Watching the English

QUEUING RULES

'And the Lord said unto Moses, "Come forth!" And he came third, and got sent to the back for pushing.'

In 1946, the Hungarian humorist George Mikes described queuing as our 'national passion'. 'On the Continent,' he said, 'if people are waiting at a bus-stop they loiter around in a seemingly vague fashion. When the bus arrives they make a dash for it... An Englishman, even if he is alone, forms an orderly queue of one.' In an update over thirty years later, in 1977, he confirmed that this was still the case. After nearly another thirty years, nothing much seems to have changed - but English queuing is not quite as simple as Mikes makes it sound.

I saw a headline recently in a Sunday broadsheet, bemoaning the fact that the English had 'lost the art of queuing'. Puzzled, as this was not what my own observation fieldwork had shown, I read on. It turned out that the author had been in a queue, someone had tried to jump the queue, and both she and the other queuers had been outraged and disgusted - but no-one had had the courage to tackle the queue-jumper in a sufficiently forceful manner (they just humphed and tutted), so he had got away with it. Far from constituting any sort of evidence for its loss, this struck me as a perfectly accurate description of the English art of queuing.

The Indirectness Rule

The English expect each other to observe the rules of queuing, feel highly offended when these rules are violated, but lack the confidence or social skills to express their annoyance in a straightforward manner. In other countries, this is not a problem: in America, where a queue-jumper has committed a misdemeanour rather than a cardinal sin, the response is loud and prescriptive: the offender is simply told 'Hey, you, get back in line!' or words to that effect. On the Continent, the reaction tends to be loud and argumentative; in some other parts of the world, queue-jumpers may simply be unceremoniously pushed and shoved back into line - but the end result is much the same. Paradoxically, it is only in England, where queue-jumping is regarded as deeply immoral, that the queue-jumper is likely to get away with the offence. We huff and puff and scowl and mutter and seethe with righteous indignation, but only rarely do we actually speak up and tell the jumper to go to the back of the queue.

Try it yourself if you don't believe me. I had to, so I don't see why you shouldn't suffer as well. Sorry to sound so grumpy, but my queue-jumping experiments were the most difficult and distasteful and upsetting of all the rule-breaking field-experiments I conducted during the research for this book. Far worse than bumping, much worse even than asking people the price of their house or what they did for a living - just the thought of queue-jumping was so horribly embarrassing that I very nearly abandoned the whole project rather than subject myself to such an ordeal. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I hesitated and agonized and procrastinated, and then even when I thought I had managed to steel myself, I would lose my nerve at the last minute, and slink humbly to the back of the queue, hoping no-one had noticed that I had even been considering jumping it.

The Paranoid Pantomime Rule

That last bit might sound silly, or even clinically paranoid, but I actually learnt something from all my wimpish hovering in the vicinity of likely queues, which is that the English do notice when someone is considering jumping a queue. They start glancing at you sideways, through narrowed, suspicious eyes. Then they shuffle a bit closer to the person in front of them, just in case you might try to insert yourself in the gap. They adopt a more belligerent, territorial posture - putting a hand on a hip, 'squaring up' to the potential threat, or ostentatiously turning a shoulder away from you. The body language is quite subtle - perhaps not even visible to a foreigner unaccustomed to our ways - but to an English would-be queue-jumper the non-verbal message is clear: it says 'We know what you're thinking, you cheating little fiend, but don't imagine you're going to get away with it because we're onto you'.

It is important to note that this kind of paranoid pantomime only occurs when there is some ambiguity in the structure of the queue. No-one would even think of simply barging to the front of a single, straightforward, obvious queue. (This is so unthinkable that if it does happen, people will assume that it is a genuine dire emergency, or perhaps an ignorant foreigner.) The potential for queue-jumping only arises when there is some doubt about exactly where the queue starts and ends - when there is a break or gap in a queue due to some obstruction or to allow people to pass through, for example, or when two people are serving behind the same counter and it is not entirely clear whether there is one queue or two separate queues, or some other element of confusion or uncertainty.

The English have an acute sense of fairness, and what in other cultures would be seen as entirely legitimate opportunistic behaviour - such as heading directly for the 'free' cashier when there are two people already waiting to be served in front of the cashier alongside, who have simply not been quick enough to move across - is here regarded as queue-jumping, or tantamount to queue-jumping. I am not saying that English people do not perform this manoeuvre: they do, but it is obvious from their self-consciously disingenuous manner, particularly the way they carefully avoid looking at the queuers, that they know they are cheating, and the reactions of the queuers indicate that such behaviour is severely frowned upon. You can tell by the severe frowns.

Body-language and Muttering Rules

But frowns, glares, raised eyebrows and contemptuous looks - accompanied by heavy sighs, pointed coughs, scornful snorts, tutting and muttering ('Well, really!' 'Bloody hell!' 'Huh, typical.' 'What the...') - are usually the worst that you will be subjected to if you jump a queue. The queuers are hoping to shame you into retreating to the back of the queue, without actually having to break the denial rule and 'cause a scene' or 'make a fuss' or 'draw attention to themselves' by addressing you directly.

Ironically, they will often in these circumstances break the denial rule by addressing each other. A queue jumper can prompt complete strangers to exchange raised eyebrows, eye-rolls, pursed-lipped head-shakes, tutts, sighs and even (quiet) verbal comments. These verbal exchanges between queuers include the standard mutters mentioned above, and some that clearly ought to be addressed to the jumper, such as 'Hello, there's a queue here!', 'Oh, don't mind us!' and 'Oi, are we invisible or what?' Occasionally, some brave souls will make these remarks in tones loud enough for the jumper to overhear, but they will avoid looking at the jumper, and glance away immediately if they should happen inadvertently to make eye contact.

Feeble and utterly irrational as they may sound, these indirect measures can often be remarkably effective. Yes, it is probably easier to get away with queue-jumping in England than anywhere else, but only if you can bear the humiliation of all those eyebrows, coughs, tutts and mutters - in other words, only if you are not English. In my endless queue-watching, I noticed that many foreigners are simply oblivious to all of these signals, much to the mute fury of English queuers, but that most English queue-jumpers find it hard to ignore the barrage of sighs and scowls. Having jumped the queue, they may brazen it out, but one gets the impression that they will think twice about doing it again. In many cases, queue-jumping is effectively 'nipped in the bud' by nonverbal signals alone. I have often seen would-be jumpers start to approach, and then, faced with a scornful eyebrow or two, a warning cough and a bit of territorial posturing, rapidly think better of it and retreat meekly to the back of the queue.

Sometimes, a muttered remark, loud enough to overhear but not actually addressed to the queue-jumper, can also have the desired effect, even at a much later stage in the attempted queue-jump. In these cases, I found the behaviour and reactions of both parties fascinating to watch. The queuer mutters (to his or her neighbour, or to no-one in particular) 'Oh, don't mind me!' - or some other sarcastic jibe. The jumper, feigning wide-eyed innocence, says something like 'Oh, sorry! Were you in front of me?' and immediately moves aside to give his or her place to the mutterer. Now the tables are turned, and it is the mutterer who is blushing, squirming and avoiding eye contact - the degree of discomfort usually being in proportion to the unpleasantness of the original muttered jibe, which has now been re-cast as an unwarranted or at least excessively rude response to an honest mistake. The mutterer will usually resume his or her rightful place in the queue, but with bowed head and mumbled thanks or apology - clearly deriving no pleasure or sense of triumph from the victory. In some cases, I have even seen such humbled mutterers backtrack completely, saying, 'Oh, er, no, that's all right, you go ahead.'

The Unseen Choreographer Rule

All of this embarrassment and hostility would be avoided, of course, if the English could just manage to be straightforwardly assertive, and simply say to queue-jumpers, 'Excuse me, but there is a queue here.' But no. Our typical responses are closer to what psychotherapists would call 'passive-aggressive'. The same psychotherapists, reading this, would probably recommend that the entire nation be sent on one of those assertiveness-training courses. And they might well be right: assertiveness is clearly not our strong point. We can do aggression, including both outright violence and devious, ineffectual passive-aggression - and we can do the opposite, over-polite self-effacement and stoical, passive resignation. But we veer between these two extremes: we can never seem to achieve that happy medium of grown-up, socially skilled, rational assertion. But then, the world would really be awfully dull if everyone behaved in the correct, sensible, assertive manner, as taught on communication-skills courses - and much less amusing for me to watch.

And anyway, there is a positive side to the English approach to queuing. Where there is an ambiguity, such as the 'two cashiers at one counter' problem described above, we often simply resolve it of our own accord, silently and without fuss - in this case by forming a single orderly queue, a few feet back from the counter, so that the customer at the front can step forward whenever either one of the cashiers becomes free.

If you are English, you may be reading this and thinking, Yes? Well? So what? Of course. Obvious thing to do. We tend to take this kind of thing for granted - in fact, we do it automatically, as though some unseen fair-minded choreographer were controlling our movements, arranging us into a tidy, democratic line. But many of the foreign visitors I interviewed regard these processes with open-mouthed amazement. Bill Bryson comments glowingly on exactly the same typical queuing scenario in his book about England; I met some American tourists who had read his book and didn't believe him, or at least assumed that he was exaggerating for comic effect, until they came here and saw the procedure for themselves. They were even less inclined to believe my account of the 'invisible queue' mechanism in pubs - in the end I had to drag them to the nearest pub to prove that I was not making it up.

The Fair-play Rule

And there are smaller, more subtle, everyday queuing courtesies that even sharp-eyed foreigners may not notice. One of my many scribbled fieldwork notes on this subject concerns a queue in a train-station coffee shop.

Man in queue ahead of me moves out of queue briefly to take a sandwich from nearby cooler cabinet. Then seems a bit hesitant, unsure as to whether he has thereby forfeited his place in the queue. I make it clear (by taking a step back) that he has not, so he resumes his position in front of me, with a little nod of thanks. No speech or eye contact involved.

Another train-station note reads:

Two males ahead of me at information-desk counter, not entirely clear which of them is first (there were two people serving, now only one). They're doing the pantomime, sideways glances, edging forward, hints of territorial posture, etc. Clever cashier notices this and says 'Who's next?' They both look embarrassed. Man on left makes open-palm, go-ahead gesture to the other man. Man on right mumbles 'No, s'allright, you go.' Man on left hesitates 'Well, um...' Person behind me gives oh-do-get-on-with-it cough. Man on left says hurriedly 'Oh, allright - 'anks, mate' and proceeds with his enquiry, looking a bit uncomfortable. Man on right waits patiently, looking rather smug and pleased with himself.

These incidents were by no means isolated or unusual: I have transcribed these accounts from the dozens in my queuing-observation notes precisely because they are the most typical, mundane, everyday examples. Now, I see that the common denominator, the unwritten rule governing these incidents, is immediately obvious: if you 'play fair' and explicitly acknowledge the rights and prior claims of those in front of you in a queue - or generously give them the benefit of the doubt where there is some ambiguity - they will instantly drop all their paranoid suspicions and passive-aggressive tactics, and treat you fairly, or even generously, in return.

Queuing is all about fairness. As Mikes points out, 'A man in a queue is a fair man; he is minding his own business; he lives and lets live; he gives the other fellow a chance; he practises a duty while waiting to practise his own rights; he does almost everything an Englishman believes in doing'.

The Drama of Queuing

Foreigners may find the complexities of our unwritten queuing rules somewhat baffling, but to the English they are second nature. We obey all of these laws instinctively, without even thinking about it. And despite all the apparent contradictions, irrationalities and downright absurdities I have just described, the result is, as the rest of the world recognizes, that we are really very good at queuing. Admittedly, most of the rest of the world does not say this as a compliment - when people talk about the English talent for queuing, they generally do so with a slight sneer, implying that only rather dull, plodding, sheep-like creatures would actually take pride in their ability to stand patiently in orderly lines. ('The English would have done well under Communist rule,' they laugh, 'you are so good at queuing.') Our critics - or those damning us with faint praise - will readily acknowledge that a man in a queue is a fair man, but point out that he is not exactly what you'd call dashing or exciting.

But that is because they have not looked closely enough at English queues. It's a bit like watching ants or bees. To the naked eye, an English queue does indeed look rather dull and uninteresting - just a tidy line of people, patiently waiting their turn. But when you examine English queues under a social-science microscope, you find that each one is a little mini-drama - not just an entertaining 'comedy of manners', but a real human-interest story, full of intrigue and scheming, intense moral dilemmas, honour and altruism, shifting alliances, shame and face-saving, anger and reconciliation. I now look at the ticket-counter queues at Clapham Junction and see, well, perhaps not quite War and Peace, but... something a bit more understated and English, let's say Pride and Prejudice.

A Very English Tribute

One of the things that amused me about media coverage of the death of Princess Diana was the reporters' constant breathless amazement at the 'un-Englishness' of the public response. This was invariably described as 'an unprecedented public outpouring of grief' or 'an unprecedented public display of emotion', amid extravagant claims that this extraordinary disinhibition marked a 'sea-change' in the English character, that the stiff upper lip was trembling, that we were all now wearing our hearts on our sleeves, that we would never be the same again, and so on and so forth.

And what, exactly, did this 'unprecedented display of emotion' consist of? Look at the pictures and videos of the crowds. What are all those people doing? Queuing, that's what. Queuing to buy flowers, queuing to lay flowers, queuing for miles to sign books of condolence, queuing for hours to catch trains and buses home after a long day of queuing. Then, a week or so later, queuing to catch buses and trains to get to the funeral; queuing overnight to secure a good position to watch the procession; queuing to buy more flowers, drinks, flags, newspapers; standing patiently in lines for hours waiting for the cortege to file past; then queuing again for buses, coaches, tubes and trains. Quiet, orderly, disciplined, dignified queuing.

Certainly, there were tears, but we did not scream or wail or rend our clothing or cover ourselves in ashes. Watch the videos. You will hear one or two rather feeble 'wails' as the coffin first emerges from the Palace gates, but these are clearly deemed inappropriate, quickly shushed, and not taken up by the rest of the crowd, who watch the procession in silence. The first people to turn up on the day after Diana died laid flowers; this was taken as the correct thing to do, so all subsequent visitors dutifully laid flowers. After the funeral, a few people started throwing flowers as the hearse drove past, and again the rest obediently followed their example. (No-one threw flowers at the horse-drawn coffin earlier, of course: however overcome by unprecedented, un-English emotion, we know better than to frighten the horses.)

So, there were tears and flowers - neither of which strikes me as a particularly abnormal response to a bereavement or funeral. Apart from that, the English paid tribute to Diana in the most English possible manner, by doing what we do best: queuing.