Budapest - tongue in cheek

Tongue twister: The lion at the centre of all the fuss

As I landed at Budapest airport courtesy of a low cost airline that will remain nameless I went straight to the tourist information. I picked up a map, instructions of the best way to get into town and headed for the train station.

I glanced at the map I saw plenty of adverts around the outside. You know, the usual ones. Discounts at museums, local pizza places, where you can pick up a call girl... Yes, that's right ladies and gentlemen. Budapest unashamedly advertises such services on the maps provided by the friendly tourist information advisers.

Next up was a walk around the city, from Buda to Pest and back to Buda again, across the many bridges I noticed a concrete statue of a lion. But this was no ordinary lion. This one had no tongue. It was the same on both sides of the Széchenyi Chain Bridge. I later learnt, legend has it, that the creator of the statues, János Marchalkó, jumped into the Danube when people began to make fun of the tongue-less beasts he'd created.

Anyway, whilst I was being distracted by all this I was nearly run over by a cyclist who seemed to have no intention of stopping as he careered towards me. I just managed to exclaim an expletive before diving out of the way. What a bastard!

This would not be the only occasion I would have to dodge out of the way of locals speeding towards me at an alarming rate as plenty of out of control skate boarders hog the streets (and paths), coming round corners faster than a McLaren or a Ferrari at the nearby Hungaroring.

After just about manage to keep all my limbs intact I decided it might be safer to use the metro. As good as this was (it can hardly be as bad as London) there was still an element of frustration (or perhaps amusement, depending on if you were in a hurry or not) as the escalators would have people scattered from side-to-side, as opposed to the conventional; standing people on one side, those late for their plane or have a serious case of diarrhoea charging up/down the other.

At least there was the opportunity to indulge in one of my favourite travel past-times: eating. And, by and large, Budapest is pretty good on this front. Plus, it can offer pretty good value if you manage to locate one of the all you can eat and drink (yes, drink!) buffets. Now, in the UK such eateries serve up terrible food, but not here. The meat is good, as is the goulash.

If you fancy dipping a little deeper, but not too deeply, into your pocket there is a delightful food offering down by the river on a Sunday afternoon. If you are really lucky, you may even be deafened by a local band as you enjoy your lunch.

As I wait at the airport to head off elsewhere I am astounded as one person on security says to another: "Can she (pointing at a tourist about to embark on a flight) take this on board?" As she did so I realised said item was in fact a knife. Ah, the times we live in, eh?

World Cup Diary - South Africa 2010

A Summary

In England we have watches.

In South Africa they have time.

In Johannesburg you have two options: either walk and get mugged or get a taxi and get mugged.

In Cape Town during the World Cup one couldn't help kicking balls around the shops at the FIFA football exhibition down at the Waterfront area, to the dismay of all the shopkeepers.

In the Kruger National Park they have lions, but we did not see any  :(

World Cup Diary - South Africa 2010

Saturday 10 July
Arrive at my hotel to find out the Dutch national team have left and moved to a different hotel. A plate of lovely sandwiches is soon polished off before heading to Nelson Mandela Square and a few beers followed by a curry and a good night's sleep - the first one for a while.

Sunday 11 July

The big day, well it would have been massive had England been there (yes, that feeling will persist for another four years!). Still it is a World Cup final and we will all try to get tickets to the big event.

First, a humbling trip to the Apartheid museum in Johannesburg. A moving if necessary experience. Necessary to realise a significant part of this country's recent history, but also because there's not a lot else to do in the city - thank goodness there's a match on tonight.

Talking of which, we head to a shopping mall a few hours before kick off. This, though, is a shopping trip of a different kind - we're looking for match tickets. Some money grabbing Scottish bloke wants £1000 a ticket. Maybe if the Three Lions had been there he may have stirred some interest but the Jock was clearly out of touch and only interested in swelling his bank balance. I hope he failed.

We then got some transport to within a mile of the stadium and found a nice house party selling beer and doing a bbq. A good option, we tell the hosts, should we fail, as expected, to get tickets.

Then we head to the stadium on foot with a sign declaring our intentions - we want tickets - and stumble across some teenagers who seem ready to do business.

At first, I am disbelieving and keep my distance. They then give us the three tickets we require, before quickly exchanging one of those tickets for another. No matter. We are happy to buy a trio of tickets and don't care where we sat.

Now comes the key question: how much? "Nothing," came the response from one. "Free," said another.

What? Something doesn't seem right here. We quickly, very briefly, show some sign of gratitude before I decide the best thing to do is get away from this suspicious situation as pickpocketing/mugging is at the forefront of my mind.

I then inspect the tickets and they seem legitimate but, obviously, they are not. They cannot be. Now the teenagers are well in the distance and we have all our possessions still on us I conclude they must be fake.

Nevertheless, it is worth trying to get in with our false tickets. The worst that could happen is they turn us away. The best case scenario is they're genuine.

I suggest I try first and then my accomplices try an alternative gate, as to not arouse suspicion should I get turned away.

Amazingly I get passed the two points of security and so do my colleagues. We arrive at our respective seats and they are vacant so clearly they were genuine tickets and not fake at all. This still makes no sense to this day and I am dumbfounded. But, hey, we are here. And for free. Amazing!

The temperature is chilly at best and incredibly cold at worst but we are warmed by the sights of Nelson Mandela and Shakira, for very different reasons, prior to kick off.

The result almost takes on an irrelevance but due to my association with the country and that I am in a Spanish section of the ground I decide to support Casillas, Xavi et al, so when Iniesta seals victory in extra time I whoop with delight along with the Spaniards beside me.

The game was not the most interesting as a spectacle but what the hell - we can't exactly ask for a refund on the tickets. And we were just delighted to be there.

We head back to our hotel still shaking our heads in disbelief.

World Cup Diary - South Africa 2010

Friday 9 July

I arrive at Cape Town train station in reasonable time which is just as well as every man and his friend are lining up to board. To make matters more hectic, it seems as though the majority are travelling with all their life possessions.

Having moved seats about three times I settle down for my lengthy journey near some Chileans, who all tell me Holland are certain to win in Sunday's final, as we wave goodbye to Cape Town and Table mountain, in particular.

After just thirty minutes or so we reach our first stop which is quite early for a 27 hour journey, at this rate we will stop 54 times (I did the maths). The stop is Bellville which sounds quaint and peaceful which are not words I would use to describe the scenario as more people and luggage are squeezed onto the train, much of it squeezed through windows as the train is threatening to depart.

An hour later I decide to have my first stab at sleeping - I failed miserably The young lad who sat next to me is pleasant enough but he is fidgety and this does not help me rest.

By mid-day, and half a dozen stops later, there is not a spare seat in site, and this remains the case for the rest of the trip.

As the sun begins to set the Chileans kindly invite me along to dinner in the dining car. The food leaves a lot to be desired, which is being kind. I barely touch the chicken and there is something that is a poor imitation of mash potato. Disgusting. Nice sunset, though, and the company was good too.

I had a couple of beers and flexed my linguistic muscles further - I never thought I would improve my Spanish as I embarked the train.

I ask for a third beer but we are about to stop for 30-60 minutes and so am prevented from having one.

There is a little hole in the wall which I later realise is a shop, selling crisps, chocolate etc. As I queue for some goodies there is plenty of argy-bargy. Eventually I reach the front but they have run out of crisps and chocolate so slope off with my tail between my legs, and still hungry.

Race back onto the train. This time, to much amusement, there seems to be more people than seats. I say amusement, I wouldn't be laughing if I didn't have a seat but I did so it was bloody hilarious. Some pairs of seats had about four or five children squeezed on them. One child thinks better of it and decides to climb up onto the luggage rail. Innovative.

The train is now at a snails pace, if I said Terry and Upson were more mobile then I think you would have a pretty good idea of how painstakingly slow it was.

After a few more beers the concert begins. Yes, a concert. Teenage girls begin singing and dancing African songs at around mid-night. The rhythm, the excitement, the enthusiasm - it's great. It's not to everyone's taste, though, as I look at a middle-aged mother with her eyes closed whilst her young son massages her head. She has a pained expression which I think is caused by the commotion and not the massage.

It's now 3am and the singing and dancing comes to an end, but the chatter does not and it continues all the way to Johannesburg, with the lights on throughout.

World Cup Diary - South Africa 2010

Sunday 4 July

A day without football. Oh no. What can we do? Where can we go? Thankfully Cape Town is a pleasure to behold, and the constant backdrop of Table Mountain, even more stunning when lit up at night, though I think that was just for the World Cup, is something that can interest any observer.

After an afternoon on a restaurant balcony down by the waterfront we bumped into some locals who were to come within an ace of introducing us to Mick Jagger.



A daughter, 17, of the aforementioned South African family was invited to a party at the Rolling Stone's Six-star hotel, The One and Only Hotel in downtown Cape Town, so we tagged along in the vain hope of an invite.

Clearly Jagger felt there was nothing we had to offer that interested him, unlike the young female, so we had to make do with sitting at the hotel bar and mingling with mere mortals such as Clarence Seedorf, Miss South Africa 1997 and Paris Hilton.

As it turns out, the party that Jagger hosted was a fairly muted affair with just him, a handful of young girls, and some mineral water.

Much to our chagrin, the call never came to join him for some drinks so we took revenge.

"Excuse me," we said to the bar man. "Can we have two mojitos on room 807, please?"

"Sure," came the response.

"And plenty of Brown Sugar," we added.

After a brief discussion between some members of staff decided they needed a signature so we signed 'M.Jagger' and it was explained that our young step-daughters were up-stairs with the singer of hits such as 'Start Me Up' and 'Honky Tonk Women'. And then in a Jumping Jack Flash we got our cocktails with nothing more needed to be said.

A brief thought was given to ordering a 250 dollar bottle of Champaigne but we decided it wise to quit while we were ahead as You Can't Always Get What You Want.

It is not known as to Jagger's reaction when he had to check out only to find there were some erroneous goings on with his bill but rumours that he became a Street Fighting Man are apparently wide of the mark.

Monday 5 July, Tuesday 6 July, Wednesday 7 July and Thursday 8 July

After the shenanigans of the day before we ticked off a few tourist 'must-dos' - Cable car to the top of Table Mountain, took in the splendid views, and came back down. This was followed by boat trips and a visit to (Arjen) Robben Island where Nelson Mandela spent a large period of his time in captivity.

We bagged some semi-final tickets and watched Holland scrape past Uruguay 3-2 to make it to the first World Cup final in 32 years.

Earlier on in the day we met Alan Shearer who told us he felt the Dutch would bottle it and Uruguay would make it into Sunday's final. When I told him that Fergie felt the Dutch would win he quipped "Well, what does he know?" Indeed.

On Thursday I booked my ticket to leave Cape Town via a 27 hour train journey to Johannesburg. Not the most comfortable way to get between the two cities, I know, but it was the most cost-effective.