“Do you speak English?” I ask the excessively fat Hungarian Taxi driver.

“No.”

“Parlez-vous Francais?”

“No”

“Sprechen Sie Deutsches?”

“No.”

“Parlate Italiano?”

“No.”

“Err, OK then. Can you take us to the Bed Bar on the Island?”

“Lapdance?”

“No, The Bed Bar. On the island”

“Good lapdance”

“No lapdance. Just Bed Bar. On the island. In the river. The. Bed. Bar”

“Lapdance?”

I’m not sure if he was offering me a lapdance, or trying to get me to go to some seedy backstreet lady-dancing emporium, but there was clearly something about us as a group that led him to believe that’s what we needed.

Perhaps it was the stag dressed in a red PVC nurses outfit.

Anyway, we ended up walking the two hundred yards to the Bed Bar where we then consumed enough cheap European spirits to convince us that maybe a lap dance from a fat Hungarian taxi driver might not be such a bad idea after all.

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