A British man, let’s call him Reginald, was enjoying a rather boisterous evening near Le Bugue in the Dordogne. He’d sampled the local wines with the enthusiasm of a thirsty camel discovering an oasis, and let’s just say his gait was less “stately stroll” and more “drunken penguin attempting ballet.” Reginald, you see, was as drunk as a… well, as drunk as a Lord Mayor’s carriage after a particularly rowdy civic celebration. Picture it: all the horses slightly tipsy, the coach swaying precariously, the driver singing opera at the top of his lungs. That level of drunk.
Suddenly, blue lights flashed. A stern-faced French gendarme, his moustache bristling like a badger’s comb, approached Reginald’s car.
“Monsieur,” the gendarme said, his voice like gravel gargling with vinegar, “I believe you have consumed a considerable quantity of vin.”
Reginald, whose own vocabulary at that point consisted mainly of happy hiccups and enthusiastic burps, managed a weak, “Bonjour… *hic*… Oui… *burp* … perhaps.”
The gendarme produced a breathalyser. “Please, monsieur, blow into this device.”
Reginald, with the coordination of a newborn giraffe learning to ice-skate, attempted to blow. The result was less a measured breath and more a chaotic gust of wine-infused air that resembled a small, alcoholic hurricane. The breathalyser beeped frantically. The gendarme’s eyebrows shot up so high they threatened to disappear into his hairline.
“Monsieur,” he exclaimed, “Your reading is off the charts! It suggests you’ve been sharing a bottle with a distillery!”
Reginald, his eyes shimmering with the reflected lights of a nearby bistro, simply grinned. “I assure you, officer,” he slurred, “I was only sharing with *one* distillery. A very generous one.”
The gendarme, clearly at a loss for words, just stared. After a long moment, he sighed, pointed to a nearby bench, and said, “Monsieur, please. Rest. Then, find a taxi… and a very strong cup of coffee.”
Reginald, still grinning, wobbled towards the bench. As he sat down, he muttered to himself, “Right then. Taxi… coffee… and perhaps… a very small… *hic*… *burp* … pastis?”
