Queues, queues and wacky races

I'm British. Queuing is supposed to be in my blood, a national sport I'm meant to excel at. But it turns out, I absolutely hate it.

What I truly love is the alternative I'm experiencing right now: being in a car with a driver who’s a straight-up reject from Wacky Races, charging across Buenos Aires at a quarter to six in the morning. This isn't a commute; it's a rally stage. Our mission: make it to the next airport. And as I type this, hurtling past sleepy buildings, I've never felt more alive.

This is the antidote to the soul-crushing tyranny of The Queue.

Let's review the scorecard from my journey so far. The Queue vs. The Race.

The Queue (The Lowlights Reel):

Madrid Airport, Check-in: 1.5 hours. A slow-motion parade of shuffling feet and sighing.

Madrid Airport, Security: Lost count. Why? Because I had the unique pleasure of going through it three times. (Don't ask).

Madrid Airport, Passport Control: 45 minutes. Staring at the back of someone's head, contemplating the meaning of eternity.

Boarding the Plane: A frantic half-hour after a panicked sprint across the terminal because the gate changed at the last minute.

Buenos Aires, Passport Control: Another solid 30 minutes of glacial progress.

I love travelling. I love new places, new sounds, new smells. But please, for the love of all that is holy, can we cut down the queue times?

And in their place, give us more Wacky Race drivers. Give me the chaos, the adrenaline, and the sheer, unadulterated fun of actually getting somewhere.