Tales of catastophe, sex and squalor from the Alpine Underbelly...

Belle de Neige

Tuesday, 6 July 2010

Last days in Pergatory

So I tried the Ibiza life on for size to see if it fitted. And hey ho, it doesn’t.
The DJ couldn’t comprehend my logic when I announced I was leaving.

‘But’ he frowned, looking confused, ‘I like you! You’re fun! And you’re my platonic female friend which means I’d look after you – treat you and stuff. Take you with me on jaunts...And You LIVE in Ibiza. Why could you possibly want to leave? If you’re feeling hungover you can go and just SIT in the SEA. Just SIT in it! ‘

Fair point. I’m giving up a shit load of fun here. But this is a conversation between someone who has just definitively found his place in the world and someone who is still very much seaching for hers. Ibiza was, afterall, practically invented by mother nature for The DJ. Skipping happily from one party to the next, with a few cursory hours thrown in each week mixing tunes. Surfing between comedowns on a cocktail of sunloungers, sea, sex and reefers and getting in free everywhere. Particularly if you’ve been doing just that for the last 15 years -the simple life.

Predictably, as soon as I made the decision to leave, it suddenly seemed like a ridiculous thing to do. Where else in nonexistantgod’s name will I ever find myself draped on a sun lounger at sunrise on an empty beach having my head stroked and being fed K off a crucifix by a complete stranger? Where else will I dance bare-foot in the sand with tanned beauties in at a secret beach party and meet Ian Brown all in one week? Where else will I meet a girl like The Dam and feel I’ve known her for 10 years after only a few glasses of wine and a dance in Space? Where else will I ever lie round a pool with such colourful characters as Fat Tony and Sid? Where else will I ever be exposed to the magnificent levels of directionless debauchery achieved when The DJ joins forces with his double-act side kick, The Other DJ (or ToDJ as I will affectionately dub him)?

After their entourage of fans, their stalker Alison and The Dam had drifted off to various other parties, or to sleep I found myself the lone passenger on the drug-addled escapade that inevitably follows a magnificent set played in Space the night before. It had been a hard morning’s lounging on the beach with The DJ's disco ipod speakers balanced on my tummy, sharing a warm Strongbow with ToDJ and scandalizing holiday-makers. (The DJ, wearing an enormous square pair of shades, skin-tight jeans, a wife beater and with his head swathed in a bright red Lawrence of Arabia style turban, tried to hammer our beach umbrella into the sand using an empty Lambrusco bottle. It smashed and flew in all directions, spraying small children and elderly ladies with shards of glass. No one was amused).

‘Fuck you’re clumsy’, said ToDJ, scooping lumps of glass out from between his legs onto the sand.

We were hot so we decided to go and sit in the sea for a bit. I found myself sandwiched between them as they each tried to out-do one another with bizarre stories of the antics they’ve been up to when everyone else in the world was at work. They were like two ten year old boys trying to impress a new girl at school.

‘This one time, yeah? Right? ….we were round my old house off our tits and we, like, decided to make the stairs into a slide and skid backwards down them in a sleeping bag.’ This was ToDJ. ToDJ is 35….

The DJ: ‘This one time I like got on Old Street tube in rush hour and on a whim decided to pull the emergency cord. The whole train stopped and the guy had to walk the length of all the carriages to sort it out. And what I loved…. Right? Yeah? ….. is that at no point in the whole exercise did I like think ‘oh shit what have I done?’ …. I just thought, Brilliant! I’ve always wanted to do this and now I have. Now to deal with it. So I took my sunglasses off, admitted it was me, said I was a prick and apologised to the whole carriage…then got off at the next stop’

DJ’s are a menace to society. And they wear sunglasses on the tube.

I have also never met someone as supremely confident about his abilities with women, as the DJ. So far since he's been here he hasn't actually managed to get laid - so I'm concerned that his confidence is a little misplaced.

'I'm not saying I'm perfect', he said, leaning back on his sunlounger like a fucked roman emperor and beaming at me from under his shades, 'It's just that I'm that little bit better than everything else that's on offer.'

Oh the stresses and strains of being an international superstar DJ. The main focusses of their daily concerns:

1. Who do I know who can get me into Cocoon free later?
2. Where are the next drugs coming from?
3. Am I going to get laid in the next 24 hours?
4. Are my leggings outrageous enough?
5. Where the fuck am I?

The last 24 hours have, as I predicted, been the most fun. I thought about staying. But when I peered ahead into the fog of parties and recoveries I just felt a bit bored. Turns out I left more at home than I knew I had. When I decided to call this part of the blog ‘Lost in Space’ I had no idea how appropriate that name really was.

I don’t want to be lost any more.

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