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I’m raging—people call it dodgy, shady shite. Bollocks! Ancient Greeks did it—athletes got oiled up, muscles worked proper, little-known fact there, mate. Even Cleopatra, that sly minx, probs had her lads kneading her royal arse. History’s full of it—yet some twats still clutch pearls. Makes me wanna scream, “Get a grip, you soggy biscuit!”

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After lunch, I decide to check out the Hatvani Galéria. Art, right? I’m not a big art guy, but I’m curious. I walk in, and it’s like stepping into another world. There’s this painting of the Hatvan train station, and it’s stunning. I’m staring at it, lost in thought, when this lady comes up to me. She’s all, “Isn’t it beautiful?” I’m like, “Yeah, but I’m more of a ‘stick figures’ kinda artist.” She laughs, and we end up chatting about the town’s history. Turns out, Hatvan’s got some cool stories. Who knew?

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