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Monday, 12 December 2011
Summer 2011 - Ibiza
Sat in the Gatwick Bridge Bar I asked myself the question: Why did I book a holiday to Ibiza? I'm pretty sure it sums up everything I don't look for in a holiday - Beach, Brits and all the culture of a Wetherspoons in Watford... Because it was £99, booked that afternoon, flying out that evening. Spontaneous is my favourite.
The queue for check-in looked like an uglier version of the only way is Essex and the buzz of following through with a spur of the moment decision turned to apprehension about the type of holiday I'd signed up for.
I was surrounded by luminous 'chavs on tour' group t-shirts. These are my least favourite types of people - vain, vacuous and full of self importance - or you can read that as my jealousy that they are younger and better looking than me with no responsibilities. I was still determined that I would have fun finding the less neon parts of the island and maybe even some Spanish people. It is a Spanish island right? Yes. Dinlo.
On the transfer bus from the airport to our accommodation the standard of the morons had dropped even lower. One especially drunk skinhead took it upon himself to walk up and down the bus asking everyone where they were staying. If they said somewhere other than his resort he would shout 'fuuuuuucckkk' as loud as he could as if this meant his accommodation was inferior. He also used phrases like 'hold tight' and 'standard' where I might say 'good' or at a push 'cool'.
Overly confident plebs, the lot of them. Any earlier inclinations I had to make some bus friends had well and truly gone.
We arrived at the hotel 3:30am and it was rubbish. My neighbours had brought portable speakers with them... good ones. They went straight in to party mode and kept me up until 7am. No doubt I'd have enjoyed it more on the other side of the wall but as it was all I had for entertainment was a book my eyes were too tired to read. It's also quite hard to read when you're holding your head under a pillow.
After my two hours of sleep I was ready to seize the day and went off for a walk. It didn't take long to escape Essex and find some quieter and prettier beaches, the price of a beer dropped as well and I settled down for lunch in Port del Torrent where the offer was two pints for 2.50 euros. After my lunch I did my good deed for the day, lending 10 euros to three girls who had found that none of them brought any money with them. I doubted I'd see it again but I gave it to them with a lie saying that someone had done the same for me at an airport once and I was simply paying it forward. The truth of that story was that I had given $20 to a man for his departure tax from Cambodia. I really am a great guy!
That evening I went out with Ash and Tracey, an ex couple who are still friends. Ash is a very well built fireman and Tracey is a prison warden in Wakefield where Charles Bronson resides. Apparently he still occasionally greases himself up and squares up to the guards but well in to his fifties he isn't quite the threat he used to be. One of Tracey's roles in the prison is the therapy sessions with the worst sex offenders in Britain. She is a therapist to the rapists. Therapist... the rapist. I think it's funny... The word play, not the raping.
The night was a complete failure on my part as I got too drunk and was in bed by the time most people were venturing out.
The next day some idiots set fire to the hotel. After I'd seen the plumes of black smoke coming from the apartment two across from mine I gathered my valuables together and got out. Five minutes after that the fire alarm went off. Twenty minutes after that the fire brigade showed up. Once that entertainment was done I took a bus to Ibiza town, walked up a rampart and took a few photos.
In the evening I met the girls who I had heroically saved by lending them a tenner and they gave me the money back. They seemed really upset when I revealed that I wasn't paying anything forward but we had a nice night out. Before you start writing your own endings they were all in long term relationships. So as some of you will be wondering - no I didn't!
I finished my short trip to Ibiza with a long and very sweaty walk up a few hills. The island has some beautiful parts and I had enjoyed it but it will be the last time I visit.