I despair at my fellow Brits sometimes. Ridiculous as it is to tar an entire nation with the same brush, when you’re tired and travel-weary and bored of airport queues and worrying about whether or not you’ve got all your paperwork in order, it’s not hard to let your usually rigorous moral standards decline. Such was the passport queue at Schipol airport, waiting impatiently in line to get access to the Netherlands and specifically Amsterdam. Three young lads with thick Birmingham accents wait behind me, nervously assessing the formality of the passport control area. Off to one side is a desk labelled largely in English, ‘Immigration Enquiries’, sporting the most marvellously varied collection of human beings. Indian, African, South American, oriental extractions and many varied white Europeans, all distinctive in that peculiar way that defies the homogeneity of modern living against all preconceptions.