Islander Provides List of ‘Bulletproof’ Excuses For Not Going Out

A MAN claimed on Tuesday that he would not be ‘getting on it’, and has henceforth supplied a list of solid excuses, sources claim

The man, who has been named Blake Dempsey, tried to justify his reason for not going out, listing three self-proclaimed ‘bulletproof’ excuses:

  1. I’m skint
  2. I’m at my girlfriend’s
  3. I’ve got exams (probably ICSA, which never seems to end)

Though, like every other human in their mid-twenties, he underestimated the swift justice Friday grants us every week. It came around the corner like a freight train full of hookers and street drugs, taking him by surprise, but in a good way, unlike how Jersey Live suddenly decided to join 2016’s Worst Year Ever Party a little too late.

Blake Dempsey allowed us an insight into his beautifully planned weekend:

“I had planned out this weekend beautifully. I had Park Run at stupid o’clock, then I was going to have lunch at Cafe Jac, then I’d aimlessly wonder around town looking for a ‘smedium’ sized t-shirt, before heading home and watching Geordie Shore with a girl that I’m trapped in a loveless relationship with who probably secretly hates me.”

Dempsey was confident that his list of excuses would be able to defend him from his alcohol-deprived orc friends. However, every man has the same weakness, and it comes in the form of ‘the text:’

“It was perfect, until I got ‘the text:’

“Oi oiiiiiii what you sayin tonight pal? Pre-drinks round nasty Nick’s? Pick you up at 6?”

“There it was, the poison. The beautiful poison. Free lift to Nick’s and he managed to make the offer rhyme, how could I refuse?”

Upon returning home and reporting this news to his girlfriend, it was clear Dempsey had majorly cocked up:

“Just thought I’d test the waters with the Missus, see what her response was and go from there. Turns out I wasn’t testing the waters at all, no, what I’d done was essentially jump into a bath with Jaws the fucking shark.”

After being verbally thrashed around for half an hour, Dempsey concluded that negotiations with Jaws the girlfriend had come to an abrupt end, with her winning.

Dempsey then went onto explain how he broke the news to his alcoholic orc squad:

“First, I used the classic ‘sorry lads, I’m skint’ excuse, but then Clive – who never gets the first round in –  pops up offering to be my own personal Mr Money Bags for the fucking the night. Not only does that mean I have to go out, but I’ll end up owing Clive Fucknuts £50. Nah mate.”

“The second barrier of defence is ‘sorry lads, revising’ but they all know the drill by this point, either because they themselves know revising means watching Geordie Shore for 6 hours and cleaning their room, or, the people that don’t have exams maliciously question why the fuck you celebrated leaving school if your immediate fate was to dive straight into 7 years of finance exams.”

“Alas, my hope was fading fast, and it looked as if I’d have to buy another fucking shirt from REISS, until, I remembered the glorious, immovable excuse to end all debates:

“Sorry lads, with the Missus.”

“The heavens had opened, upon uttering these words, the boys just sort of looked at me, the way your dog looks at you when you leave to go to work – betrayed and incredibly disappointed.”

Despite Dempsey winning the battle, he admits that he may never win the war:

“That excuse… it comes with a price. Next pre-drinks, I have to apply the thickest possible skin, because throughout the week, the Whatsapp orcs will be gently lathering me up in oil, slowly coating me in paprika and viciously chucking salt on me like that oddly seductive Turkish chef, because once the weekend comes, and I walk through the 7pm Saturday door of fate, my orc friends will be stood there, waiting in the living room, sharpening their BBQ equipment for their Saturday roast, and guess who’s on the menu?”

“Me.”

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