‘I’ll Host Jersey Live’ Declares Man With Idea

JERSEY LIVE may have died, but the islander’s spirits have not

Islanders awoke to news this morning that Jersey might as well not have a summer.

With nothing to mark the end of summer, islanders will have no idea when autumn is to arrive, which means the clocks will never go back, people will start to age weirdly and we’ll start seeing more of those psychos that wear shorts during ice-age temperatures.

Gemma Reese was caught napping outside Trinity Showground as mark of solidarity and respect for the festival:

“Waking up this morning was like finding out your favourite child had run head-on into Chernobyl completely out of the fucking blue. Like, why did that happen? Why?”

Despite this horrific news, one islander has stood up to Jersey Live’s death and has refused to let the organisers smash the final nail into Jersey’s entertainment coffin by issuing this war-cry statement:

“I’ll fucking host Jersey Live.” Declares a triumphant, though penniless Blake Dempsey as he stood atop the Toad at Charing Cross, where our beloved Overlord Alan would have been if he had not been rushed to hospital upon hearing Madness‘ return to Jersey is now even less likely.

“It is clear the organisers of Jersey Live have confused January the 26th with April the 1st, either way the joke isn’t fucking funny.”

“I for one will not be spending the first weekend of September staring into Trinity Showground screaming at where the Dance Tent used to be as I aggressively clap my hands to my sinister house music dressed as a pirate.”

Dempsey and other like-minded islanders have come together to forge some ‘mad plans’ to reinvent the former festival. They seek to adapt on Jersey Live’s original layout, though look to make some slight changes that he believes will attract a larger audience.

“Basically, our new idea this year is to completely sack-off music and go with filling the stage with as much mental shit as possible. Every year people complain about the line-up, so to answer that, we’ve come up with this plan:

“Mr Blobby will be headlining the main stage, with Godzilla acting as a support act. Despite Mr Blobby’s genuinely mortifying form, he’s actually a gifted dancer, and Godzilla is basically just there to set fire to anyone caught drinking vodka soda lime.”

“We’d also host live Tinder dates on stage, which is hilarious in itself because Tinder in Jersey is essentially Russian Roulette. You’ve either slept with them before, or you’re going to sleep with them today.”

“Either way, someone’s getting banged.”

“The Dance Tent will be replaced with ‘The Death Tent’, so instead of finding dance music, you’ll be thrown into a dark tent and attacked by clowns, giant spiders, Brexiters and Katie Hopkins whilst Little Mix plays, nonstop.”

“The Silent Disco will be replaced by ‘Deafeningly Loud Sounds’ meaning you walk into the tent with full use of your ears, and subsequently leave deafened by the screams and cries of orphans. The rides will remain the same however, they’re dangerous enough.”

One of the main grudges festival-goers have is being told to refrain from mounting their friend’s shoulders and Dempsey agrees with this idea of bubble-wrapping adults:

“People mounting each other’s shoulders is the very definition of danger. I mean, allowing a 14-year-old into a festival armed with 10 kilograms of street drugs and a Draganov Sniper rifle is fine, but sitting on the shoulders of your friends? Absolutely fucking not.”

Finally, in regards to transportation, Dempsey envisions room for improvement:

“Instead of offering buses which come with queues, Jersey will be offering cows, sheep and massive seagulls as sound forms of transportation. Just jump into a field and off you go. No queues, no hassle, no qualms. Cows spend more time blocking Trinity Hill than they do in the fields, so they’re basically soft cars. It’s the logical step forward.”

Amidst the chaos, confusion and betrayal, it seems that there is still hope for a Jersey summer. Though Dempsey and many islanders do still feel deeply saddened and somewhat betrayed:

“Now I know exactly how Jesus felt when his best mate of 13 years stabbed him in the fucking spine.”

 

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