Tag Archives: #BritishvsFrench

Right-hand steering

Image result for french gendarme breathalyser driver
Copied from AA Car News

True story reported by an British guy who was stopped and asked to give a breathalyzer test.

The British guy lives near Le Bugue in the Dordogne and at the time he was stopped he was as pis*ed as a fart…

The gendarme signals to him to wind down the window then asks him if he has been drinking, and with a slurring speech the British guy replies;

‘Yes, this morning I was at my (hic)..daughter’s wedding, and as I don’t like church much I went to the cafe opposite and had several beers.’

‘Then during the wedding banquet I seem to remember downing three great bottles of wine; (hic)… a corbieres, a Minervois and (hic)…a Faugeres.’

‘Then to finish off during the celebrations…. and (hic) during the
evening …me and my mate downed two bottles of Johnny Walker’s black label.’

Getting impatient the gendarme warns him; ‘Do you understand I’m a policeman and have stopped you for an alcohol test’? The Brit, with a grin on his face, replies; ‘Do you understand that I’m British, like my car, which is right-hand-drive, and that my wife is actually sitting in the other seat, which is the one behind the steering wheel?’

Although I can neither confirm nor disawow this story, such right-hand/left-hand steering confusions are not uncommon.

Betty Zane (Ohio River I) (1903)

I have a blog called “Zane Grey and me”. This is my review of the first book he wrote, “Betty Zane”. Betty Zane is one of Grey’s ancestors and also the heroine of this historical novel. It does not pretend to be unbiased or historically correct, but Zane has tried to make it as correct as his white male privilege allows.

Zane Grey and me

Heroism of Miss Elizabeth Zane, 1851 Popular Graphic Arts; Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, LC-USZ62-2355

Charles Francis Press, New York, 1903

Parents’ Magazine Press, 1947

In this busy progressive age there are no heroes of the kind so dear to all lovers of chivalry and romance. There are heroes, perhaps, but they are the patient sad-faced kind, of whom few take cognizance as they hurry onward. But cannot we all remember some one who suffered greatly, who accomplished great deeds, who died on the battlefield–some one around whose name lingers a halo of glory? Few of us are so unfortunate that we cannot look backward on kith or kin and thrill with love and reverence as we dream of an act of heroism or martyrdom which rings down the annals of time like the melody of the huntsman’s horn, as it peals out on a frosty October morn purer and sweeter with each succeeding…

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