Do you ever catch yourself doing something stupid and say to yourself, why are you doing this, you dick?
Then less than a minute later you are repeating the process.
Queuing is a good example. Being a middle-aged man who knows everything, I am forever trying to second-guess supermarket queues. Rather than just rolling the dice and hunker down for the long haul, I seem to think I have some Stephen Hawkin-like gift of beating the system. Nine times out of ten, I get it wrong.
It doesn’t help the tension, of course, when you are halfway through unloading your stuff on the belt when the three cashiers having a friendly chat with the cashier supervisor suddenly break off and open three new checkouts. Of course, one of these is always right next to you to taunt you. On that note, why do checkout supervisors think they have the most important job in the world?
Anyway, I found myself being a queue dick on a recent holiday on multiple occasions, much to my partner’s amusement and annoyance, who rightly pointed out what a dick I was being.
Firstly, the motorway tolls in France. On the approach, as a competent queue dick, you are looking for the queue that doesn’t seem to have a person who will struggle in it. So, referring to my expert calculations and my internal “queue snail detection system”, this means anyone in a Kia, an old car, or another British driver. It’s a complicated system.
Of course, I was wrong and found myself moaning about how slow the person in front was. “Press the button; that’s all you have to do; what’s the matter with you?”
Then it’s my turn, the stealth peage ninja.
Except my card didn’t work.
In these instances, of course, all ninja-ness disappears, and I panic that I am now the person holding the queue up. I imagine that a French queue dick equivalent of me is in the car behind me shouting “Bite Anglaise”.
We eventually drive away, and I start questioning why I feel the need to do it… Until the next Peage Toll.
I was the same at the Calais channel tunnel passport control, but two important things for balance here. Firstly, the two-lane queueing system was flawed with one lane (the one I was in) leading into one queue and the other lane leading into three queues, so obviously moving a lot faster. Secondly, it was like a Men’s Queue Dick Convention in the queue itself, led by a cock in a Porsche Cayenne, who, to add to his cock-ness was wearing a Bluetooth phone headset permanently.
Let’s just say there seems to be a very short time delay in me being a queue dick, realising I am being a queue dick, then forgetting I have just been a queue dick. Some sickness is required, especially in a flawed queuing system, but why-o-why do I feel the need, when I finally butt into the other queue, to then not want to let anyone else in front of me do the same?
It baffles and embarrasses me. But I know I am not alone. There are people everywhere (mainly but not exclusively men) being queue dicks up and down the country.
My name is Craig, and I am a queue dick. It’s been five days since my last queue dick episode.