Man Struggles to Convince Friends St Ouen’s Beach is ‘Worth the Trek’

A MAN has been desperately campaigning for his friends to join him on his favourite beach

With summer now officially here according to 103 and Burton’s insanely coloured range of beach shorts, islanders are migrating to the island’s favourite beaches, like sexual pigeons.

However, herein lies the fault with Jersey; we have too many beaches, it’s a proper first-world problem. Blake Dempsey has recently been struggling to convince his friends to ditch the ever-popular St Brelade’s beach for the more roguish St Ouen’s. He revealed to us the challenges that this brings:

“Now I know how Jeremy Corbyn feels when trying to deal with that snake Theresa, knackered.”

“Sometimes it’s like trying to explain to someone who lives in Gorey why everyone else despises it. They simply won’t listen, and they just selfishly continue to live there.”

He does claim that some of his friends are keen, but usually require lifts, because they lose all knowledge on how to drive at the weekend:

“I know my mate Dan might be keen, but he lives in Plemont, therefore doesn’t have signal, ever. I mean, the man could have a house and 5 kids, or he could be dead, there’s no in-between. For that reason, I’m not picking him up.”

Dempsey has attempted to sway his squad by dropping hints early doors regarding where ‘fun stuff’ will be taking place this weekend:

“Once Thursday comes round like the promiscuous bitch it is, I spew my poisonous pitch to my Whatsapp peasants. I have to make it sound convincing, I’ll even claim some girl one of the boys loves will be down there.”

“I’ll do whatever it fucking takes, I’m Harvey Specter in an episode of Suits, and St Ouen’s is my courtroom.”

Dempsey admits he has been met with metaphorical slaps to the face during previous coercion attempts, namely by people salivating over the sexual prowess of St Brelade:

“I mean yeah, I see the appeal of Brelade’s. Big open space, hard sand for football activities, and very, very minimal wind issues. These all sound like great features, but I’m sticking to my roots with St Ouen.”

“It’s natural, raw, and has those little puddle pool things I like to play in and pretend I’m a seal. Plus, I get to pretend I know how to surf, though, if I’m asked to partake in the activity, I simply present my ace card: ‘sorry mate, can’t be fucked.’

Dempsey went onto explain that in every group, there is always one maverick, rogue bastard who presents an alternative location idea so mental that you begin questioning the essence of your friendship:

“Dave’s always chirping up on Saturday morning with his bullshit. Saying stuff like:

‘I’ve found this sick spot mate, it’s next to Grev de Lecq, but also part of St Clement. It’s on the rocky bit, halfway up the Jacknife of Doom, and north-west of Shark-Bitch Spikey Rock. We could chill there, jump into the Kraken’s Mouth and then paddle round to Electric Conger Eel Cave of Death.’

“You know what, Dave, I just want to play football tennis on the fucking beach, mate.”

Dempsey has stated he will hold out until Thursday, then bombard the Whatsapp whores with reason and desperation in one last-ditch attempt at glory:

“Looks like I’ve got two choices, I either stubbornly drive round the island picking up my squad, just to prove a point, or I bale, hit the gym, and tense my way to St Brelade.”

“Either way, as long as I Snapchat the entire day and post at least one photo on Instagram, I can call it a success.”

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