I’ve been in Ibiza since Saturday. It’s changed a lot since my last visit in 1985. If you can imagine a Sluts’R’Us convention in Chav Central you’ll be somewhere near the unique ambience of this little jewel in the Med. Did I say jewel? I meant it in the tackiest possible way. If it weren’t for the aspiring footballer’s wives and the even more aspiring footballers, this place would be a ghost town, populated by a few dusty old Spanish trims and the occasional leery Algerique drug dealer.
Surprisingly, the victrix ludorum for the gobbiest bitch falls not to one of the northern tarts falling out of their ill fitting Spice Girl chic outfits. Neither is it grasped by the fleshy palms of the lardy southern girls, but instead it is taken by an Irish lass who’s stream of invective at the beach chair ticket vendor this morning needed to be heard to be believed. Even now I’m struggling to work out how she managed to fit so many expletives in one sentence. I think she meant to say that she had doubts about the veracity of the charges being imposed, but in the course of saying this, she managed to fit in the words ’fuck’ or ’fucking’ more often than all the other words put together, then rounded it off with; ’Fuck that, fucking cunt’. No wonder Ireland is the land of poets.
I’ve always thought the cheery little Leprechaun image of Ireland and the Irish was well wide of the mark. This was later confirmed by a dribbling cretin with a Dublin accent who approached every girl walking in the bar I was in with the classic line; “I’d fuckin’ love you to sit on my fuckin’ face, darling.”
So debonair, eh. I wonder if he got a result?
They say San Antoni is the only port in the Western world with no prostitutes. I can only suppose this is because short of them wearing signs there would be no way of identifying them. This may sound prudish, but please don’t read in a word of complaint, I am merely a dispassionate observer.
I witnessed a young couple hard at it on a beach table ten metres from the main road late last night. When they finished – and yes, I did stop for the show – he rejoined his mates and she lay there laughing her head off, quite incapable of getting off the table and shouting for her friends. My gob has never been so smacked. If I’d been royalty I would have declared the new tunnel open.
This is the only place in the world where the fish market smells like a disco. It seems going commando is de rigeur. By contrast the elegant, well-dressed and politely mannered local girls are refreshing to the point of it being embarrassing.
One of the reps is sitting at the bar. She’d been chatting on the Internet to her friend in Britain and lost track of time. Consequently, she’d missed the closing time at the laundry and was bemoaning the fact that she had no knickers. The Spanish girl behind the bar, a beautiful, raven haired goddess with a body that even makes me chew my knuckles, innocently offered to lend her a pair, but she thought they were all dirty, and sighed that, “No-one would want my dirty knickers”.
Every male head in the bar did the Exorcist twist, at least three drinks dribbled slowly out of gaping mouths and one bloke beat a hasty retreat to his room for an appointment with the bishop.
“What?” she said.
“Hunnnhhh,” was all I could manage.
Back on Monday, tan assured.