... and in walks the M1. Everyone falls silent and gets out of its way as it menacingly walks over to the bar and orders a drink. "Yes sir," says the bartender, pouring the M1 a drink.
A few small B-roads at the back of the bar, sitting in the best seats, nervously vacate their seats for the M1, who sits down. "I'm the biggest motorway in the country," says the M1 to the populace of the bar in general, "you don't want to cross me. Understood?" The other roads nod gently.
A few minutes later, in walks the M40. Everyone goes through a similar palaver of falling silent, respectfully getting out of its way so as not to annoy it. The M40 orders a drink and sits down, avoiding the M1's gaze. "I'm a big motorway," says the M40, "and you don't want to cross me. But I'm not as hard as the M1, so I'll just sit over here in the second best seat." The A34 grudgingly moves off the second best seat, and the M40 sits down.
A few minutes later, a tiny track about two feet wide walks in. The M1 and the M40 immediately jump off their seats in terror and back away to the other end of the pub.
"What's your problem?" says the bartender. "You're among the biggest and best motorways in the country, and you're scared by a piddly little track like that? It's barely a pavement, let alone a big road like you two!"
"Yeah, but you see," says the M1, "we might be big tough motorways, but he's a cyclepath!" |
