Episode 5: Being CzEnglish

The thing about settling in another country is that you can never really become a native. I can master the English accent, pass the Life in the UK test, and even become a UK citizen. And despite all that effort… I will never be fully British. At best, I’ll be half British.

The Czechs have a word for this feeling. Czenglish.

Hi, my name’s Yvette, and I’m Czenglish. Welcome to the Cherry On Top podcast. This is my account of the times we’re living in.

We all have our own stories — the ones that shape us, the ones that explain why we are the way we are. This one is mine.

I was born in a small, beautiful country in Central Europe, a country some people still remember as Czechoslovakia. And although that country no longer exists on paper, it’s still very much part of me. I spent my childhood and young adulthood inside this strange experiment called communism.

A few months before I turned eighteen, there was a coup that overturned the government and ended forty one years of the regime. The Czechoslovak Socialist Republic gradually became the Czech Republic and opened its borders to the world.

I was one of the first cohorts to leave. I’ve lived in Austria, Germany, then back in Czechia, and now England. In all of them, I’ve always tried to blend in as much as I could — to become “one of you”.

But the thing about being a foreigner is that you can never truly become native. Sure, you can work on your accent, you can pass all the tests (and let me tell you, very few English born people could pass the Life in the UK test these days)… you can earn your citizenship… but even then, you're never fully British. At best, you become half British.

The Czech linguists have a word for that. Czenglish. Part Czech, part English. And let me tell you how those two parts work together.

I love the British sense of humor. It's dry, it's witty, it's sharp enough to cut you without noticing. It grew out of a century of colonialism — a quiet, smug nod to the days when Britain thought it ran the world.

Czech humour is similar. Dry, intelligent, deadpan… and also quietly rebellious and slightly absurdist. Because unlike Britain, we spent most of our history on the receiving end of other people’s grand egos. First as part of the Austrian Hungarian Empire, then under Nazi occupation, and later under Soviet rule after the war. Even now, as part of the EU, we’re still just a tiny country with equally tiny decision making power.

So, when the Soviet Bolshevik pushed their way into our country with tanks and started patronising us with their “We’re all equal”, the voice of the Czech people would quietly add: “Yeah, sure, we’re all equal — but some are clearly more equal than others.”

And unlike the British, who seem to have caved in to the pressure of political correctness, the Czechs have kept their humour just a little bit politically incorrect. I always giggle when I remember my late mum — whenever she put on a few pounds, she’d joke: “I’ve reached the last size of bum. After that, it’s only industrial boilers.”

That’s a joke I could never say in Britain.

Speaking of eating…
Food is one of the clearest places where my two halves clash.

The British have perfected a very specific culinary art form: freezer to microwave cuisine. A kind of national magic trick where a meal goes from solid ice to “dinner” in exactly four minutes and thirty seconds. It’s efficient in its own way — not German Czech efficiency, but a kind of emotional efficiency. No fuss, no drama, no need to peel a single potato. Just press a button and hope for the best.

Czech food, on the other hand, is a commitment. It’s history simmered on a stove. It’s soups that take hours, sauces that take patience, and dumplings that take a level of emotional stability I still don’t have. Our food is dense, rich, and unapologetically filling — the kind of meal that could sustain you through a winter, a revolution, or a surprise visit from your mother in law.

Where the British lean towards convenience, the Czechs lean towards tradition. And butter. And flour. And more butter.

And it’s not just the food — it’s the character behind it.

The British are famously polite. They apologise when you bump into them. They queue with the discipline of monks. They can deliver customer service so warm and friendly you almost forget they’ve put you on hold for twenty seven minutes. They’re charming, they’re pleasant… and sometimes, they’re about as efficient as a Windows 95 update.

Czechs, meanwhile, are the opposite. We inherited a certain Central European precision — the German model, but with more sarcasm. We like things to work. We like things to be clear. We like rules, but only if they make sense. And we don’t do small talk. If a Czech asks “How are you?”, they actually want to know. They’re prepared for the full psychological report.

Put these two cultures together and you get someone like me: a woman who says “sorry” when someone steps on her foot, but also reorganises the entire queue because it’s inefficient. A woman who loves British humour but still flinches when someone suggests dinner can be “just beans on toast”. A woman who can navigate British politeness but still carries the Czech instinct to get things done properly.

That’s Czenglish. Not just a language, but a personality. A hybrid. A cultural remix.

And the longer I live here, the more I realise that being half British and half Czech isn’t a flaw — it’s a feature. It’s the cherry on top. The thing that makes life interesting, complicated, funny, and occasionally exhausting.

But that’s the beauty of it. You don’t have to belong to just one place. Sometimes, you belong to two. Or three. Or all the places you’ve ever lived, loved, or left behind.