Ibiza covered


Heavens, the loos at Gatwick south terminal are palatial! Were they the highlight of my Ibizan holiday? No they weren’t, but they were the highlight of hanging around waiting for the 03.05 from Gatwick to Victoria. I’d narrowly missed the 02.05 because we’d to queue for half an hour to get through passport control, a mild inconvenience rendered five times more irritating by the sound of tutting and ‘It’s absolutely ridiculous’ at 15 second intervals. Yup, it’s security. Yup, at an airport. Not so very ridiculous then, hey? Plus it gave our bags time to sail around the carousel for a bit. Don’t they deserve some fun too? Whee!

I return exactly – that’s higg-ZACKLY – the same shade as when I left, although the face is possibly a fraction more farmery after its Falmouth and Portland scouring. Everyone else lay like lizards in the sun, defending themselves effortlessly, while I sat in the shade dozing through the why-do-legs-take-so-long-to-tan conversations. Mine take so long to tan because I cover them in factor 50, wear a long skirt and sit under a parasol. Which is, I realise, the equivalent of wearing not one but three boiler suits. Even the babies wore less than I did.

We had two little ‘uns with us this year, who provided excellent covering fire for laziness. I regarded nap time as a general instruction and staggered off every afternoon for up to three hours’ sleep (wtf?). It also meant that my clubbing abilities were never tested. We went to two very posh places, the first of which was Bambuddha Grove, which featured ‘Mediterrasian cuisine’ and peculiar air of bondage-lite. There was a cabinet of curiosities (‘Where does THAT go?’) in the ladies, but nothing in the gents. They had to make do with mishearing our descriptions – cue thought-provoking mix-up bellowed across the large round table: ‘Eh? What’s an anal beard?’ ‘No! Anal BALLS’.

There were two young tattooed, corseted and heavily made-up young women going round the tables offering massages. In the ensuing chit-chat we let slip that there had been a footballer in earlier, and how had the girls missed him? It was awful. Their smiles froze, their hearts broke, and the head waiter lined himself up for quite a tongue-lashing. Though given the décor and the way the ‘angels’ were dressed, a tongue-lashing from the WAG twins is possibly what he lives for.

Later in the week we went to Aura, which has exceptionally nice, helpful (and fit) staff. We got our free drink, earned by joining their mailing list, and had a fantastic meal including the sharing main that was described – accurately – as ‘a kilo of beef’. I stuck with risotto but observed with interest the meat sweats and accompanying oofs as the plates were cleared.

Much drink was taken and eventually we tottered off into the night, milling around outside and getting into assorted taxis. To my sharp alarm, the other two taxis containing just about everyone else turned right and we-the-remnants turned left. The thing is, no hablo el espanol. And certainly not enough to express my deepest feelings that went something like oi chief, where the fuck are we off to, follow those taxis and don’t spare the horses. Instead I said something vaguely Mediterranean (er, seguire il taxi por favor monsieur) which was in any case drowned by my utterly USELESS travel companion who was giggling helplessly, sporadically crowing ‘Ooh look, I’ve got a text’ and trying to stuff the napkin she’d nicked down the front of her dress. No help from that quarter, then. As the glow from our companions’ taillights faded in the rear-view, I consoled myself that only pissed-up British soldiers are stupid enough to commit a violent crime on an island, and anyway, we just needed to find the sea and keep walking (left or right? I had no idea but we could cross that bridge when we came to it). Anyway Joe le Taxi radioed control and they gave him the address, presumably donated by the drivers of those other taxis who left Aura at EXACTLY THE SAME TIME and we reached home a minute after the others. The driver then gave me a lecture – delivered in Spanish yet all too comprehensible – about maybe being a bit better informed about where I lived (I AM. Just not in Spanish). I dredged up ‘Lo siento’ from somewhere, wished him goodnight in Italian, and dragged my napkin-bosomed chum off to the veranda for another round of gin and tonic.

Now the struggle is on to lose those extra 5lbs that came out of nowhere. That’s the nowhere built of pork, steak, chorizo, bread, paella, cheese, booze and double-choc Cornettos. My first step last night was to watch two hours of Marple on ITV3 and eat half a packet of Rich Tea. The journey may be longer than I’d calculated.


One Response to “Ibiza covered”

  1. Ibiza Island holidays really great, Nice to share your experience with us.

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