The Italian's guide to pushing into a British queue

YOU Brits with your neat queues and willingness to wait, so proud of an achievement so boring. Italian Paolo Cinquetti explains how to swerve that cazzate: 

Show zero shame

Why waste your one and only life? March past the queuers and plant yourself there at the front. Meek Britons will be so flabbergasted by the extremity of this breach of the rules, they’ll be too shocked even to tut. Yes, they’ll dine out on your rudeness for years to come, but who cares? You’re through security and on the flight.

Disrupt its structural integrity

A UK queue is as neat and orderly as uncooked spaghetti. An Italian’s role is to simmer it until it’s a tangle of strands and sauce. Come at the queue from an angle. Watch the nervous, territorial Brits edge around to keep you at their rear, then flamboyantly and fluidly slip through in Veratti through a defence. The queue is a crowd! Who’s next now? Declare it’s you!

Be beautiful 

The more well-groomed and aesthetically pleasing you are, the more you get away with in life. Monica-Bellucify your eyeliner, stride forth with the braggadocio of Berlusconi, and assume all the gasps you hear are due to your astonishing beauty, not passive-aggressive expressions of rage and disgust.

Create anarchy

A queue only works because everyone in it believes in it. Whip people into a frenzy with an impassioned speech that makes them question the fascist, anti-libertarian principles at the heart of queuing. Then stride to the counter of the post office while they’re rioting and return your ASOS order.

Don’t give a shit

Be honest. You British accept cultural quirks such as orderly queuing and apologising when you don’t mean it because you feel judged. Be Italian: be so confident you simply don’t give a toss what your fellow human beings think of you and nobody can touch you, no matter how nasty a stare they throw. Shove forth and say ciao ciao to giving a shit.

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Footballers: what they're actually worth, by a bloke from the 80s

AS Brighton midfielder Moses Caicedo agrees a £115m deal with Chelsea, 1980s football fan Norman Steele explains the true value of this summer’s transfers: 

Harry Kane to Bayern Munich: £750,000

If you’re transferring to Germany you’ve f**ked up, let’s be honest. Nobody goes there out of choice. It took a world war to get my granddad to Stuttgart and he didn’t rate it. Keegan cost Hamburg half a million and only went because he’d twatted his knee on Superstars, so add half again and you’re good.

Moses Caicedo to Chelsea: £95,000

You’re not breaking into six figures for this one. First of all he’s from Brighton, who are shit, and he’s going to Chelsea, who are shit, so that’s knocking the price right down. Second he’s from Ecuador, so very much an unknown quantity with our weather. Pop him in digs with a nice family round Dagenham and see if he works out.

Declan Rice to Arsenal: £1,500,000

I’ve got misgivings about pricing him the same as Captain Marvel himself, but fair enough the Robson transfer was early in the decade and prices crept up. But for that much he’d better be able to take his booze or he’ll be buggered forging a telepathic understanding with the back four. They’ll want him on the sauce every night and playing still pissed.

Andre Onana to Manchester United: £20,000

He’s a keeper, for f**k’s sake. They’re simply not worth as much as other players because they can’t play football, that’s why they’re in goal. Who was in goal when you were at school? The lads who got picked last. QED.

Mason Mount to Manchester United: free

You don’t pay when a player’s shite, and Mason was shite at Chelsea. He didn’t even cost them anything because he was in their youth team. United are taking him on as a favour, probably done over a pint and a packet of Bensons after a game. Next stop Celtic.

Jordan Henderson to Al-Ettifaq: £4,250,000

Poor bastard. We’re talking Waddle to Marseille levels for this one, having to give up a nice spot in Liverpool to live in the bloody desert teaching a load of lads who don’t know which end the goal’s at how to play football. The only audience six camels and an oil derrick, and the only prize a cup you’d be ashamed to display. I’d rather retire.