Working for Ministry of Sound and Hed Kandi includes, on a large scale, talking about Ibiza
Despite my job being based around sourcing Ibiza related gold, I have never once visited the White Isle. Call me boring, but I generally keep my holidays for relaxing and my nights out to stay in a double figure price bracket. Also, there’s a cynical part of me that thought those Protein World ads were aimed at people who use #ibiza and #thinspiration in their gym selfies and I haven't been on a treadmill since school.
However, I’m about to feast on my own words as I fly right into the belly of the beast to see what Ministry of Sound and Hed Kandi are up to in 'biza. I'm attending the parties I've been writing about for the last six weeks and I’ve got cherry popping nerves that extend far beyond FOMO, I mean:
Is the flight going to be like the one in the Venga Boys video?
Before Hed Kandi, there were the Venga Boys. A group of Dutch pop stars managed to soundtrack an entire generation’s pre conceptions of Ibiza with a song that can now only be described as "a student union anthem", yet I still put my trust in the hands of Venga Airways and pray that the joy it filled me with as a seven year old remains on touch down.
How many of these people are actually going to be out there?
Lately I’ve been having nightmares of men wearing T Shirts tighter than women, hurling themselves around clubs choked with squads of middle aged hen parties. It's like Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas with strobe lights. I wake up, filled with the fear that I’ll come home with a new BFF from TOWIE, having witnessed Justin Beiber trying to beat up Orlando Bloom. How many of these Ibiza stereotypes actually exist? Am I prone to actually becoming one of them, a self fulfilling prophecy?
What sort of fucking shoes should I bring?
Heeled shoes remind me of a time when I got into clubs using the ID of a girl whose ethnic background was about five continents away from mine. Wearing heels seemed to legitimise the whole ridiculous situation so I wore them to detract attention from my clearly underage self. I now feel like I'll be the one hobbling around the dancefloor of Es Paradis, feeling like my ankles are in fiery hell rather than Tropical Paradise.
How much am I actually going to have to pay for a drink?
There’s a rumour going around that in some clubs, bottled water can cost in excess of five euros. FIVE EUROS. Surely this is like pouring petrol on a person already on fire from the burning, Ibiza shaped hole in their wallet? If figures weigh in, I’m going wind up a dehydrated, poverty stricken disgrace, broken from trying to conquer Ibiza in a pair of shoes that haven’t seen the light of day for five years.
Tamara will be back from Ibiza with her findings next week...
Get in Ibiza spirits without leaving the country and come down to Together's Ibiza Launch Party with Disciples this Saturday. Get tickets here.