On the Road again.

The Road. (Image credit: Getty Images via @daylife)

"Yes, it really was an awful game." I said to the bartender. "Our team certainly did abysmally."

 We shared a laugh. I tried, once again, to trust my money upon the man, hoping that I could escape this torturous interaction before anyone realised I had no idea what sport we were talking about.

 "Ok, here you are." He said, placing my drink in front of me. "Anything else?"

 "Well, I'll take another for the road." I replied.

 "Thank!" Yelled the road, "You're a good sort... Much better than Franco. Stupid dictator, never bought me any flowers."

 I nodded politely. I hated the road, but he was married to my sister and I was socially obliged to spend time with him. Of course, he was all right sober, but as soon as we reached the bar, Oh! He'd left his wallet in his other layby, would I get this round and he'd get the next? "Oh, I'm sorry, I meant to pop round Tuesday and repay you for the drinks, but I had to wait because some workmen were coming to install some traffic lights on me."

 "Thanks... Thanks again, Alan," he belched and mumbled on my return. "You're a good man, but you'd... you'd better not hit me drunk. You know? Hit the road? Like driving? But drunk, so drunk driving? You know, so you shouldn't drink drive? It... it is a play on words?"

 I agreed, it was a play on words. It wasn't a good play on words, and it hadn't been the first time he told me that joke in 1987. And my name had never been Alan.

 I fucking hate the road.