The impressive logistics of a very respectful queue

IF reputations are to be believed then us Brits love queuing. Apparently it’s something to do with a combination of us wanting to do our duty, and because we are happy to politely wait our turn. Pragmatic and phlegmatic that’s us.

I have to admit I am the exception to the norm. I hate queueing. I get bored, can get claustrophobic, and am prone to get slightly bad tempered. As such I avoid queues like the plague, will walk straight in and out of supermarkets if the queues are visible, and have hardly ever been to a fashionable nightclub or bar. My loathing of waiting in line may mean I have drunk and danced in some pretty dodgy nightspots, and it also means that even though I love the event I have always avoided Wimbledon, as well as theme parks, and I regularly put off dealing with anything that involves waiting in a telephone queue.

There are exceptions. I don’t mind queuing in the car. I love the little personal bubble of your own car, and sitting in there with the radio on is ok.

I used to particularly enjoy queuing to get into Glastonbury Festival. When I was a regular it was way before the days of fancy traffic management and arriving on Wednesdays. Everyone used to pile in on Thursday night and the queues were horrendous. Everyone would wind down their windows, open the doors, play music loud and start making friends as the cars and vans inched forward. The queue itself became the start of the long weekend party.

Queueing to get into a Test Match is also acceptable though I’m careful never to take a bag (the searching takes forever) - and we once found a breakfast bar in Stockholm we were happy to queue for because the food was so good. The worst - and slowest - queue I have ever been is at US customs at JFK airport in New York. The ‘line’ to get to customs is impossibly long. Hundreds, probably thousands, of people from all over the world are crowded into lines that snake around the vast immigration hall. It’s painfully slow, and even when you can see the frankly quite intimidating border control staff you remain a long way away. But there’s something about the anticipation of entering America, and being just a bus ride away from the Big Apple, that makes the immigration queue just about ok.

I joined a queue this week, not the longest queue I have ever been in at Home Park, but certainly the most organised, the most quiet and the most respectful. I was at the home of Plymouth Argyle for my first Covid jab.

From the moment I parked the car, the cheer and the organisation of the security, the volunteers (including a tabarded Mrs Martin) and then the medical staff was exemplary. The socially distanced queue moved quickly, though the knowledge that all those there were in the same age bracket as me made me realise quite how old I am getting. The technology that matched my booking number with my NHS profile was swift, and the jab itself expertly and efficiently administered. I was in and out in less than 20 minutes.

On that same day more than 2,200 others had a very similar experience. Many people have told me they found their jabbing experience emotional, but I found it impressive. Brilliant science, combined with pinpoint logistical organisation, and a common desire to beat the plague. We Brits may or may not like standing in queues, but when we put our mind to it we sure know how to get things done.