Save Me……from dull, boring, patient lines

Let’s be honest. When it comes to the economy and jobs, the Spanish aren’t very good. Turning up on time is something else they have difficulty with as well.

But there is one thing they are good at. In fact, one thing they excel at. And that is sports.

There’s football for a start. They are world champions and Barcelona are probably the best club team in the world at the moment. Then there’s basketball. Currently, Spain are the European champions and are second in the world rankings. Then tennis. There’s some bloke called Rafa Nadal who’s not bad with the racquet. After that, you’ve got cycling – Alberto Contador, Miguel Indurain, Carlos Sastre to name just a few who have won the Tour De France in recent years.

But there is one sport the Spanish have so completely, totally and utterly mastered, that, if planet Earth were Star Wars, they would be Yoda.

It is the sport of “queuing.”

Hang on just a minute, I hear you say. Some mistake surely! The plucky, fair-playing Brits are world champions at that discipline, I hear you shout as you shake your fist at the computer screen.

No Sir. They think they are. But they are not. Not even close. In fact, if there really were a world championships for queuing, the Brits wouldn’t even make the play-offs. You’d probably be knocked out by queuing minnows Montenegro or Fiji. Why? Because you’re too obsessed with making sure everyone sticks to the rules and doesn’t step out of line (literally). That is so yesterday!

You see, as has been their way with football, the Spanish have developed a flair for the sport of queuing, a mastery that leaves other nations open-mouthed at their brilliance. They have taken the rule book and turned it on its head. As if we weren’t already overloaded with metaphors, analogies and similes, if the art of queuing were a swimming pool, the Brits would be stubbornly – but fairly – ploughing up and down the middle lane with their dull, but efficient breast stroke. The Spanish meanwhile would have ripped up the lane dividers and would be doing a hugely complicated synchronised swimming routine that would probably include dolphins.

What the hell am I going on about, you ask? I’ll tell you. For it is sublime in its simplicity, yet flexible enough to still allow for some irritated looks and angry finger-waggery.

Let’s take the average bank, for example. In the UK, people come in, stand patiently in a line and wait their turn. Should anyone feel the need not to wait their turn, they will, of course, receive the obligatory tut-tut-ing and stares that, while polite and measured, suggest the possibility of extreme violence should said queue-jumper be inclined to continue such a risky strategy.

Meanwhile in the Spanish bank there’s no line, just a gaggle of people standing randomly somewhere near the counter. But wait, what’s this? It may look random, but in fact it’s not. This is because each new person who walks in the door simply says to the assembled throng: “Who’s last?”. One person puts up their hand, having asked exactly the same question themselves when they walked in just two minutes before. This way, everyone knows who’s before them. They don’t know who’s before the person who’s before them. But then why should they need to? Information overload! And so, each person is served in turn and everyone’s happy. This is freestyle queuing at its best. As Einstein said: “From chaos comes perfection.” (Well, I don’t know if he actually said it or not, Wikipedia doesn’t mention it and then I tried Googling it and that didn’t work either, but it sounds like something he would say).

But wait a minute. The Spanish have queue-jumpers too. They take two forms in Spain. The first is ALL old people. Old people in Spain don’t queue. This has got nothing to do with the Spanish being nice to old people. It’s just that they come from a time when nobody queued in Spain and as far as they’re concerned no jumped–up little youngster is going to make them start doing it now. The second type is the one who says “Sola una preguntita.” (“Only a little question”) as they ignore everyone else and stride confidently to the counter.

When both of these events happen, the people in the queue don’t actually do much. They give a few looks and occasionally wag their fingers, but there isn’t the underlying threat of horrific violence that marks the British discipline. It’s like they’re afraid to complain, but they’ll still call the queue-jumper a “wanker” under their breaths.

You see? Sublime. Perfect. “Douze Pointe” as they’d say in the Eurovision Song Contest.

That is until a Spanish person comes to the UK, tries the same thing, and gets ripped limb from limb. That’s its only flaw. It doesn’t travel well.