Other nations have flags. We have queues. Form an orderly line of two or more Brits and you will witness one of the great cultural achievements of human history. There are unwritten rules. You do not, under any circumstances, push in. To do so is to invite tutting of such ferocity that minor European wars have started over less. Saving a place for one mate? Acceptable. Saving a place for six mates and their cousins? Treason. If the queue moves, you move. A gap of more than one metre is considered slovenly and will result in pointed coughs from those behind. And here is the kicker. We will queue for anything. Bus stops. Sandwich shops. Royal funerals. Ice cream vans. We once queued for fourteen hours to look at a coffin. We were thrilled. Embrace the queue. Respect the queue. The queue is life.