You often see more than you want to when you go to the baths in Budapest: old men that look naked because their beer bellies are hanging over their speedos and old ladies who find it difficult to keep their sagging assets penned into the swimsuits are pretty normal sights.

However, today not only took the biscuit, it took the entire biscuit tin, dipped all the biscuits in everyone’s tea and then lifted twenty quid from granny’s purse on the way out the door for good measure.

Natalie’s mum, Valerie, is visiting and we took her to Széchenyi. We had just got changed and were walking out when I noticed a rogue testicle. I just assumed that the fragile old fella it belonged to was being a little casual. Then I got closer and realised several things simultaneously.

1. His briefs were two sizes too big for him.
2. They were see-through.
3. There was a huge rip in back, rather like the flap on a pair of wild west longjohns that had been left unhinged.

All this conspired to give a perfect view of his meat and two veg from behind as he strolled to the changing rooms.

Welcome to Hungary, Valerie.

This may seem like blasphemy to many Hungarians, but I went to Lake Balaton for the first time at the weekend after almost two years in Hungary.

In my defence, I didn’t go because people kept telling me it wasn’t worth it. I heard stories of muscle-bound buffoons in the world’s tightest speedos parading their overwhelming muscles and underwhelming chipolatas up and down the strand, noisy kids running about and contributing their nasty toxic wee to the already mucky water, and lots of geriatric Germans putting their towels out on the waterfront (oooh, stereoptyping) in order to book a place to indulge in their penchant for public scatalogical sex – you know, drinking each other’s wee and pressing their faces eagerly against the underside of a glass coffee table as their partner squeezes out a big log.

OK, so I made the last one up.

Anyway, I have to say that I was very pleasantly surprised by Balaton. It wasn’t too busy, the water was lovely – I even enjoyed Zsolt kicking my arse at water polo – and I had a lovely greasy Lángos for lunch. It wasn’t at all like Butlins or the caravan parks in Arbroath where my mum took me on holiday as a kid and made me swim in the freezing cold outdoor swimming pool and pick whelks until my fingers bled.

The worst thing about my childhood holidays wasn’t picking the whelks, though, it was having to eat the slimy mess all boiled up at the end of the day.

So, Balaton in summary: no whelks, no sexually-perverted German pensioners and no nasty muscle boys with willies no bigger than whelks.

I think that should be Balaton’s slogan for the next tourism campaign.

This may seem like blasphemy to many Hungarians, but I went to Lake Balaton for the first time at the weekend after almost two years in Hungary.

In my defence, I didn’t go because people kept telling me it wasn’t worth it. I heard stories of muscle-bound buffoons in the world’s tightest speedos parading their overwhelming muscles and underwhelming chipolatas up and down the strand, noisy kids running about and contributing their nasty toxic wee to the already mucky water, and lots of geriatric Germans putting their towels out on the waterfront (oooh, stereoptyping) in order to book a place to indulge in their penchant for public scatalogical sex – you know, drinking each other’s wee and pressing their faces eagerly against the underside of a glass coffee table as their partner squeezes out a big log.

OK, so I made the last one up.

Anyway, I have to say that I was very pleasantly surprised by Balaton. It wasn’t too busy, the water was lovely – I even enjoyed Zsolt kicking my arse at water polo – and I had a lovely greasy Lángos for lunch. It wasn’t at all like Butlins or the caravan parks in Arbroath where my mum took me on holiday as a kid and made me swim in the freezing cold outdoor swimming pool and pick whelks until my fingers bled.

The worst thing about my childhood holidays wasn’t picking the whelks, though, it was having to eat the slimy mess all boiled up at the end of the day.

So, Balaton in summary: no whelks, no sexually-perverted German pensioners and no nasty muscle boys with willies no bigger than whelks.

I think that should be Balaton’s slogan for the next tourism campaign.

NO MORE SQUATTING!

Michelle, my lovely sister-in-law will be selling the P-Mate(http://www.pmate.co.uk/) at this year’s T in the Park in Glasgow.

Please support her by buying as many as possible. Even if you are a bloke it could be useful, for example if you only have a chippolata and wish to preserve your modesty in public places.

Perhaps she can also bring some of them over to Sziget and make a few bob.

Anyway, here she is (pictured left) demonstrating both the new product and attempting to make a standing-up-like-a-man-and-having-a-piss face. It needs a bit of work, but I think she’s almost there.