The wonderful study of England and the English written by George Mikes (alias Mikes György) includes a short chapter on the British fascination – one might even say obsession - with the art of queuing. Mikes chose to describe it as ‘the national passion of an otherwise dispassionate race.’
A cartoon I once saw in a newspaper depicts a middle-aged couple queuing at the supermarket check-out, only to be bypassed by a greasy-looking (and obviously not English!) man, intent on being served first. The woman looks at her angry husband, and by way of quelling what threatens to be a most un-English outburst, she calms him with the words: He can’t help it, dear – he’s a foreigner.
Thirty years ago, Hungarians regarded the subject with the same degree of disdain as Mikes. Queue jumping was endemic: there was no shame inherent in ‘overtaking’ people who had been waiting for an hour before you had even arrived, nor honour in waiting your turn patiently. Queuing was for those lacking the wherewithal to bypass the annoying process; ‘losers’ who devoid of the technique of getting to the front first, would have to suffer for their disability by having to wait their turn.
In my early days of pre-1989 Hungary, I soon learnt every trick in the book of The Art of How to Avoid Queuing. First, there were countless variations on the ‘due to circumstances beyond my control’ theme. These included the brazen – ‘I’m in a hurry,’ – often finished off with ‘because I live in the country and my train’s leaving,’ or ‘because I came yesterday and I wasn’t seen,’ but best of all, and always a sure-fire winner, ‘I have to get home to breastfeed the baby.’ Mention of children (preferably sick ones) always guaranteed you immediate access to whomever and whatever you wanted, (assuming you were female).
Another favourite was to hang about nonchalantly somewhere near the door in question, only to shoot through it, akin to an olympic athlete, when the door handle moved just an inch from the inside. Equally popular was to place yourself at the side of a long line of people, and gradually worm your way in. Other Hungarians rarely, if ever, complained – after all, they frequently used the strategy themselves. (This can still be observed today on every Easyjet and Wizzair flight departing Ferihegy One.)
Five years into an EU Hungary, a certain veneer of order has been imposed by banks and the like, in the form of a numbered ticket system. This cannot be circumvented, but is shamelessly abused by T-mobile and the like, where if you want to purchase a phone, you take priority over everyone who has been queuing an hour or more to query a bill.
And in shops, despite a passing nod at the ‘European’ (and therefore civilised and certainly not Balkan!) acceptance of queuing, as soon as a cashier closes her till, and the snake of customers has to move elsewhere, it again comes down to a Darwinian survival of the fittest: no semblance of self-control remains as everyone rushes from the back of the line they were in, to the front of the new one!
It has been said that if the British re-introduced capital punishment it would be for one category of miscreants only: queue-jumpers!
A cartoon I once saw in a newspaper depicts a middle-aged couple queuing at the supermarket check-out, only to be bypassed by a greasy-looking (and obviously not English!) man, intent on being served first. The woman looks at her angry husband, and by way of quelling what threatens to be a most un-English outburst, she calms him with the words: He can’t help it, dear – he’s a foreigner.
Thirty years ago, Hungarians regarded the subject with the same degree of disdain as Mikes. Queue jumping was endemic: there was no shame inherent in ‘overtaking’ people who had been waiting for an hour before you had even arrived, nor honour in waiting your turn patiently. Queuing was for those lacking the wherewithal to bypass the annoying process; ‘losers’ who devoid of the technique of getting to the front first, would have to suffer for their disability by having to wait their turn.
In my early days of pre-1989 Hungary, I soon learnt every trick in the book of The Art of How to Avoid Queuing. First, there were countless variations on the ‘due to circumstances beyond my control’ theme. These included the brazen – ‘I’m in a hurry,’ – often finished off with ‘because I live in the country and my train’s leaving,’ or ‘because I came yesterday and I wasn’t seen,’ but best of all, and always a sure-fire winner, ‘I have to get home to breastfeed the baby.’ Mention of children (preferably sick ones) always guaranteed you immediate access to whomever and whatever you wanted, (assuming you were female).
Another favourite was to hang about nonchalantly somewhere near the door in question, only to shoot through it, akin to an olympic athlete, when the door handle moved just an inch from the inside. Equally popular was to place yourself at the side of a long line of people, and gradually worm your way in. Other Hungarians rarely, if ever, complained – after all, they frequently used the strategy themselves. (This can still be observed today on every Easyjet and Wizzair flight departing Ferihegy One.)
Five years into an EU Hungary, a certain veneer of order has been imposed by banks and the like, in the form of a numbered ticket system. This cannot be circumvented, but is shamelessly abused by T-mobile and the like, where if you want to purchase a phone, you take priority over everyone who has been queuing an hour or more to query a bill.
And in shops, despite a passing nod at the ‘European’ (and therefore civilised and certainly not Balkan!) acceptance of queuing, as soon as a cashier closes her till, and the snake of customers has to move elsewhere, it again comes down to a Darwinian survival of the fittest: no semblance of self-control remains as everyone rushes from the back of the line they were in, to the front of the new one!
It has been said that if the British re-introduced capital punishment it would be for one category of miscreants only: queue-jumpers!
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