Saturday 10 December 2016

Angela Scanlon: When rebellious irish DINA is confronted with a long queue

Angela Scanlon

Published 26/04/2015 | 02:30

Angela Scanlon
Angela Scanlon
Joe Caslin's Irish mural in Dublin City Centre

Queuing is a curious thing. Actually it's an infuriating thing. Patience is not a virtue I was blessed with and so anything that requires it presents problems for me. I've never really noticed it before, I'm usually with others and will display some self-control, but when I'm flying solo, the idea of waiting in a long line like a cow waiting for water irks me.

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This was never apparent when I lived in Dublin because queues are not really an Irish issue. We don't do queues. Why should we? It's not in our DNA to be that obedient, that agreeable. We are more rebellious, naturally defiant. It's unthinkable that you would queue behind 12 other people for a table where you still have to actually pay for dinner. Not likely. We just go elsewhere, wouldn't want them to get a big head.

But since I've been living in London I'm baffled by their passive attitude to joining a long, long line and waiting their turn. No grumbling, no bitterness, no resentment, it's the way it is. A friend recently went to an East London restaurant, the kind you might find on South William Street in Dublin, she was going as a "treat" having read about it in some newspaper. The date was planned, they were starving and excited and they arrived to be told that the wait was two hours. TWO. HOURS. In a line for a restaurant that refuses to take bookings.

At this point it would seem obvious that the thing to do is walk away. She waited! This was not a "we'll call you when its ready" situation. "Have a drink at the bar". No, this was standing in the cold (outside) waiting to get inside. Two long hours and then they were shuttled to a seat they didn't really want to eat food they were kind of over. The wait didn't build anticipation, it didn't make them love their food more or feel special for having finally made it through the pearly gates. It made them feel slightly cheated.

Here are some things to do if you chose to wait patiently in a queue. I mean, I don't know what's wrong with you but I can't really deal with that here, so…

* You could enlist some fellow queuers to do the conga.

* Tweet, it's good for venting.

* Moisturise.

* Write your column. Oh sorry, just me.

* Blow at the back of the head of the person in front just enough so they're not even sure if they felt anything.

* Go on Tinder if you're into it, your future lover could be steps away.

* Eat old fluffy sweets you find at the bottom of your handbag.

* Play loud music, maybe a Crystal Swing track, in the hope it will cause mass evacuation.

Love, loyalty, friendship

I met Joe Caslin when he was looking for funding for his 'Our Nations Sons' project a couple of years back. As a mentor on Arthur Guinness Projects, along with Chris O'Dowd, Ben Readman (Block T) and Róise Goan (goangetstough.com) I chose to part-fund his proposal to create big, bold and beautiful murals depicting young lads in hoodies; "the boys our society forgot". His latest work in the centre of Dublin is his most powerful work to date. Barry Jeffers and James McLoughlin posed for the photograph originally shot by Sean Jackson and styled by Colm Corrigan. Both are gay Dubliners. "They're best mates," explained Caslin. "It needed to be people who are in that kind of scenario, immersed within that battle."

I swore I would never wear culottes again. Not after that pink pair I got in Tammy Girl aged 9. I loved them, flimsy as they were with giant polka dots and a matching T-shirt. I wore them to a birthday party in Giraffes, rolling around the ball pit, proud of my attire. The return of culottes felt cruel and my resistance was futile because in the end, who doesn't want to let it all hang out in a pair of elasticated denim pants?

Cool-ottes

I swore I would never wear culottes again. Not after that pink pair I got in Tammy Girl aged 9. I loved them, flimsy as they were with giant polka dots and a matching T-shirt. I wore them to a birthday party in Giraffes, rolling around the ball pit, joyous and proud about of my attire. The return of culottes felt cruel and my resistance was futile because in the end, who doesn’t want to let it all hang out in a pair of elasticated denim pants?

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