It is a truth universally acknowledged that the clubbing, entertainment and hospitality industries are chock full of...nay, up to the bollocks in, tosspots. Tosspots of all shapes, sizes and cunt-i-ness.
Egotists. Shisters. Bullshitters. Downright arseholes. People in general who wouldn't piss on you if you were aflame in a ditch somewhere screaming. I've got the T-shirt to prove it.
This is why I approach with extreme caution any punters peddling themselves under this variety of headings. It is also why I wasn't all that perturbed to find The Boss unconscious, dribbling and sweaty in a grotty hotel room when SbH and I rocked up on the island at 9am Tuesday morning. He was, after all, on the tail end of an 18-man strong stag do to rival The Hangover. Why on earth would I expect him to be compus mentus to greet me after an 18 hour drive?
After some grunting and mooching around he regained the power of speech, crooned 'Heeeey partner! Welcome to Ibiza!' at me and enveloped both SbH and I in a sweaty hug. We were then regaled with a story about a girl he'd met the previous evening who claimed to have once shagged an entire stag do. Including the groom. 'Bet shagging her was like trying to drive a sausage up the M1' he drawled before keeling over and passing out again.
By my calculation, however, and in relative terms to some of the clubland twats I've come across during my time this dude is quite a solid chap. By midday our apartment was all sorted out and he was off into town selling tickets to his boat party scheduled for that very same evening, to which we were cordially invited. So it all turned out nice again, as they say.
The apartment is but 60 seconds walk from the beach so no complaints there. Although clearly it is inhabited by a paedophile, catholic axe murderer off-season judging by the person-sized and totally un-necessary freezer in the kitchen, creepy jesus icons above the beds and miniature china figurines littered around the place, which have been duly relegated to the cupboards.
In fact, the only major fly in the ointment is the noise. Ibiza knows no silence, I'm aware of that. But there's noise and then there's Japanese water torture nosie....
Evidently two very fat, ugly and consequently angry Spanish ladies live in the flats behind mine as they are always hurling abuse at each other across the courtyard. One of them also owns a canary.
Now, I'm not generally a violent person, particularly with animals. But if I ever catch that tweety little fucker I will take heightened pleasure in ripping it's feathers out one by one and stuffing it with petrol soaked newspaper. I will then set it on fire and use it as an ornithological Molotov cocktail straight through fat Spanish bint's front window!