One day the A817 was visiting Glasgow, and it found a nice-looking pub to spend the evening in. Unbeknownst to our protagonist, the pub was rougher than it looked.
First thing that happened, the doors burst open, and a four-lane motorway stomped in. The various A- and B-roads hurriedly got out of its way, and it went up to the bar. “I’m the M8,” it said in a rough Lowlands accent. “Gimme a pint of snakebite.”
The bartender gave the M8 a pint, but it had hardly started to drink when the doors burst open again, and a six-lane motorway pushed its way in. It hard-shouldered the cringing M8 out of its way, and announced in a coarse south-side Glaswegian accent: “I’m the M74. Gimme a pint of cider and black, ya bas.”
The bartender had barely drawn the cider into the glass, when the door opened quietly, and a weedy little “road” came in: green, with only one white stripe. It approached the bar, and the A817 was bemused when both the M8 and the M74 cringed out of the way, trying to make themselves look as small as possible.
“What’s going on,” whispered the A817 to the cowering M8, as the strange weedy road sat by the bar and ordered a Guinness. “Big tough motorway like you, afraid of a wee thing like that?”
“Aye mate,” said the M8, “I’m a big tough motorway. But yon’s a f*cking cyclepath.”