Watching the English

by Kate Fox

  The Paranoid Pantomime Rule

  That last bit might sound silly, or at least pathetically feeble, 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 even just ‘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 on to you.’

  The Ambiguity Rule

  It is important to note that this kind of paranoid pantomime – and indeed queue-jumping itself – 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, we will often assume that it is a genuine dire emergency, or perhaps an ignorant foreigner making a mistake – in which case, one of the more intrepid among us might actually speak up and inform the jumper of his or her grave error. The speaker may then look around with an expression of defiant pride, as though expecting the other queuers to award him a medal for bravery. I have often heard such people say things like ‘Well, someone had to do it!’ to nods of grateful approval from the queue. Normally, however, 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 barely audible muttering (‘Ahem’; ‘Well, really!’; ‘Bloody hell!’; ‘Huh, typical’; ‘What the . . .’) – are usually the worst that you will be subjected to if you jump such 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, tuts, 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!’; ‘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, tuts 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 non-verbal signals alone: ‘body English’ is a rich and eloquent language. 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 gibe. 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 gibe, which has now been recast 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 one of the cashiers becomes free. We also often form these scrupulously fair single queues when buying tickets from a row of machines.

  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-mouthe
d 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 railway-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 railway-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’all right, 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, all right – ’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 George 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.’ And these unwritten principles apply even when the Englishman in question is breaking the law. During the London riots in August 2011, I witnessed looters forming an orderly queue to squeeze, one at a time, through the smashed window of a shop they were looting. They even did the ‘paranoid pantomime’, deterring potential queue-jumpers with disapproving frowns, pointed coughs and raised eyebrows. And it worked. Nobody jumped the queue. Even amid rioting and mayhem – and while committing a blatant crime – the unwritten laws of queuing can be ‘enforced’ by a raised eyebrow.

  The Silent Fury Rule

  Mikes, however, does tend to make it sound as though the English actively enjoy queuing. We don’t. We hate it, like everyone else. It makes us cross and resentful and irritable, perhaps even more so than other nations, because we take the rules and principles of queuing more seriously – and all that constant vigilance and deterring of potential queue-jumpers with eyebrows and coughs and the rest of the non-verbal ‘body English’ repertoire is jolly hard work. We may not actually complain out loud about being kept waiting in a queue – at least, we are unlikely to address our complaints to the cashier or whoever is keeping us waiting – but do not mistake our silence for contentment or even patience. Look closer, and you will see that we convey our intense displeasure and frustration with queuing through yet more non-verbal micro-signals: heavy sighs, exasperated eye-rolls, pursed lips, fidgeting, tutting, finger tapping and pointedly looking at our watches every few seconds. We curse under our breath to ourselves, and we may even break the denial rule to exchange raised eyebrows and grimaces with fellow sufferers, and perhaps even mutter ‘Typical!’ to each other.

  Festive Queuing Rules

  Although most of our queuing time is spent in a state of mute fury or righteous indignation, there are some special queues that could be described as ‘national pastimes’, queues that the English actively enjoy. Perhaps ironically, they are the longest, most uncomfortable, most exhausting queues of all. But queuing all day, and even overnight, for tickets at Wimbledon, the Proms, the Globe Theatre and other big events is somehow not really queuing: these special queues have been elevated to the status of festive rituals in their own right, and as such are periods of ‘cultural remission’ or ‘festive inversion’, where the normal social rules are temporarily suspended or even inverted. The ritual, liminal status of these queues is often emphasised with special names: queuing for cheap day-tickets at the Proms is called ‘Promming’, and the queuers are ‘Prommers’, while those queuing for cheap tickets to performances at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre are known as ‘Groundlings’. These queues may even look like festivals: we bring picnics, folding chairs, sleeping bags and little tents. At Wimbledon, the queue – or rather, The Queue, always capitalised, as befits an important national institution – becomes an overnight tent-village campsite.

  In these special queues (I’ll call them ‘festive queues’ for shorthand) we eat, drink and make merry. We play games. We sing songs. In a total inversion of normal English etiquette, talking to strangers is actively prescribed: you will be regarded as rather snooty and frowned upon if you ‘keep yourself to yourself’ in the usual English manner. There is an atmosphere of camaraderie, a sense of solidarity. Many of the same people come back year after year – returning ‘Prommers’ often greet each other with ‘Happy New Year!’, although the Proms take place in the summer. Lifelong friendships and even marriages have been initiated in these queues.

  There are special ‘festive queues’ for big concerts and sporting events in other countries too, of course – the phenomenon itself is not peculiarly English – but it is the contrast with our normal queues and the contact avoidance that characterises our normal public behaviour that is so striking here, and that may perhaps explain why we love and treasure these queues.

  It is worth reminding ourselves, however, that ‘cultural remission’ is not just fancy academic jargon for ‘letting rip’ or ‘anything goes’: English festive queues are a conventionalised deviation from convention, a rule-governed form of rule-breaking. They have their own etiquette, in which, although some of our normal rules are suspended or inverted, others may be even more strictly enforced. Queue-jumping is regarded with even more abhorrence than usual: attempting to barge or sneak in ahead of people who have been patiently queuing all day or overnight is an even more heinous breach of the fair-play principle. And the inversion of the normal prohibition on talking to strangers means that here people will, for once, feel free to address offenders directly, giving full verbal vent to all the pent-up righteous outrage we usually try to express with eyebrows and coughs.

  In these festive queues, the normal unwritten rules about ‘place saving’ are also still in force. In normal queues, leaving the queue for whatever reason means forfeiting your place in it, although a quick dash to grab a suddenly remembered item in a shop or supermarket may be permitted by the person behind you, if you ask nicely – and someone may take pity and ‘keep your place’ for you in a very long queue if you are desperate to use the loo, again if your request is suitably polite and apologetic. In festive queues, the same principle essentially applies, but during these marathon queuing rituals you are allowed to leave the queue for somewhat longer periods, after politely asking those around you if they ‘could possibly’ or ‘would mind very much’ keeping your place (and perhaps lea
ving a few objects such as your blankets or newspapers as markers) while you go off to buy a snack or an ice-cream, find a loo, etc. The length of absence permitted by the unwritten rules varies, but among Prommers, for example, half an hour is the unofficial maximum: longer than this, and, although you may not forfeit your place, you will be punished with frowns, pursed lips and other frosty expressions on your return. Sincere apologies and thanks will be required to restore goodwill.

  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 recognises, 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.