Ibiza
For people who think they’re spiritually connected to house music but can’t spell “Balearic”
Ibiza isn’t just a destination. It’s a lifestyle. It’s for the elite. The deep. The chosen few who believe dancing barefoot on a beach while holding a €17 mojito is the highest form of human expression.
But look closer and it’s mostly Steve from Croydon in a mesh vest, off his nut, trying to get into a VIP area with a wristband from last year.
The Airport Experience
You can always tell who’s flying to Ibiza. The girls are already in crochet tops. The lads are chanting something that sounds like a football song but it’s actually about Ket. One guy’s on Instagram posting “Catch Flights Not Feelings” and he definitely has feelings. Loads of them. Mostly confusion.
You board the flight with 84 other Kevin’s and 67 more Perry’s who all think they’re headlining Amnesia.
Arrival in Paradise
You arrive. It’s hot. Like opening-the-oven-to-check-the-pizza hot. You’re sweating but pretending you’re glowing.
The taxi driver is already sick of you and it’s only Tuesday. You ask him if he knows where the good parties are. He says “no” without blinking. He knows what you are. He’s seen 400 of you this week alone.
The Beach Scene
You head to the beach in San Antonio. It’s beautiful from far away. Up close it’s a mix of hungover Brits, half-deflated lilos, and 6 lads with matching tribal tattoos playing “Ibiza Classics” off a UE Boom at full blast.
You lie down on the sand. Someone next to you starts vaping aggressively. A seagull tries to nick your sunglasses. You close your eyes and pretend this is spiritual.
The Clubbing Experience
Ibiza is famous for its clubs. But here’s the truth.
You paid €90 to get into a warehouse with lights. A man in a bucket hat tells you this is the “best DJ set of the decade.” You can’t hear anything because the bass is making your lungs rattle. You’re dancing next to a woman who may or may not be asleep with her eyes open.
There’s a queue at the bar. You finally get served. You order two vodkas and a Red Bull. The barman says “that’ll be €47.”
You nod, because you’re too proud to admit you’ve made a huge mistake.
Sunset at Café Mambo
You go for the famous Ibiza sunset. Everyone’s there. It’s beautiful. The sky melts into oranges and purples and someone’s playing deep house on a speaker shaped like a pineapple.
You think “this is it. This is the moment.”
Then a stag party shows up in Borat mankinis and ruins everything by doing the Macarena. One of them throws up into a bucket of sangria. The magic is over. But you post it on your story anyway with the caption “lost in the moment” because vibes.
VIP Delusions
Ibiza is full of people pretending to be in VIP. You see lads in poolside booths sipping prosecco like they’re in a rap video. One of them has brought a vape the size of a trumpet. Another is pouring Grey Goose into a plastic cup like it’s holy water.
They’re sharing one bottle between nine of them. The bottle girl comes over and sprays them with glitter. They feel like kings. They paid €600 for this. They will eat dry toast for three months when they get home.
The Morning After
You wake up in a hotel room you don’t recognise. Your legs are sunburnt. Your head is pulsing. You’re wearing a glitter vest that isn’t yours. Your last memory is shouting “this is the best night of my life” while falling down a staircase.
You find three wristbands on your arm and no idea what any of them mean. You check your bank account. You whimper.
But you open your phone and see a photo with a man, it’s Wayne Lineker. This is the best moment of your life.
Final Words from Mr Jones
Ibiza is not a place. It’s a fever dream with strobe lighting. It’s where you go to lose control in designer sunglasses while pretending it’s for your soul.
You’ll spend too much. Sleep too little. Feel everything and nothing all at once. And you’ll absolutely go again next year.
Because no matter what anyone says
You don’t choose Ibiza
Ibiza chooses you