As Ibiza closes for yet another year I discuss what I learnt from our trip to the White Isles in 2016.
It’ll be like ‘Wish You Were Here..?’ albeit from the perspective of a nihilist who is one solitary roadman tear away from giving up on life.
You can expect pills from the cast of ‘The Business’ starring Danny Dyer, visiting KFC 3 times in one week for double buckets, pop sensation/Sack of soft fruit Jonas Blue, shitting through the eye of a needle, Spaniards with Mel C tattoos and Buckfast by the bucky-load. This is Lesson 4 of What We Learnt in Ibiza.
God, help us all / mainly me.
Food & Drink
Man, I hate that we headed here after the Brexit vote! Everything cost a fortune before but now the pound gets you absolutely nowhere. That said, I packed a huge bundle of cash for the week and planned on not eating, but after a couple of days I started to resemble a 409 C Pantone of Mahatma Gandhi on his 7th hunger strike. It was time to eat.
People have started caring about what they eat out here and with places like Bondhi and Skinny Kitchen selling detox shakes and protein pancakes and other things without drugs in them we knew exactly what to avoid.
We did manage three trips to KFC in a week which was a great show of respect to The Colonel. We tried out this BBQ box-master wrap nonsense first which was a mistake; it was like ordering one of those rice burrito things you always steer clear of, for hours later I kept asking myself why I didn’t get a double down? BUFFOON! The next trip was much more successful, a bucket for two and it was genuinely perfect for two; it was so good we got one for the third visit on our last day too.
Colonel aside, we checked out some cracking places like The Tulip in San Antonio run by an incredibly awkward Dutch man; his food was extra mediocre but served up good cocktails – I think he was keenly aware his food was pants but pissheads will eat anything.
There was an incredible Italian place in Old Town, the name of which I can’t remember, serving up il dente everything and similar Italian foody words. We had some seafood thing; it was no KFC but it was a banger.
We tried a falafel wrap in Playa d’en Bossa, we were fools for having it and found they definitely get some things wrong out here in Ibiza.
On the last day, I decided to try and be a bit healthy by getting a salad from Palpas in San Antonio, 4 hours later I was sat on the lav sweating like The FA PR team after their board appointed Sam Allardyce as England manager. After that ordeal, my guts were as clean as a whistle – That’s a proper detox you Bondhi teatox drinking fuccbois.
Buckfast is everywhere and costs more than the entry to most clubs. How are these Scottish coal mining, whiskey brewing, shortbread factory workers able to afford this stuff?
Being on a Purple City Soufflé budget we obviously stayed in San Antonio and at one of the less good hotels. It was advertised as having a balcony so when I found the room didn’t I ‘‘ad a word’, got ‘well lairy’ and threatened them with a dirty protest in the pool: the following day we had a balcony. The moral of this story is that you can bully almost anyone usually.
There were your usual Spar supermarkets everywhere and blokes with umbrella hats selling ‘Cheese’ and ‘Authentic handbags’ and some Ken/Barbie doll looking person outside every bar offering re-mortgage plans so you can get into Pacha.
Though being quite family unfriendly, there were loads of families raising kids that will now have warped views on life; expecting every black man to sell drugs and sunglasses, 18-30-year-old women to always wear high-heels with bikinis and old people that enjoy tech-house too. The lucky Devils.
Nightlife & Parties
Our first night in Sankeys was an absolute triumph which we’ll never get back; I found a proper Joey Essex look-a-like willing to ‘sort us out’ and we lost our minds. I forgot we were in a club and asked ‘why is everyone on our balcony?’ I then set off to try and end Skream’s set so I could have a conversation and sweated an entire post-Palpas lunch worth of sweat in 5 minutes. I also completely failed to end Skream’s set… it was really bloody good.
The next night we went to DC-10 for their Circo-Loco night, a must for all clubbers and plane spotters, had a cracking night off our beans listening to Balearic Beats (I’ve not listened to Balearic Beats since). Paid over the odds on everything but absolutely worth it.
Obviously we had to see Carl Cox before he finished his residency at Space, even if that meant listening to a whole chin-strokery session of Adam Beyer first. When Carl started everyone woke up from their Adam Beyer disco-nap, the great man dropped a phenomenal set yet again in the place he so rightly calls home.
For some reason, Jonas Blue had a night out here in Ushuaia. Thankfully we missed his set but can confirm Oliver Heldens is well good when he has pyrotechnics and you are struggling to function as human beings. There were a lot of bastardised reworks of nineties pop hits which needed to go in the bin but some were secretly decent.
Ibiza Rocks Hotel booked Wiley and he actually turned up… it was only for half an hour but he genuinely was there, for a bit. I think. Slimzee banged out an effortlessly perfect grime set with him too, followed by my personal hero; Ibiza Rocks resident Patrick Nazemi until closing time.
Bora Bora had the expected roadman on tour vibe of Gucci Man-bags and sunburn all over the shop, plus horribly clashing sound-systems mixing tech-house with slightly older tech-house and new tech-house with old skool tech-house. No matter what way you put it, it was all a bit of a faff so we just played Bat & Ball in the sea like a couple of pissed up morons.
Fuck Ocean Beach Club, Forever!
As far as attractions go, there were a lot of people sunbathing and buying overpriced beach towels and yes, I did buy an overpriced beach towel. Arsehole!
Some bloke asked us for directions to an extreme sports banana boat – He may have been an economic migrant. I almost knocked over a Speng on an electric scooter, probably heading to Ocean Beach Club.
Old Town is the place to be for stuff to do; they have strange little roads, cool gay clubs and party pensioners on disco buses. Walking down these streets tripping on acid here would be the best extreme sport you’ll ever do.
There are so many fuccbois in San Antonio it’s absurd. The locals are nice but Brits on tour are the worst. Seriously, I’m appalled/impressed.
Italians have absolutely no style, like less than the Spanish and they all have tattoos circa 1996. All in all, the island is very friendly and we were able to get around on the buses without dying. Brits on a bus need to die though, or Amnesia needs to burn down on all nights except Tuesdays, either way, the world will be better off without them/me.
SO HERE’S WHAT WE LEARNT:
Though I’ve lived in Essex for a bit, I still don’t belong in Ocean Beach Club.
I will eat my own face off before I take advice on how to have a good time from a 17-year-old West Ham supporter with a Princess Anne bouffant.
Never stop eating KFC, when you do, bad things happen. – WWCD (What Would the Colonel Do?)
If there was ever a time to eat a salad, this was not it.
Try to remember that there is no need to end Skream during his set; he more often than not knows what he’s doing.
Don’t believe what people say about Italians having style.
Remortgage your home so you can buy some Buckfast out here, or club tickets, or lunch. But not all three. Unless your house is in rural Kent and you drive a Porsche Cayenne like some form of fuckwit.
High Heels with bikinis is just impractical. Why do people think this is okay?
I hope to one day be Patrick Nazemi.
Though Farage is a great man, he has ruined my busman’s holiday with this whole Brexit thing.
Learn more / less from Ashley on Twitter: @Only_Ashley