Posted by: Team McSlade | May 14, 2010

I give you, Ibiza

Before you start reading this, please whack in a ‘house’ dance CD, grab yourself a heat lamp, a couple of your favourite drinks, a postcard of the ocean, and a couple thousand of your closest friends to spend the next few moments together getting a party started.

Ibiza 2010 is here, and we are there too. Before we rolled out of Gandía the party was cranking up – not because it was the place to fire off bottle rockets, but because the bus was two hours late. Good start.
An hour and change prior to the original 4pm kick-off a ‘remember to bring your medical insurance’ email was fired out at 2.45pm, so no one was in a hurry, tranquila [pronounced ‘tran-KEY-la’ and meaning ‘relaaaxxx’ in Spanish; get used to it people].
Thus at 6 on the bus, a half hour to the ferry and a couple of girls not realising the bus wasn’t equipped with a toilet made for an interesting ride. Politely asking for the bus to stop became threatening, then dire, then pleading, then (for everyone else) hilarious as Filip, our illustrious leader at the ferry terminal pointed out the vast Mediterranean and how it was completely made of water, beautiful water.

The (dis)organisation continued at the docks, with not hearing our names called out for our tickets, names spelt incorrectly, making the ferry run late, dinner randomly handed out… still we got on and the party was under way, literally.
On the top deck at the back a DJ was set up, the pool was wedged with people and the bar was open. Livin’-it-large would aptly describe it, many crashing in fully clothed or in underwear – where’s your towel? What towel? Precisely.
It definitely puts Aussie footy trips to shame; it’s as if some here have an internal ‘mad-for-it’ switch they threw when they got on board. I love jumping into pools, especially back-flips, but I’m not going dive into beer and debris and dance around in tepid salt water soup with roughly 600 of my new best friends.

The evening’s final insult/assault was the bus trip to the hotel. Jo, myself and most others on the bus have travelled extensively, and with that comes a sense of direction, it is this sense that the bus driver was not holding in spades (or a map).
We saw the same towels hanging from an apartment block three times, it was like the National Lampoon’s European Vacation with Clark Griswald pointing out Big Ben and Parliament House for hours on a roundabout.
Our version was “Look kids, Lidl, oh here are the towels, Mcdonlads (sorry, that’s McDonalds and I was tired), Lidl, towels, that joint with the colourful balconies, towels, (Big Ben), Balconies…. oh here we are, now you can start walking to the hotel.” WHAT THE..?
The three blind mice had packed up for the eve, as it was 2.30am and with 120 people out the front of the hotel on the road, taxis struggled to drive past, people wanted sleep, and the security guard was doing his best to look like beefcake in leather. He was more than adequate, yet if the riot that was simmering took place, his leather jacket was not going to stop the angry mob.

Please note that even though this is a tirade of frustration we all laughed through it, at the girls about to burst (Necesito, por favor, por FAVOR), the bus driver and his want for a map and a clue, the stupidity of the ferry staff asking the last thirty of 2000 to board on the other side of the ferry.
Tranquila, qué pasa nada, vale y basta ya – all mean relax, ok, chill out and be cool (fools); and we have been doing this like Bob Dylan.
Lord knows that we were relaxed when the wheels fell off for a few punters the next night at the beach party.
But that can wait….tranquilaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

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  1. After reading about your ferry and bus adventures, all I’ve got in my head is…the venga bus is coming…written by the same lyrical geniuses who gave us we’re going to Ibiza…!!

    I think it’s hilarious that you’re hanging out there – can’t wait to hear the stories!!!

  2. Sounds so intimate – especially the piss-beer soup, mmmmmmmm!

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