From Hunglish to C2 British English

My previous blog entry focused on those personal favourite series we return to time and again. Although we’ve rewatched Only Fools and Horses and One Foot in the Grave countless times, it had been a while since I last exercised my laughing muscles with the one and only laughter factory: Monty Python’s Flying Circus. That doesn’t mean my enthusiasm for this particular brand of humour has faded over the years — I still find it maddeningly funny. In fact, several other shows have since stolen both my heart and my attention. And let’s face it: British humour is an infinite bucket of amusement. Speaking of buckets, I cannot fully express my astonishment when I first watched the opening episode of Keeping Up Appearances ( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keeping_Up_Appearances ). This is a show where watching the main character, Hyacinth Bucket — pronounced Bouquet — can be almost tangibly painful. One can only imagine, and sadly relate to, the embarrassment her entire “entourage” must endure ...

It’s been a while since I last wrote anything. I’ve been busy with work — a lot has happened — but it’s high time I made up for that hiatus. First things first: my resolution, the CPE, hasn’t changed. I’ve familiarised myself with the format, the requirements, and the overall length of the exam. I’ve also aligned my books with those requirements and browsed the Cambridge website for additional resources. Once I finish my current project, I’ll restructure my days and make time to study and write.  Anyway, I thought I could write a short piece about my favourite British sitcoms. Not because I’m a competent critic or a seasoned writer – far from it. I simply want to express my enthusiasm and explain why British humour, however dark it may appear, is so close to my heart – and why the kind of awkwardness that can send an entire nation into fits of laughter strikes me as such meticulously crafted, sane insanity. Let’s begin with Monty Python’s Flying Circus. As I mentioned earlier, one ...

After a couple of sleepless nights and a few hours of pep talks – “You can do it, mate, you can do it!” –, I made a rather bold decision: I’ll go for the CPE. Well, don’t worry if your jaw has just dropped, you’re not alone. I just hope you’re not quite at Meldrew-level outrage yet – for instance that Garden Center manager confrontation scene . If you are also thinking of the yucca, carefully planted in the toilet, we’re on the same page. Anyway, I wrote about this plan in my previous post without any specifics, but today it stopped being an idea and became a plan, although without a deadline, yet.  I’m pretty sure that having a plan per se is not the golden ticket to success. It also needs a schedule, a list of tasks, and a framework that helps me keep my focus on my goal without letting anything distract me – no more cute kitty videos on YouTube. Anyway, I prepared a list that helps me start this fascinating journey and stay concentrated: Scoping out the exam structure and availa...

Two years ago, I decided to put my teaching career on ice. Full stop. And, however nonchalant this decision might seem now, the road that led to this conclusion was as bumpy as Hungary’s famously dodgy roads. I was riddled with doubts, simply because completing the CELTA course successfully began to feel like a textbook case of the Dunning-Kruger effect seasoned with impostor syndrome. This controversy should have been enough to send me into self-torture, right? But no, it wasn’t. Eventually, this notion of not knowing enough invited the analytical part of my brain to engage in a frenzy of multiple self-deceptions. This unrealistic narrative began to force me to compare myself to native-speakers, and to those who’d lived, studied, or worked in an English-speaking country. (Today I’m well aware that I should have put this notion to its rightful place called oblivion.) However, the moment I was inclined to accept this ‘truth’ and believe how futile my attempt to become an English teacher...

At this time of year, people often make promises to themselves - resolutions that can prove as fleeting as Victor Meldrew’s exuberance. Ambitious vows such as, 'I'll drop five stone before beach season so I can wear my new Speedos,' tend to melt away the moment the fridge door swings open and our favourite meal beckons. A few months later, perhaps another three stone heavier, our attempts at self-hypnosis - meant to dull the sting of ridicule we feel when squeezing into that long-anticipated outfit in July - quickly erase any trace of a smile. Naturally, having to admit our failings the moment we unpack our suitcase at the hotel is not quite how we pictured our holidays on 1st January. Yet this is not the worst of our self-deception. The real issue is that we persist in convincing ourselves, despite those bulges around our waists, that it is not so bad. Really? How can that protruding paunch possibly be 'not that bad'? How have we become so absurd as to regard the b...