I Did Not Get Sex in Ibiza

 

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I’ve been trying to think of a dynamic way of opening this blog post- reeling you in with a glimpse of some sordid Mediterranean affair, or with a picture of my veiny knob contrasted against a glittering seaside sunset.

 

But neither of these things happened.

 

I spent a week in Ibiza last month with a mate, his girlfriend, her mates and one of her mates’ boyfriends. Although I had a brilliant time I cannot deny that I’m frustrated that I didn’t get a shag. And it wasn’t for lack of trying.

 

I did pull one girl in Amnesia when Laidback Luke was performing a set. We’ll call the girl G. She was cute- not stunning and dressed in one of those overgrown baby-gro outfits in bright green- but certainly fit enough. She claimed to be from Surrey, despite sounding decidedly cockney. She’d lost her phone though, so I got her friend’s number- We’ll call her R- and her hotel room number. They were staying at Ibiza Rocks Hotel, apparently one of the most mental, party-centric places to stay on the island. We arranged to meet up the next day at the concert being held at her hotel- I’d got tickets to see Mark Ronson and Zane Lowe, and hotel residents get free entrance anyway (their rooms look down on the outdoor stage and dance floor, so there’s no point charging them entrance to the venue).

 

I tried to get something sorted that night, but it just didn’t happen for some reason. I texted R’s phone but she said she’d lost G. In fact, a few days later I bumped into R and she said she hadn’t seen G since I’d met them.

 

Well I haven’t seen her,” I said, hands up. I then realised how much of a rapist / serial killer I must have sounded. For fuck’s sake.

 

One of the reasons it was so hard to connect with G is that we were staying in a villa that was MILES from any of the landmarks of the island- up on some hill somewhere. Admittedly, it was a beautiful place we stayed in, and an upgrade from the (already expensive) place we’d already booked. But this wasn’t ideal for us all, especially not me. We paid a lot for accommodation because my mate wanted to make it a memorable holiday for his girlfriend, who was turning 30. So I agreed to shell out to be part of it. But I wasn’t the only person suggesting that cheaper accommodation would allow more money for clubs, which was top priority for me. I can laze by a pool in Majorca through an Easyjet flight if that’s what I wanted. I wanted to meet people, to be in the middle of the action, to not have a quiet holiday. My mate brought me a fucking book to read, for fuck’s sake. And I did read it. A good number of days we just lazed by the pool. But it was a good book, admittedly.

 

I digress. We made it to Space, we saw the West End, we went to the beach, we saw the sunset and sunrise, we went to Booom! (met a STUNNING Spanish girl called Alexa, long, curly dark hair and thick-rimmed geek-style glasses and LOVELY tits, who was giving me signals but I still managed to lose her- big place… okay and I’m shit with women) and Amnesia and Eden, but we didn’t get to Blue Marlin, Cafe Mambo, Cafe Del Mar, Pacha, DC10, Sankeys, Es Paradis… We went past a few of them though.

 

We’re already planning next year, and my suggestions to save money by scrimping on accommodation are falling on deaf ears…

 

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