This page will have many of the famous true stories which have been told over the years to countless members of the Bradfield community.

The Muscovite Sting ?

There's not a lot to eat these days if you live in Russia. Cabbage there is a plenty. Potatoes too, but meat and tasty morsels are few and far between. Beetroot is a useful aid to make cabbage look like something else.

On one particular day, in Moscow, our group of six, from Sheffield, felt very hungry around lunchtime. We were looking forward to finding somewhere to at least have a hot meal. The queue for the then recently opened McDonalds stretched around the block and it looked like  a four hour wait. What could we do?

At around 1pm we found ourselves in Arbatt street in the central district of Moscow. There were quite a few local artists selling their pictures, hanging them up against the pavement wall, and very willing to accept any currency other than the rouble.

Some of these local young people spoke excellent English. We chatted to a few of them about their pictures. The conversation came round to food and we asked . .    Where could we find a decent meal ?  Instantly we were told  by one of them : 'Wait Here'

After a few minutes, the artist returned and purposefully instructed 'Follow Me'. We duly obeyed. He told us, as we rapidly walked with him, that he was a doctor at the Hospital, but the state pay was not enough for him to live on. Every picture  he managed to sell, made him the equivalent of a months wages (around £15) .

We were taken to a Czech restaurant, but not into the main public room downstairs; instead we walked up a grand winding staircase . . and entered a room containing six or seven large tables . . each laden with wonderful food. We were asked to take our places. Aperitifs  . .  Caviar  . .  Smoked Salmon . .  Soup . .  Medallions of Pork . .  it went on and on . . The fine wines and the superb food   . . and the very very attentive waiters made us start to worry. Even though we had plenty of money with us,  . . would we  . . could we  . .  afford what was bound to be a very expensive meal?

We expressed our anxiety to our host.  Loudly he explained that he and his family were so grateful to the British for the part they had played in the World Wars, that he wanted to pay for our meal. He asked if we would then go with him by car to meet his parents who lived some distance away. He was keen to check that we had our passports with us.

The lunch continued, the wine flowed, the liqueurs were liberally poured, our host became more and more anxious that we accompany him. We noticed that he kept excusing himself to go and have a brief word with one of the waiters every now and again.

Finally the crunch came. He explained that a car was waiting to take us to meet his parents . .

What did we do  ?   What would you have done ?

 . . . .    to be continued.