There, three-quarters of the way up an ascent that would have been murder to ride, and only slightly less murder-like to walk, was a man (it could only be a man, let’s face it) in a full chicken suit. Alone. Probably ignored by the riders, who’d had the whole murderous ascent thing to worry about, and not even realising that he hadn’t been on TV at all, this no doubt utterly exhausted man in a chicken suit was scratching his groin as the chopper flew past. All that effort in dressing up and dragging his obviously girlfriend-less butt all the way up that mountain, and he’s on TV for a second and a half, scratching himself.
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