I don’t like crowds*, loud music or strobe lights. So yes, going clubbing in Ibiza was for me a ‘must do’. I’ve been to Ibiza twice now for work (don’t ask, my work is weird) and first time round I managed to avoid ‘da clubs’ altogether, but recently I wasn’t so lucky. In a taxi with my colleagues at 2am, I had no choice. I was about to experience the adult wonder palace that is the Ibiza nightclub.
Ok first up who the hell GOES to a club at 2am? I mean surely that is time to be leaving a night club? Or more specifically that is the time to be tucked up in bed, just getting to the dream where I am Captain of an intergalactic spaceship under heavy enemy fire.
But this is how things are done in Ibiza, and ever one to acquiesce to local traditions, I continued.
The car of colleagues was all abuzz because FatBoy Slim was going to be DJing at Amnesia (the club we were heading towards with all the inevitability of spilling chocolate on white jeans). Clearly I was on a different wavelength when I made what I thought was a hilarious comment “oh the irony” and was met with blank looks from the rest of the car. We work in the fitness industry. Fatboy Slim. Fitness. It was funny. OHYOUSHUTUP.
We arrived at ‘da club’ and it for some reason gave me flashbacks of a school disco. I mean, take away the alcohol, drugs, celebrity DJ and add back in Mean Girls, hormones and wait where was I going with this? Anyway, it make me think of school discos because all I could see were groups of people determined to HAVVELIKETOTALLYTHEBESTNIGHTOFTHEIRLIVES. The club was huge, and the music was great (could have done without the synchronised strippers though), and it sure looked like a great gosh darn time – but these Brits abroad that filled Amnesia were putting a lot of pressure on the sweaty laser filled rooms.
Given that a Vodka Red Bull was €25 and I am just generally fucking contrary, I ordered a beer. I don’t like beer. But it was an easy thing to hold and not drink while I watched what was essentially a live Channel 4 documentary. And also because I was there with work, and they have enough embarrassing stories to blackmail me with so not drinking was a good life choice.
It was amazing, truly (not sarcastically) amazing to see a super club in action. People are just so damn happy to be there (read: drugs) and the music is actually rather good (says the girl who’s musical knowledge taps out at the Spice Girls). If I didn’t have a 10am flight the next morning, I might actually have got my groove on a little. And yes, I do realised that by saying ‘get my groove on’ I instantly disqualified myself from ever being Ibiza cool.
I managed to stay until 4:30am at which point my beer was warm, making it even worse than when I started holding it – and that I still hadn’t packed. After quickly sending a selfie to my Sister to prove I had done it…Exit Rebecca, stage left.
Heading back to the hotel, throwing things into my suitcase and managing to get a couple of hours sleep – I was damn glad I had gone to an Ibiza nightclub. No, I probably won’t ever go again, but I am a firm believer in at least trying things once. You need to prove that you can do it, and also experience before you decide your reaction.
Oh and the best part? Because of the warm beer situation, I was tired but not hungover at the survivers breakfast the next morning. Which meant I could seriously enjoy my three helpings of french toast, and unreservedly attack the breakfast cakes. BREAKFAST CAKES.
*I wrote this on my phone and first time it autocorrected ‘crowds’ to ‘clouds’ and now I want to write a post about someone with an irrational hatred of clouds. I mean can you imagine living in the UK and hating clouds? You would be in a permanent disgruntled state.