I finally added Bloopy to the pragueblogroll.
I hope he kicked the ass of whichever friend gave him that nickname and made it stick, by the way. And I rather minded his assertion once that English as a second language teachers in Prague were the lowest form of ex-pat life. I'm imagining:
- a British man, forties - divorced - red-face and booming voice (accent betraying humble-ish origins) - striped suit (those weird wide-spaced pinstripes the British wear that make the suit look more like a prison outfit) - English brogues (dogshit wedged in heel) - form fitting polyester shirt with buttons straining at belly level - frequenter of the James Joyce and all other Irish pubs - English FA fan to be found at Champions on match nights, drunk and loud - never ridden a bus or tram - hangs out at Solidni nejistota and has never heard of the Tulip Cafe - goes with the pros - dates the hot secretary in his section and recounts the details to his mates over lunch - works for a big five on secondment, housing allowance, ex-pat salary all of which he illegally avoids taxes on and brags about how much of it he is banking because it's so bloody cheap here - one word of Czech: pivo - not one kind word for Czechs, but many creative British expressions of denigration employed regularly - once went to Karlstejn on a sight-seeing trip, other than that the only thing outside the city he ever sees is the drive back and forth to the airport.
Lower than that? Me not think so.
Any old road, as noted elsewhere the catnip story (and the breakfast cereal exposé which, had I been eating Fruit Loops at the time would have travelled out my nose and on to the monitor) deserves an award by itself. For someone who sleeps a lot he does seem to be awake when some wild, wild stuff is happening.