Brits are freaks - The art of queuing

That British people are polite is out of question. That their politeness might lead to a sort of stiffness of manners is also out of question now. Today, I read on the Sunday Telegraph that queuing properly will be part of the test that immigrants have to pass to be granted British citizenship.

Being able to queue is now officially a requirement to "Britishness", along with the 5 o'clock tea and the fish 'n chips meal. After the ridiculous queen's hats, the judge's greasy wigs and the pint-addicted pub-goers, the queuers are definitely the latest English strangeness to add to the many already inhabiting my stereotyped imagination.

Once, I was thinking how much time the Brits waste queuing. They queue at the bank, they queue at the tube station, the queue at the cinema, they queue at the canteen, they queue at the cash desk. They queue orderly and patiently everywhere. In Italy queuing is accompanied by snorts and frowns at best. At worst, it is dotted with bitter complaints, agitated gestures, miserable attempts at passing who's ahead in the line.

Recently, I went to the One Young World summit. At 1 o'clock we were ready for lunch. The caterers had already set the tables. The conference finished. We (the journalists covering the event) ran to the trays to get some food and go back to our stint. The delegates calmly reached the tables and queued for their lunch. I imagined the same scene in Italy: everyone rushing to get the best bite, possibly tripping somebody else up in the run.

There is no space for gentleness in my country, despite the worldwide acknowledged warmth of its people. But in the UK queueing is not just politeness. It is part of the people's identity.