Right, I know how we're all feeling, but life goes on. Many on here will have read this before, but it's worth repeating for newer members. It's perfectly true, trust me, and it's long. Here goes... Warning: This story contains bad language, please don't read if easily offended. It's long, but true. Please bear with me, it's worth it! The story begins at work in February 1993. As head of a small company in Platts Common, we had a request from a distributor in Turkey to send an engineer for training. The engineer was to stay 2 weeks – 1 week training with us, and 1 week in Birkenhead with friends. As usual it was normal to entertain visitors in the evenings by taking them for meals etc. However, people are always reluctant to play their part as it can be hard work, often in broken English, trying to entertain someone from overseas. I was struggling to get volunteers, so in the end I had to pull rank and insist on the relevant people sharing the task. The engineer was to stay at Ardsley House hotel, so most evenings would be spent there. On the Monday morning our Sales Manager set off to Manchester airport to fetch the engineer, and he arrived back about 11am. Our collective faces dropped! Out of the car stepped a 21 year old female blonde engineer called Nuray. She was stunning. Simply stunning. I immediately reminded the staff how reluctant they were to get involved in the entertainment, and pulled rank again. I would now be taking on the task for the entire week myself, with the utmost enthusiasm. The first day's training went well and Nuray checked into her hotel. I was due to meet her at 7 for dinner but got there at 6 after the closest shave ever, including my ear drums and sinuses, and a severe overdose of aftershave. We had a lovely dinner in the (now sadly defunct) restaurant there, and chatted in very broken English, as predicted. Nuray's English was very poor, but she wanted to learn and I patiently tried to help her. This was to backfire spectacularly later. It transpired that Nuray had 4 personal objectives during her trip to England – she wanted to go to a night club, she wanted to drive on the “wrong” side of the road, she wanted to get drunk, and she wanted to go to an English football match. When I informed her I could arrange all those things, she fluttered her eyelashes and.........errr.......well, anyway, we set off to Japanese Whispers in my car with Nuray driving. In Whispers she then proceeded to get drunk, but I obviously couldn't, having the car with me. She started to sing the song “No Limits” over and over again, and then asked me to get drunk with her. I tried to explain that I couldn't drink and drive, but her answer to that was to come back to the hotel and get drunk in her room. This is all true, honest! So back to her room we went, bottle of wine in hand, and at this stage I'll miss out a couple of days and nights in the interests of brevity......... So, by now it was about Wednesday, Nuray had checked out of her hotel and moved into my house, temporarily. Yes, honest! Very unprofessional I suppose, but we were both single adults. There remained one final objective for her – the English football match. A quick glance at the fixtures revealed we were playing Luton Town away at Kenilworth Road, so on Saturday morning we set off to Luton. The plan was to go to the match, then afterwards drive to Birkenhead to drop Nuray at her friends’ there. Fast forward again, we were standing behind the goal and Nuray was fascinated by the language, which although it was English she couldn't understand. For example, “Ian, what does ‘Gerrim in ‘t wall bottom’ mean?” There were 10 minutes to go, and we were leading 2 – 1. JLWBigLil will confirm this in due course, purely from memory. Then Neil Redfearn tripped one of their players in our box. Penalty! In his frustration, the bloke in front cried out “Tha f***ing **** Redfearn”. Nuray immediately asked what this outburst meant. Not wanting to translate exactly, I toned it down by explaining that what Redfearn did wasn’t very good, not very nice. She accepted this, they smashed home the pen, the match ended 2 – 2, and we set off from Luton to Liverpool. On the way in the car she repeated the phrase, “Tha f***ing **** Redfearn” now again, seemingly quite proud that she’d improved her English a bit more. We arrived at Birkenhead at her friends’ house, but Nuray wanted to go out with me for one last meal. A sort of “farewell” meal, as we’d not see each other again. After thinking it over for a few nanoseconds, I agreed. We went to a lovely little place on the banks of the River Dee near Thurstaston. The restaurant was crowded and intimate, with tables crammed in, and the food was delicious, although Nuray wasn’t used to it and didn’t seem that impressed. Eventually the young waitress, about 17, came over and asked Nuray if her meal was OK. And then it happened. “No” she said in a loud voice, smiling sweetly, “it’s f***ing ****”. The place went silent, my head went into my hands, the waitress started crying, and all eyes were on us. The poor little waitress ran off in tears, and a well dressed man appeared out of the kitchen and approached our table. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both to leave” he said, with some justification. I looked up and said, “We’ll gladly leave, and I’ll gladly pay the bill, but will you give me the chance to explain?”. “Ok then, but it’d had better be good” was the response. The other diners by this time were transfixed by the conversation. They’d all stopped eating, and were staring at the two of us. Poor Nuray still didn’t understand what it was all about. I then proceeded to relate the entire story as above (but missing out the bit about Nuray moving into my house). The place was in uproar. The mascaraly-challenged waitress was now reduced to tears of laughter, along with the well-dressed head waiter and most of the other intrigued guests. The waiter then agreed that we could stay, and disappeared, only to return with a bottle of Moet and a request for the story to appear in their local paper, which it did a few days later. Having had some champagne, I could no longer drive, so one of his staff drove us home in my car and got a taxi back. What a day! I know it’s a f***ing **** story, but it’s a funny one nevertheless. You Reds.
As someone with a long history of being a Reds fan, surely you have an equally funny story to post on here to cheer us up?
One that springs to mind happened a few years ago during a preseason friendly between us & WBA (it ended in a 0-0 draw). I was sat with jedi one and we had a conversation that went something like this:- jedi one:"Who's that player for us at Number 23?" Me:"Do you mean the one with 'Etuhu' on his back?" jedi one:"Yes, that one. Who is it?" Me:"It's Jacob Mellis!" jedi one:"Thanks, Kev".
Many years ago, we were making our way home from a game at the other side of the Pennines on the Woodhead Pass (I forget which game). We were on an ancient charabanc, driving through a real pea souper of a fog. Our driver decided to closely follow the rear lights of the vehicle in front, as the visibility was so poor. Eventually, the vehicle, an old Land Rover, came to a halt. The driver got out, so our driver did the same. "Can I help you?" asked the Land Rover driver. At this point, a good number of our passengers got out to empty their bladders. Unbeknown to us, a long stream of cars, coaches and lorries had had the same idea of our driver! Unfortunately for all us playing 'Follow My Leader', the Land Rover driver was a farmer who had managed to get home and we were all in his farmyard! At this point, the farmer's wife came out of the house. "We can't put you all up in our house. Some of you will have to sleep in our barn!". We said not to worry, we'd be on our way. Once a dozen, or so, vehicles had managed to turn round and head back to the A628! That poor woman had the shock of her life, but was generous enough to try and help everyone out.
That reminds me of occasions on my long walks where I've followed boot prints in foggy weather, only to discover that whoever left the prints was just as lost as I was.
Many years ago, a friend & I went on holiday to Portugal. We were stopping in what was then a lovely village called Ericeira. On the Saturday afternoon, Barnsley were playing away at Newcastle United. They had just signed the likes of Kevin Keegan, Terry McDermott and Mike Channon. We actually won the match 2-1, Parker and Glavin got our goals and Tony Cunningham made his debut. We decided to celebrate that night in a small sports bar situated in the village square. Only the owner spoke English, but he and the locals insisted they should buy our drinks all night to commemorate the victory. This resulted in us being as relaxed as newts by the end of the night! In turn, we taught them a popular song from the Oakwell terraces. 'Some folk think that football's boring, Ronnie Glavin's always scoring, Can you here the Ponty roaring? Glavin is our King'. That's all that was sang that night ad infinitum, even if it had a slight Portuguese accent! The next day, as we were eating a beautiful meal al fresco, we heard the song being sang again. We were approached by two armed policemen, singing the chant. Apparently, they'd been in the bar whilst off duty the previous night and thoroughly enjoyed themselves!
Stahlrost thanks for that i remember you posting that once before ...a lovely story which once again brought a lovely chuckle.
I was in the Barron of Beef (pub in Cambridge) in the small bar that used to be right at the front of the pub which was seldom used. I got a round of drinks in and my mate Brian, who was driving, asked for tomato juice and tabasco sauce. As the barmaid put a couple of drops of tobasco sauce in his glass, Brian said to me "I've never seen green tobasco sauce before". A few minutes later the barmaid went out and was replaced by the landlord, so Brian says to him "Excuse me, but this tomato juice and green tabasco sauce just doesn't mix." The landlord looked at him then at the bottle and said, "that's fairy liquid".....
Many years ago my mother being the land lady of a local pub was hosting an event for the officials of the Bulgarian union of steelworkers who were over here in the UK on a fact finding mission with the Sheffield steel workers. Having holidayed in Bulgaria she knew a few words and the hello greeting Has the party made their way into the pub she stood there smiling and politely nodding before summing up the courage to speak ....Dobra Den she said out loud to this particular olive skinned thick set broad shouldered black haired bushy eye browed chap..... no reply Not one to be defeated isn't my mother she attempted again only this time she said it slowly and over exaggerated her mouth movements each word coming out pronounced as if someone had put her in slow motion Ď o b r à D e n... The bloke looked at her as if she'd been released from an old 60s mental institution and said Sorry love I don't understand you Bulgarians am from Sheffield At that point a young woman pipes up Dobra Den I'm from Bulgaria quick as a flash my mother goes in her best Barnsley accent.... Giore that sarnds mur like a dee dar than him Exit one red faced mother when it turned out She was speaking with the Bulgarian translator
And the conclusion to this story is that this beautiful Turkish woman became Stalhrost’s wife. To add to all his other wifes.
