One of the reasons forever given in explaining Britain's attractiveness to migrants is our glorious tongue. With everyone and his brother able to trot out at least a few words in English (“I lost my passport, but I promise I'm under 16”, or “I demand my room be upgraded”), Blighty is an appealing choice for those seeking an escape from whichever hellhole in which they happen to reside.
The laxity of our borders, the generousness of our welfare state to those who have never paid in, and our society's catastrophic and self-destructive cowardice no doubt play a small part, too.
Not all countries have this unfortunate linguistic burden. Pity, for example, the poor migrant who has to get his head around the German case system – assuming they ever do differential between der Mann/den Mann/dem Mann/des Mannes – or the Eritrean who, seeking a better life, eventually encumbers himself with figuring out the fever dream of Finnish.
Despite being written in the Latin script, Finnish is one of those languages that looks like a spell checker gone rogue. Let Joe Biden loose on a keyboard after six or seven pints, and it might look surprisingly like the musings of a Finn.
Finnish is a Uralic language, of which there are 38 in total with approximately 25 million speakers. Of these, about half speak Hungarian. Having spent at least six hours learning Hungarian, I can confirm it is a strange beast.
The Hungarians float awkwardly amid a sea of Germanic, Slavic and Romance speaking peoples. Where are they from? If Wikipedia is to be believed (it generally isn't), the 'H' comes from associations with the Huns, the 'ungary' coming from the Onogurs, a Turkic tribe that conquered the area. The people themselves, of course, prefer the term Magyar.
The uncertainty of its name in reflects the country's tumultuous history. Its capital, Budapest started as a Celtic settlement, eventually becoming the Roman Aquincum. Before long the Mongols had arrived to indulge in a spot of R&R (rape and rapine), after which the Turks decided they fancied the look of the place. Over the course of 150 years, the city's Christian population dwindled to no more than a few dozens before a combined force of European states kicked the janissaries out for good in 1686.
After a recovery, it became the capital of the Hungarian wedge of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Then everything went swimmingly until World War One which saw the empire dissolved, followed by the short-lived Hungarian Soviet Republic, Admiral Horthy's involvement in World War Two (with about 120,000 Hungarians dying at Stalingrad alone), the brief government of the Arrow Cross party, Communist rule and a revolution crushed under the tracks of T-54 tanks.
Not that such a history is unique on the European continent. It is merely that we lucky citizens of an island nation have been spared some of the worst excesses of European utopian schemes.
Today, the Russian tanks have left and there are few signs of janissaries menacing the streets. The centre of the city is of stunning architectural merit: streets of beautiful classical facades existing in exquisite harmony; the buildings' scale made human by its form. Although a few of the rotten jagged modern monstrosities have forced their way into the landscape, their impact is muted by the city's imperial legacy.
Given that 80 per cent of Budapest was destroyed in World War Two, followed by decades of communist rule, this beauty is all the more remarkable. The ugliness of vast stretches of our own capital city are harder to explain: after all, weren't we the victors of that terrible war?
The city has escaped the soul-destroying process that has consumed London as an authentic settlement. The centre of our capital is an artificial playground, where vast sums of money result in a homogeneity of chain shops and expensive boutiques. The average Briton is crowded out by the inward tidal wave of foreign and domestic capital.
Small, unassuming shops still exist in central Budapest. Near Oktogon, one of the city's major intersections, a small independent dog grooming shop, sweetly called Dogtogon, exists on the high street. It's hard to imagine the same near Piccadilly Circus.
Such services are needed because normal people still live in the centre of Budapest. People I know in their mid-20s can afford to live in central Pest without being on a banker's salary. Anyone briefly glancing at London rents knows that such a luxury is the preserve of only the most affluent in our own capital.
But that phrase – 'our capital'. Is it still? Although tourists throng the streets of Budapest, they are only there for a few days at a time. The inhabitants of that city remain largely Hungarian, unlike the de-Englished nature of London, where the original inhabitants of our isles make up an ever-shrinking minority of the population. Yet, Budapest is not the exception on a global level: it is only we citizens of the much-betrayed Western world who have duped into believing that our replacement is both inevitable and desirable.
If you have not been to Budapest, go. I doubt you will be disappointed. It is a city which makes me wonder what London might have been, had it not been for the mendacious policies of our political class over the last 70 years: architecturally beautiful, historically rich, and identifiably the capital of the country it governs.
We could do with an Orban of our own, to defy the elites and rescue us from the steady decline enforced by our various generously remunerated experts.
Cue, outrage from the wokerati, as Orban's sturdy defiance of various EU diktats ensures him a place on the ever growing list of Those-who-must-be-Cancelled.
I agree. Budapest survived decades of communist plunder and tyranny, and thanks to its people serves today as a fantastic reminder that when the people decide to take no more of this shit, things may get dramatically better. Enjoy your travels!