There’s nothing worse than an old rocker never retiring and going on and on. They don’t know when to hang up the microphone and guitar and take up bird watching. It can be torture to watch and while they may indeed feel energised, it can leave us feeling a bit sad for them.
Some have done it well. Bono from U2 seems to be handing his old age well. Bruce Springsteen is another who is cracking the “grow old gracefully” nut with some style. But, as I look at these guys, I have to look at myself too.
So, when my partner this week told me she wanted a “decent bloody holiday” this year, she didn’t miss me and hit the wall. Ibiza or bust was the demand.
Recently, we have been watching the Netflix mini series Whitelines. It is pretty good. A 16+ rating so as you would expect, some nudity, sex, violence and adult-rated content. Perfect! But, set in Ibiza it has obviously got my partner hankering for a trip to sun-drenched island of music and dance.
This brings me to my point. I’m an old rocker who at 53-ish worries about hitting the clubs in Ibiza. And it gets worse.
Normally, we would go to an Airbnb experience where we would relax, chill out and be away from as many human beings as possible. As “introverts” that is what we do best.
Occasionally on holiday we would break cover and hit a restaurant for a steak or some Italian. A wee treat away from home cooking. But something is in the wind. Something has changed. And I fear watching Whitelines has been a catalyst for change in my partner’s expectations from a holiday. This time she wants a hotel and some nightlife! Crikey...
As the loving husband, I duly began my research on Ibiza. While no expert, I had already watched four episodes of Whitelines, so I knew that clubbing was part of this gig. But I had no idea what was in store.
I used the usual suspects for my holiday planning – booking.com, Google and a host of other engines to generate that knock-em-dead-cheap-but-cheerful escape to the Med. And here is where my first unpleasant surprise slapped me around the kisser. Ibiza ain’t cheap.
It seems it has a loyal market who are willing to pay to be there for the clubbing season. What one might deem a decent hotel for four nights was a grand for a basic double room. If I wanted to spoil my princess and burst the credit card, I could upgrade to a mini or junior suite and this would cost me two grand. All of a sudden, the tight-fisted holiday planner of old was beginning to sweat. Five hundred quid a night?
During her request for a decent holiday in Ibiza, my darling also mentioned that she might not mind a spot of clubbing. And here is where this old rocker really began to feel his age. It seems that discotheques as I would know them or even clubs of old are not what ibiza is all about. Heading out around 9pm for a few drinks, then hitting a club for a boogie ain’t what Ibiza is all about. My research was beginning to stress me out a little.
Firstly, clubs in Ibiza can start mid-afternoon. Of course, I should’ve known this as Whitelines has many scenes where the crew are bouncing away at a pool party in the afternoons. If I opted to go to a well-known club like Ushuaia, then the party starts at the pool at 3pm and goes on till 11pm. There will be DJs, a phenomenal stage with scantily clad, well-toned dancers, a light show and mightily expensive drinks. Yes, for the privilege of being “one of the crowd” try fifteen quid for drink. And that is in old rocker bargain basement. The real players buy bottles of champagne, top drawer vodkas and hugely pricey cocktails. But all that aside, how in God’s name do they party all day long?
Well, rather naively as I scoured the photos online of various different pool parties, it dawned on me that there may be intoxicants other than alcohol being consumed. What a Wally! Of course, the class-A drug of choice. Hence, the name of the Netflix series. Mind you, the Ibiza clubs would, of course, state that they have a zero-tolerance policy for such things.
But, if I manage to get through a full day at a pool party pretending I’m happy about the extortionate drink prices, that is not the end of the road. Oh no. We have the twilight clubs to hit next. Entering these clubs at 1am, we can continue that party to 6am. I had a look at the prices. Of course I did, I’m Scottish right? Well can I tell you that the entry ticket prices can hit 70 euros. Then there is the cost of drinks again to contend with.
As you can see this old-time rocker is beginning to look worse for wear. And what would I wear?
I don’t have a washboard stomach and my sartorial choices are fairly limited in my Ikea wardrobe. So, a trip to the shops will be needed to even make an effort to make me look semi-presentable at Pacha. The debt mountain is piling up.
I will go to Ibiza. I have no choice in the matter. She who is to be obeyed has spoken. But, I need to make sure that I can get through the whole experience with some panache and not like an old rocker, who should be pottering around in the garden.
Right, I’m off to see if I can find a cheaper hotel deal…
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