Jayne Dowle: Form an orderly queue to observe very British habit

YOU haven't queued until you have stood in line at US Immigration.
Cartoon: Graeme BandeiraCartoon: Graeme Bandeira
Cartoon: Graeme Bandeira

This is the queue to beat all queues, two or three hours of your life when you’re tired, bored, your feet hurt and you could be shot at any moment.

If you think waiting for the check-out at Morrisons is tedious, you should experience this.

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In the supermarket, the most dangerous thing you are likely to encounter is being trampled in the rush when another cashier returns from her break and opens up the next till along.

One false move in JFK and you could be back on the plane to Blighty via that little room to the side guarded by the older and uglier brothers of Bruce Willis.

New research by the Trainline company finds that idling away hours waiting to pay for our groceries is one of the queue situations most likely to make us annoyed.

It’s up there at the top with waiting to gain access to a public toilet and attempting to get served at the bar. I would rather draw a discreet veil over the whole loo thing.

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It reminds me of having two children under four, motorway service stations and the eternal supply of spare toddler pants that I was obliged to cart everywhere with me in my handbag.

The queuing at the bar one requires an entire survey of its own. It’s not so much the queue, it is the etiquette of the queue. It’s knowing the subtle difference between showing your money ready to pay and showing off your wad.

It’s finding and securing the best place to stand in order to optimise all available serving possibilities, learning to think like a sniper. It’s understanding how to catch the eye of the bar staff without coming across as though you’re spoiling for a fight. It’s a minefield, in other words, and requires years of specialist training to perfect.

However, it used to be said that Britain would be guaranteed a gold medal if queuing was an Olympic sport.

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There is something about standing there patiently and stoically which sums up the old-fashioned British character to a tee. Emphasis on the old-fashioned there. It was an art we perfected during the long years of rationing in the Second World War.

My grandmother would regale me with tales of standing outside the butcher’s shop waiting for him to dole out the meagre parcels of mince. She was a fierce queue-wrangler. Some of my earliest memories involve being small enough to fit under her sharp elbows as she waged war like the Boudicca of Barnsley market with her purse aloft and her shopping bag as a shield. She took no prisoners, but she always played by the rules.

These days with our “me-first” attitude, queuing nicely has become something of a rarity.

That’s why I’m surprised that the Trainline survey found while 30 per cent of people in Leeds would skip a queue, more than half turn a blind eye to queue-jumpers. In my experience if you live by the sword, you die by the sword.

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If this involves telling people off for pushing in, then so be it. I’ve done it loads of times. I don’t see why I should waste my precious time standing there waiting for whatever only for some sneak to wheedle their way in front of me. I take it as a personal insult.

Note: this is a risky approach in countries where queuing is an alien concept. In this category, Italy has got to come with a special health warning. There is nothing more chaotic than seven coachloads of over-excited Italians waiting to get into a waterpark on holiday. You might as well sit on the grass and let them get on with it, all the time reminding yourself that this would never happen in England.

Just imagine. You’re standing there at Leeds train station because you were too disorganised to book your ticket beforehand on your mobile phone and anyway you’ve forgotten the password that gets you into your apps. You have allowed yourself 10 minutes to get your ticket. You haven’t, however, allowed for the student who hasn’t got quite enough 10ps to make up the fare to Pontefract, the nasty youth who loses his temper and starts thumping the machine and the snooty-looking businessman who manages to forget his PIN number at a crucial moment of transaction.

The clock is moving faster than anyone in the queue. Your heart is gaining traction too. You inch closer. Closer. There is one person in front of you now. You’ve got four minutes to get your ticket and get to the train. Your hand is on your wallet, ready to go. And then… the machine breaks down.

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It’s worse than that moment at 5pm when half of the aisles in the supermarket are inexplicably closed by the manager just as everyone piles out of work looking for something to eat. It’s worse, even, than memories of the US Immigration line which, like childbirth, become easier to bear after a while. It’s worse than seven coach-loads of Italians in swimming trunks.

If queuing ever did become an Olympic sport, don’t expect that it would be straight-forward to obtain a ticket. Get in the queue – now and without delay.