotters Independent Traders, Possibly

If aspiration had a mascot, it might be a battered yellow three‑wheeler with “Trotters Independent Traders (New York • Paris • Peckham)” scrawled on the side. Del Boy’s Reliant Regal Supervan III from Only Fools and Horses is an anti‑status symbol turned national treasure. It’s small, wobbly, perennially overloaded, and yet somehow bursting with hope and dodgy briefcases.

Technically, the Reliant is a lightweight tricycle with a glass‑fiber body and a modest four‑pot up front. Its advantages are brutalist: low tax bracket (three wheels counted differently), comedic fuel economy, and the ability to squeeze down alleyways built for Dickensian plot twists. Its disadvantages arrive mostly when physics insists on four contact patches during brisk cornering.

On screen, it’s an extension of Del Boy’s genius for optimism. The van promises mobility on the edge of solvency: just enough space to stash knock‑off perfume, slightly damp sheepskin coats, and the grinning patter to move them. It’s the portable stall of a market trader who will be a millionaire next year, next year, definitely next year. Like all great prop vehicles, it tells you everything you need to know about its owner without a line of dialogue.

The gag, of course, is layered with affection. Britain knows this van. Every town has its entrepreneurial chancers; every family has its Del—a storyteller with a deal on everything and a plan to retire at 40. The Regal is the straight man in a thousand setups, bravely shouldering crates and punchlines. When it splutters, the audience doesn’t laugh at poverty; it laughs with persistence. “This time next year, we’ll be millionaires,” even if the MOT suggests otherwise.

What the Supervan also reveals is how democratic vans are. You don’t need a V12 to have an adventure or a business. You need space, willpower, and a sense of humor about draughts. On city streets where parking is a blood sport, a tiny van is freedom, not compromise. It’s also a masterclass in packaging: three seats if you don’t breathe too hard, a surprising cargo bay, and visibility so vast you can read disappointment on the face of a returning customer from fifty yards.

Culturally, the Trotter van has escaped its fictional moorings. It turns up at charity events, weddings, and on the odd driveway as a statement piece that announces, “I take cheerfulness seriously.” It’s proof that status doesn’t live in cylinders; it lives in stories. And this story—of hustle, hope, and a paint job best described as taxicab‑on‑holiday—might be the most British automotive fairy tale ever told.