Why I Hate Survivor
Take a seat, it might take me a while, sorry about that. No! Don't sit there! Oh too late..... It began in a very similar way; me and a mate belatedly decided to go watch an England v Italy match at our local several years ago. Upon arrival we discovered there were only two seats left and, because we were late, they were the only two in the entire lounge that faced away from the bloody telly. So we got our drinks, sat down and began painfully watching the football by craning round, occasionally turning back to sip our pints. Added to this annoyance was the pub's insistance upon keeping the juke box going full blast, so we couldn't even turn round to rest our aching necks and listen to the commentary. After about twenty minutes I had to give up, so I sat, drinking my pint, rubbing my sore neck and watching the people watching the football ready to whip my head round if they showed any excitement.

Whilst I sat there something moving caught my eye. Sitting opposite us, staring over our heads at the football was Gary. Now the pub is located quite close to what the less sensitive would call 'The Spacker Flats' which is where Gary had come from. Gary seemed to have problems with his legs and drove everywhere on a motorised scooter. He wasn't exactly retarded, just slightly mentally unexcellent. Which is why I didn't immediately throw something at him when I noticed his hand was buried deep within his pocket and was rythmically moving up and down. My head and eyes immediately shot back to focus on the telly trying desperately to ignore the pain as I let out a little whimper of fear and disgust. After a few moments of not really watching the football I somehow managed to convince myself that I must have imagined it and couldn't resist turning back to confirm my suspicions. One quick glimpse later and I'm staring at the telly again, desperately trying not to piss myself laughing. "What's so funny?" My mate asked. I could only shake my head. Not only was there now definite tenting but I'd also seen Gary's face and his eyes were most definitely not on the telly anymore. They were on my oblivious friend.

It was at this point that Eye Of The Tiger by Survivor just happened to come on the juke box. I seem to remember someone cheering at the manliness of it all as the intro thumped out of the speakers and England surged forward on some doomed to fail attack. For me however, with the full knowledge of the wanking retard behind me, the song seemed to take on a slightly different note. I rolled my eyes as the vocals kicked in with "RISING UP!". At "..WENT THE DISTANCE.." I smiled slightly and for "DON'T LOSE YOUR GRIP" I burst out laughing and when the chorus kicked in with "IT'S THE...EYE OF THE TIGER, IT'S THE CREAM OF THE FIGHT" I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe and tears were streaming down my face.

"What the fuck is up with you?" My friend asked and the sudden rememberance of the image of Gary slyly tugging himself off behind us brought me back down slightly.
"I think you've pulled!" I said, setting me off again.
My mate turned round to see which obviously hideous woman I'd spotted as per the usual joke. "Yeah, yeah, which moose have you...oh my fucking god!" He stage whispered and we were both staring at the telly, rigid with a mixture of disgust and hilarity.
"Is he done yet?" I asked innocently.
"I don't know!" The friend wails.
"What do you mean?" I ask. "He's either having a wank or he isn't."
"Well...he's....it's....oh just fucking look!"
We both turned slowly and I notice Gary's eyes flick up from looking at my mate back to the telly. Strange he doesn't want my mate to catch him looking at him but doesn't mind continuing with.....well, it's difficult to describe. By the dreamy look on his face and the way he's arching his back he's clearly on the vinegar strokes, but his hand is no longer in his pocket. There is now not only very obvious tenting but a distinct wet spot and, as we watch, rather than finishing himself off in any sort of subtle manner he begins prodding himself quite hard on what I'm guessing was his trouser covered bell end. We both let out little moans of horror and resume watching the match. I occasionally steal glances at my mate, biting my lip as I hear a little groan come from Gary's direction, wondering whether to tell him he's the object of lust for the cock poking mentallist. After a few moments of sheer hell there's an enlongated sigh from behind us and we both tense up. A few moments more and we risk looking round to see Gary slumped forward on the table looking exhausted but undeniably happy. It's at this point I refuse to sit there anymore and we spend the rest of the night standing at the bar, unable to watch the football but at least feeling slightly less dirty.

We told the bar staff what was going on and, after half an hour of arguing over who was going to say something to him (and one brave soul verifying there was now a sizable, vomit inducing stain on the front of his trousers) they wrote him a note which read "If you want to bash your bishop, do it at home!" and taped it to the front of his scooter for him to find when he left. The funniest part of the entire night was about an hour later when my friend went for a piss. No sooner had he gone into the toilets when, quite by chance, Gary happened to need the toilet too. My mate hurriedly emerged only seconds later trying to slyly wipe wee from the front of his jeans and groaning at the uncomfortable feeling of having to cut it off mid-stream.

As we left that night (after making sure Gary had definitely gone and wasn't waiting for us) a man was walking past with his dog. He saw us exit the pub and politely asked us what the score was. We looked at each other and realised we didn't have a frigging clue! He thought we were taking the piss out of him and called us 'wankers'....
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Fri 22 Jun 2007, 22:53, Reply)