Sometimes, I think about the time I saw a British hen do in Lidl here: loud, sunburnt and decked in personalised Fruit of the Loom tops, buying at least four conveyor belt’s worth of items, three-quarters of which was alcohol. It was this latter aspect that gave themselves away to be British to the rest of the queue, provoking a quiet echo of tuts and giggles. I’ll concede it was mildly embarrassing.
But boy, did they pack at lightning speed – and for that, I felt just a little bit of pride. We may have an alcohol-dependent reputation that precedes us, but you can’t knock our efficiency.