In my younger days, I sought out only the party side of Ibiza; I cared little for her yoga-loving, green juice-gulping, incense-burning alter ego. It was as alien to me as little green men in flying saucers. But then, something remarkable happened. I grew up. Or should I say, I grew old. My body started to ache. The parties become less fun when the recovery takes longer than the night itself. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always be a house music-loving club-monster at heart, but I now realise that the secret of a happy clappy clubber is to get the delicate balance just right. Burn the candle at both ends and you’ll soon feel the heat. Years ago, I started working as a natural remedies shop and therapy rooms manager in London, overseeing a retail team of salespeople selling essential oil-based products, as well as managing 30 practitioners offering a wide range of therapies from homoeopathy to kinesiology. It was at that point that my casual interest in alternative therapies was piqued.

So when I was invited to the home of Gemma Espejo Degraph, husband Miguel and their two adorable children, Jaxson and Amelie-Angel (which also forms the base of their practise Electro Reiki Ibiza) to sample the treatments on offer, it was a no-brainer. Which was just as well – having rolled out of the Clockwork Orange party at Sankeys in Playa d’en Bossa a few hours earlier, the sorry remnants of my pickled little brain weren’t exactly firing on all cylinders…

I needn’t have worried. Stepping out of the blisteringly hot sun – eyeballs bulging like bloodshot boiled eggs behind huge fly-eye sunnies – and over the threshold into the crisp coolness of their pretty little Santa Eulalia finca, an instant sensation of relief and calm washes over me. Within minutes, Gemma has me up on her massage table, soothing meditation music tinkling gently in the background, the aromas in her essential oil diffuser tickling my nostrils. Like a Bisto Kid (yes, I’m that old), I follow my nose and inhale deeply as she sets about preparing her tools of the trade…

The Pain Genie, as I discover this gadget is called, is a handheld electronic device that is brushed over various parts of the anatomy, looking for blockages. A bit like a pimped-up Tens machine, it sends an electrical current through the body, “sticking” to areas which require healing. When she finds an injury or blockage, Gemma gently swipes the machine back and forth over it, encouraging energy into the area – thus allowing the body to heal itself. She is able to adjust the settings, so that the sensation is mildly tingly rather than painful; it’s actually a strangely enjoyable experience. Having successfully unblocked some “sticky” areas around my lower back and shoulders, it’s time for an aromatherapy massage. This is the second stage of the trilogy of treatments, and also my favourite.

Having predicted my hangover, Gemma has pre-blended an essential oil combo just for me, incorporating peppermint (for headaches and nausea), lemon (energising) and lavender (for relaxation) in a carrier oil, and sets about kneading my knotty muscles with the miracle potion. This particular treatment is known as the Divine Punishment Cure, and is just what the doctor ordered. It’s just as well I’m face-down on the massage table, I think to myself, as my tired eyes roll back in their sockets. I’m pretty sure I’m also drooling like a dog who’s about to be fed. Not the prettiest of sights! Ever the consummate professional, Gemma ignores my Les Dawson-style gurning and instead concentrates on working her magic on my tight torso and limbs – including my lanky legs which have seized up from dancing in towering heels all night long.

Just when I’m about to nod off, she gently leads me bleary-eyed from the table and onto a squishy bed nearby, where she wraps me in the Healing Health Blanket and swaddles me tightly like a baby. The blanket is lined with reflective metallic material similar to that used in astronauts’ suits, and has undergone extensive research by the Russian Space Program. It protects against potentially harmful electromagnetic fields, and the fabric rustles comfortingly as I cocoon myself in it and have a cheeky disco nap for what feels like seconds, before Gemma gently whispers to me that the thirty minutes in the blanket is up.

Blinking furiously, momentarily dazzled by the daylight like a newborn calf, I tentatively stand once more on my wobbly legs….only to find that they are no longer wobbly at all. The treatment has worked wonders, leaving me feeling like a new woman, ready to take on the world (or at least the Ibizan superclubs) once more. I’m agog and aghast, as I goggle in the mirror at my restored face: my eyes are no longer puffy, my candyfloss head has cleared, and I feel fresh, fierce and ready to fight another day. Gemma has performed a full factory reset; she’s rebooted this old boot. I have to take a moment to physically pat myself down in amazement.

In an ideal world, a trip to Ibiza would include a full 2-week stay, with a party every few days and plenty of R&R in between…but real life isn’t like that, as we all know; it’s more likely to be a flying visit with eight parties in four days. So if you need to fix up quicker than you can turn your malfunctioning iPhone off and on again, contact Electro Reiki Ibiza and allow Gemma’s magic hands to press control-alt-delete and reset your internal hard drive so you can party hard once more…

Electro Reiki is not just for self-inflicted suffering, oh no! It can be used to treat a multitude of ailments, from allergies to arthritis, infertility to depression. It is also used in anti-ageing beauty treatments. Gemma herself was driven to try the treatment by her own desperation to find a cure for the spondylitis that had previously blighted her life. For more information on the wide range of personalised treatments available, follow the Electro Reiki Ibiza Facebook page here, check out the website here or contact Gemma directly at electroreikiibiza@mail.com or on 00 34 626 036 699 or 00 34 971 326 807.

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Electro Reiki Ibiza appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

1. Glitter and face gems

No self-respecting party girl goes to a festival or Ibiza villa party without at least a smattering of facial sparkles these days, and if you know me IRL you’ll also know that I don’t like to do anything by halves. This little haul is a collection Andy and I (‘cos men like to shine too, yanno!) have built up over recent months from various sources, including Primark and New Look, although my absolute faves for quality and sparkle have to be Dust And Dance and The Gypsy Shrine:

2. Headdresses

Some people are of the view that wearing full-on feather headdresses is cultural appropriation, and disrespects Native Americans. I disagree, although I don’t necessarily fancy a debate about it when I go out partying, so rather than go the whole nine yards with a full-on traditional headdress I have worn a smaller feathered headpiece. If you want to play it safe, this little feathered headband is a gentle nod to the trend without ruffling the feathers of the party-pooper PC-brigade:

3. Feathered accessories

So if you like the idea of adding feathers to your outfit but want to stay away from hats and headdresses, the other option is to add a cute feathered bag or cape, like these fluffy little fellas from Topshop. I just had to get the bag, to be worn cross-body of course, for hands-free raving:

4. Sequins

I’m like a foraging magpie when it comes to all things sparkly, so I’m certainly no stranger to a sequin. This look may not be the height of understated sophistication, but is perfect for a fun day/night (and the next day?) of partying. My recent purchases have been this white irridescent dress from Pretty Little Thing and a bargain mint green one from Zara in the sale. Makeup in complementary shades by Kiko, my newest beauty crush. The Ibiza Nights jacket is from Pink Boutique:

​
5. Metallics

If glitter and sequins are a bit in-your-face bling for your liking, a hint of metallic looks party-ready without requiring sunnies to reflect the glare. Me, I’ll wear glitter, sequins and metallics all in one outfit, but if you prefer a more subtle approach, why not simply add a metallic bag or platform wedges to your usual look? Mine are from LilyLulu online:

I am also crushing on these rather special orange, purple and silver heels from And Other Stories, another fave Regent St haunt of mine (fine for dancefloors, not fields, mind):

Sooo now you’re all dressed up and ready to party like it’s 1999. If things get too hot in all that sparkle, just strip down to your Matthew Williamson bikini (orange of course, seeing as the party I’m attending next is the Clockwork Orange Ibiza weekender) from ASOS and shake what yo’ momma gave ya!

Enjoy!

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post My Festival Festi-haul  appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Sooo, it’s 6 weeks now until we hit Ibiza for the Clockwork Orange weekender bender and as I sit munching my Kettle Chips and M&S Victoria Sponge Muffins (which are, by the way, orgasmic) with all the restraint of a deranged Cookie Monster, I’m aware that at this rate I’m going to end up with a butt like Kim K on Bossa beach. The unairbrushed, lumpy version, I mean.
But wait! I wanna look boss on Bossa…not the boss of a chip shop. Now, we all know that the best way to get slim and slinky for Ibiza is…to go to Ibiza. A few days of relentless clubbing with just a few scraps of tapas tossed back pelican-style as you pit-stop between parties is the best diet going. For those of us who can’t squeeze in a pre-Ibiza Ibiza trip, I’m told there’s always these: Slenderiize magic drops.

Under the watchful eye of my fellow party-loving pal, the Super-Slender Slenderiize Seller (try saying that after a few cocktails down at Mambo’s) Lisa Jo, I’ll be following the Drop To Drop Programme for 28 days in the run-up to the holiday, starting on 1st July. So I’m hoping it’ll be “Hasta lluego, heifer” and “Hola, snake-hipped slinkstress!’ Can I pull it off? Watch this space…

1st July – 4 weeks to go!

Uh-oh! The Ibiza countdown has begun and I’m no closer to looking like a model than I was on my last diary entry. A model tank, maybe. Since I ditched the Marlboro Lights ten months ago I just can’t seem to stop eating all the pies. And cheese. And drinking all of the wine. When I said I was planning on “having it large in Ibiza” I was referring to the parties, not the portion sizes. I sigh at my reflection in the mirror. Mate, if you’re a fat clubber, you’re clearly doing something wrong. Avid dancers should be nimble and limber…not carrying excess timber. “You need to do the Ibiza Shuffle a bit faster my love,” I murmur under my breath as I clutch at my muffin-induced muffin-top. I’ll need to be bloody turbo-charged to dance quickly enough so no one can focus on my Non-Mum tum at the beach party at the end of July.

Do TFL make Food Baby On Board badges, I ponder? Well they should, I think, as I grip the pole with my bountiful butt-cheeks for balance whilst riding the packed tube and flipping through Elle magazine’s fashion section, which is awash with wafer-thin waifs.

But all is not lost! I started my Slenderiiz drops this morning: 15 drops of the 100% natural remedy under the tongue 30 minutes before brekky, lunch and dinner, healthy balanced meals (albeit smaller portions than I’m used to, as the recommended calorie allowance is 1250 a day – eek!) followed by 45 drops of the night-time formula in the evening, a few hours before bed. I’ve pored over the approved foods list, stocked up on green tea, fruit and veg, ditched the bread and pasta and have downloaded the Lose It! Calorie Counter app on my phone (they don’t mention what the “it” is you’re likely to lose – the will to live, perhaps?). All I need now is an orthodontist to wire my jaw shut and I’m good to go.

So, here are the obligatory before pictures – cringeworthy but necessary evidence, I guess. I’ll be checking in weekly with my progress, followed by a final update at the end of the 28-day programme. Obviously the proof will be in the pudding (or lack thereof)….

8th July – 3 weeks to go!

So I’m one week into the Slenderiiz Programme…and I’m actually killing it! I know, I’m as gobsmacked as you are! I’ve been taking my drops religiously and following the diet by eating around 1250 calories a day, selecting only foods from the approved foods list below…and so far I’ve lost half a stone! (and eight hours – be warned that if you attempt to go on the lash one night on this diet you will get very drunk, very quickly. Eek!)

But…people are already noticing and commenting on my weight loss. I surprised myself last year by giving up smoking effortlessly after almost 25 years on the evil weed, and now this! Will wonders never cease? I do think the drops are having a big effect, as I’m not getting cravings for naughty foods (I’d usually eat crisps and cakes like they’re going out of fashion), and whilst I don’t feel completely full after meals like I used to, I’m not chewing my own arm off in starvation either. I actually think I’ll be able to keep this up for the entire 28 days (and possibly beyond), whereas if truth be told I feared I’d fall at the first hurdle. I’m planning meals in advance and stocking up on the good stuff. I think my fridge has gone into a state of shock – it’s never been so full of green objects. And we’re eating all the veggies instead of feeding them as USOs (unidentifiable shrivelled objects) into the bin, which I’m ashamed to admit happened often in the past.

So far, so slender! Wahoo! Another update next week!

15th July – 2 weeks to go!

Two weeks into the programme, and my body is a temple (before, it was more the buddha sitting inside the temple). I’ve turned into a proper avocad-ho; Sainsbury’s have had to review their stock levels of the green stuff. I’m spending less on food (because the portion sizes are that much smaller), which could actually counteract the cost of the drops in the first place. For the first time, I’m beginning to agree with Kate Moss – she’s right, nothing does taste as good as skinny feels. The weight loss has slowed somewhat, which is frustrating as I’ve only lost a few pounds this week (taking my total weight loss to nine pounds in two weeks), but I’m getting addicted to the lighter-than-air feeling that comes from ditching white carbs. If it’s “no carbs before Marbs”, then this is “no pizza before Ibiza.”

The hardest part of the diet is dining out. I’ve tried to avoid it as I don’t know what’s in the food and I don’t want to undo the hard work, but on Tuesday Mum and I went to Bluewater. Lunchtime rolled around – one glance at the list of restaurants and it’s not hard to see why the UK is following in the footsteps of the USA with its obesity crisis: McDonald’s, Burger King, Five Guys, Eds Diner, Byron Burger, Pizza Express, Pizza Hut….

We settle on Bella Italia as they have some relatively healthy-looking options, and when I explain our predicament to the waiter he produces a giant tome the size of War And Peace which turns out to be their calorie guide. It all seems too much like hard work, so we decline their offer to dust off the giant book and instead settle on the most sensible things on the menu and hope for the best.

As I’m on holiday from work, where I’d typically be on my feet for nine hours, I’m aware that I’m not burning as many calories as usual. On Sunday morning Andy and I go for a run, which leaves my face the same beetroot shade as my hair, my legs like jelly, and I almost throw up three times.

However, the real challenge will come next week when we’re relaxing and eating out in Alicante for a week’s holiday at my parents villa…eek!

22nd July – 1 week to go!

The holiday gets off to a much healthier start than we’re accustomed to: we swop the usual calorie-laden Full English (with accompanying bubbles) at Gatwick for a fruit salad and a cuppa, salivating as surrounding holidaymakers tuck into their pukka tucker. The flight is the journey from hell: having reluctantly paid Ryanair’s rip-off fees to sit together, I soon wish I hadn’t bothered when the seats turn out to be between three screaming babies and their gymslip mums, who proceed to bash me with iPads and cover me in melted chocolate throughout the flight. Emergency prosecco takes the edge off, but the sugar-laden booze does nothing for my waistline…

After the obligatory celebration of arrival in sunny Spain with a bottle of ice-cold Cava on the seafront, we stock up on the good stuff at the supermercado – meaning we can prepare our own meals at the villa, thus retaining some control of portion sizes and what goes into them. The week is spent sunning ourselves by the pool, eating healthily and swimming. I do of course use my drops, but falling out of my regular routine whilst on holiday means that I slip up occasionally. I also indulge in the odd vodka limon and several copas de vino blanco, but, well, I am on holiday – it’d be rude not to. Despite being careful with our food, the halo slips towards the end of the week and I can’t resist a supersize Burger King at the airport on the way home. Old habits die hard! Upon return to Blightly I’m appalled to discover I’ve put on 4lbs during the holiday – gah! (I’m not sure what I expected, since alcohol is super-calorific and therefore strictly off-limits on this, and any, weight-loss programme). I now have only 3 days until we jet off to Ibiza for the Clockwork weekender. Can I redeem myself and get my weight loss back on track, taking my total loss back to 9lbs by the end of the programme this weekend? Watch this space….

28th July – time to fly!

The big day has finally arrived! I”m on the last day of my drops diet and it’s now time to leave for the airport and party our little socks off! So, how did I get on? Weeelllll, I didn’t lose quite as much weight as I’d hoped…half a stone in total….BUT considering I was on holiday from work for three weeks of the total four of the diet, lying by the pool for one of them, drinking wine and vodka cocktails (not in the same glass, obvs – that would be wrong), eating out and not doing any real exercise to write home about, I don’t think that was too bad a result. I reckon if you exercised like a demon and cut out alcohol completely you could easily lose three times that. Easily. I amazed myself by not having a single slice of bread, potato or crisp (…actually, I might have had a packet of crisps, but only one) for the entire month, and have consumed more fruit, veg, cous cous and general healthy stuff in this last four weeks than in the past year. I’ve never come anywhere near 5-a-day before now (unless we’re talking five units of alcohol) yet this has been a breeze. Enjoyable, even. I actually feel like I’ve changed my attitude and lifestyle, not just shed a few pounds and taken some magic drops.

Can I keep it up? That remains to be seen, but I’ll be doing my best to stick to the approved foods list and a healthier diet as a way of life from now on. Anyway, I’m off to shake my (slightly smaller) booty to house music on Bossa beach with the rest of the Clockwork Orange crew. Hasta lluego, amigos!

Wish me luck!

Sam x

If you’d like to try the Slenderiiz Drop To Drop Programme for yourself, contact Lisa here or follow her VIP page here. 

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Getting Slender For The Ibiza Weekender appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Here’s a little taster of some of the things we spoke about:

TANIA: Tell me about yourself…

SAM: From the Deep Heat cassette tapes of the late Eighties to the current Knee Deep In Sound podcasts on iTunes, I’ve always loved vocal house, deep house and techno. Aged 17, I had my first taste of Ibiza on a Club18-30s holiday with my 12 female BFFs, returning religiously each year before settling on the White Isle aged 21 to work the summer season of 1997 and star in the Sky1 fly-on-the-wall documentary Ibiza Uncovered alongside my pal Kez Wells. It was this programme, the first-ever reality TV show, which spawned a whole new genre of guilty-pleasure television. This led to various TV appearances, magazine and radio interviews as well as several documentary follow-ups. We loved living in Ibiza so much that we did the same stint in ’98.

Tania is live on FunkySX 103.7fm on Mondays and Thursdays 3-5pm. Click here to listen to Funky SX or go to www.funky.sx

 Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post I’m A Guest On FunkySX radio appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Ibiza.
Eye-beef-ahh.
Ee-beez-a.

Whatever your preferred pronunciation, most people who visit The White Isle never go just once: the island is a magnet. If she were a woman she’d be a fearless rubber-clad dominatrix, mercilessly reeling you in then spitting you out; she eats guileless tourists for breakfast.

My first foray to the island was as an impressionable 17-year-old schoolgirl, astounded and delighted in equal measure that my parents, along with those of my eleven closest girlfriends, had permitted us to go. Hence followed an annual pilgrimage to get our 2 week fix of fun and frolics – until two weeks just wasn’t enough anymore. Like an addict, I’d built up a tolerance and required ever-more hits to get my sun-drenched kicks. In 1997 I decamped to Ibiza for the season, filming Ibiza Uncovered and working at The New Star. I spent May til October in my happy place. Ditto ’98. The trips continued thick and fast and in 2005 I was married in Santa Eulalia to the Englishman I’d first met on the island in 1998.

Fast forward to 2016. After 15 years together the marriage is finito and I’m instead returning to the island with my fella Andy and our gang of trusty party devotees for our pal Keith’s 40th birthday celebrations at the big one: Space closing. Only this is not just the annual end-of-season shindig, this time it’s closing FOR GOOD. Terminado. Even typing these words brings a lump to my throat and a tear to my eye. (Or is that just the post-party blues?).

Space, my favourite club on Earth, is no more. Get a grip, you might say. It’s only a nightclub. But those that share my passion about the island’s club scene will understand my dismay. The heartbreak. Because Space is (was!) not just any club. It was a meeting of minds, a coming-together of individuals from all walks of life, united in our love of top-quality house music.

I remember the first time I stepped over the threshold. It was 1994, I was eighteen, and on my second jaunt to The White Isle, the first having been largely centred around the West End of San Antonio. By the second year I was a bit more clued-up. We’d been to another club until it closed and then taken a taxi to Space. It was around 7am and I instantly fell in love: with the “freaks” as they were affectionately known, the music, that “anything goes” freedom. As I’d just starting working in the City, reluctantly joining the rest of the grey, suit-clad rat-race, this was a welcome relief from the humdrum conformity of the dull workforce of London town. Gazing around me in awe, I greedily drank in the scene.

The open-air terrace was bathed in warm sunshine, blissful house tunes carrying across the dancefloor like manna from heaven. It was fairly empty at that time, having recently opened at 6am in order to catch the after-hours crowd eager to continue the party. Peacock-like transvestites mingled with androgynous types in 6in black platform boots, piercings and bondage gear; a blur of wild wigs and brightly-coloured make-up as they strutted around to the beat of the music, whilst hippy types lounged in white robes and tie-dyed smocks, draping their dreads over the backs of wicker chairs as they smiled lazily through fugs of blue smoke. The atmosphere was of relaxed hedonism, a laissez-faire attitude making you feel instantly at ease, despite the bewildering array of crazy outfits and huge kohl-lined eyes. The interior of the club was altogether darker in all senses of the word: heavy pounding beats and a pitch-black dampness as the sweaty crowd gyrated to the beat.

It was in 1997 as a fully-fledged “worker” that I became a regular at the club. My boss Juan, the moustachioed and mischievous owner of The New Star (and well-known on the island), would take us to the club after our shift and the door staff would wave us in for free. Particularly memorable was the opening party, when what felt like the entire San An workforce were doing the “Ibiza Shuffle” in time to the uplifting sounds of “You’re Free” by Ultra Nate. I can clearly remember looking around the club as we danced, high on the terrace steps, giant fans blowing our hair back, planes soaring overhead due to the proximity of the airport, as we chinked our vodka shots with cries of “Salud!”‘
“This is awesome!” I shouted to my girlfriend, Kez, over the music. “I love it!” she agreed with a high-five. Judging by the Cheshire-cat grins and wide-eyed awe of my fellow party-goers, we weren’t alone in this sentiment.

Tuesday mornings were always eventful. Manumission, a weekly party held on a Monday night at Privilege (formerly an aircraft hanger, then Ku), was a vast club regularly attracting upto 10000 revellers. I had a “job” of sorts with the Manumission entertainments team, the vague description of which involved dressing up in various outlandish costumes and performing random tasks such as peeling potatoes on the dancefloor or using a plastic lizard as a phone – the more random the better.

The shenanigans would then continue at Space Carry On, where the weird and wonderful would crawl out of the woodwork to party at the club. Even on those busy mornings there was plenty of room to dance, with vast fruit platters being passed around and groups of people relaxing on double beds, chatting. Props such as beachballs and inflatable toys were volleyed about: it was basically a playground for carefree adults who’d raided the fancy-dress chest. We Love (held on Sundays) was another favourite – in part due to the novelty of full-on partying on the sabbath, whilst everyone back in Blighty was munching a roast or slumped on the sofa, slippers on, watching the footy in a near-catatonic state.

Over the summers I’ve been to Ibiza countless times, with a hiatus in recent years as I travelled to South and Central America and Asia instead. Whilst the island has always been a favourite destination of mine, I love discovering new countries – and besides, for the price of a long party weekender in Ibiza you can live like a queen for two weeks in Thailand.

Regardless, as soon as we heard that Space was closing for ever, it was a no-brainer: we simply had to go. Like visiting a dying relative, we knew it would be nostalgic, sorrowful and bittersweet, as we vowed to give it a good send-off and say our last misty-eyed goodbyes. We weren’t the only ones: apparently there were around 16k other people with the same idea. It was touch-and-go as we raced to be amongst the first 4000 to secure one of the coveted online tickets – with each limited release selling out in seconds.

Once in possession of those Willy Wonka-style golden tickets, we set about choosing our outfits and cramming our carry-ons with glitter and heels. The excitement built day by day, as we ticked dates off the calendar, counting down the sleeps until the party to end all parties. After a 27-year run, this would be the final farewell, a 20-hour extravaganza featuring over 100 of the world’s top DJs.

Eventually the big day arrives….

We’re careful not to go too hard the night before, which is no mean feat in Ibiza where parties are in abundance and temptation is at every turn. When we awake the sun’s already shining on our shenanigans: it’s a glorious day. We gorge on the hotel breakfast buffet – it could be a long time before we get our next meal – which includes complimentary jugs of sparkling wine to get the party started. Easy tiger! I’ve got to get my Space Face on yet and those 2 inch false eyelashes are fiddly as hell. A sozzled Barbara Cartland is not quite the look I was aiming for.

There ain’t no raver like a wrinkly raver, but fortunately us girls are a dab-hand with the warpaint: soon we’re glossed and bouffed to within an inch of our lives. You can’t polish a turd….but you can roll it in glitter and stick a bindi on it.

Early afternoon, and we’re just revving up into 5th gear at Bar 45 where Brandon Block and Alex P are getting the party started, when suddenly the killjoy Policia Locale rock up and flip off the music, slapping the bar with a whacking great fine for good measure. Bastardos!

By now we’re chomping at the bit to get to the club and trot happily along the Bossa streets, excitement building with every step as we approach Space. To our joy, there’s barely a queue (we’re lucky, it’s over 2hrs long soon after) and we step into the pumping Flight Area, instantly bumping into some familiar faces. We say our hellos with a hug and a high five and have a dance, before heading to our favourite part of the club, and where we’ll spend the majority of the day and night: the Sunset Terrace.

Unfortunately Jon Ulysses has just finished his set, which you can listen to here, but at least we get a chance to chat to him and a few other old faces, before getting down to business on the dancefloor. The air is filled with the sounds of tune after classic tune, accompanied by singing, laughter and the unmistakable blast from an air horn. The sweet house music is like food for the soul. Kez and I dance up by the fans for old time’s sake; if we close our eyes for a moment it could be our nineties heyday all over again.

It’s busy, but not uncomfortably so, and the atmosphere is electric: hands-in-the-air happy clappers determined to make this final Space mission a memorable one. It’s just a sea of toothy grins and crinkly-eyed smiles as far as the eye can see. The energy is contagious.

Barbara Tucker belts out funky feel-good melodies, then we check out the other rooms before returning to the terrace for Smokin’ Jo’s cracking set. Next up are the legends Alex P and Brandon Block: these dudes created the terrace and there’s no way we’d miss their lively set. As expected, they deliver tune after bouncing tune, served up with their characteristic cheeky style and a side-helping of charisma.

The freaks are conspicuous in their absence, which is a shame. I miss marvelling at the old woman with the eye patch in a tatty wedding dress, battered plastic kid’s doll held aloft. Or the guy who dances with a full-size shop mannequin. There’s no sign of Metal Mickey either, with his hundreds of chains and piercings. That’s not to say people haven’t made an effort: there are plenty of decorated hats, sequins and sparkly pimped-up outfits, beaming faces adorned with gems and glitter. I’m sure I catch sight of the huge-hatted Vaughn and pals from the Funky Room at Pacha.

The club is filling up now so we escape upstairs to the Premier Etage for a breather – space to dance, chat and relax in the huge padded chill-out tube. It’s out to the Flight Area for Carl Cox, then later the pitch-black Main Room for Josh Wink, Sasha and Erick Morillo. Wink plays Higher State of Consciousness; the smoke cannons chuck out huge gusts of cooling dry ice as the beat drops, the force of which is almost enough to blow you over. The beams of the lasers light up the crowd, which, as you’d expect, is going completely wild.

By now it’s almost 6am and we’ve been in the club for 13 hours. Due to some areas closing, it’s uncomfortably full and exhausting trying to move around the club in the scrum – dangerous even. Wearing spike stiletto heels was a rookie error: my balls are killing me. As much as we planned to stay til the final dance, Andy and I decide to drop the shoulder and head home. Kez follows close behind. Our most hardcore buddies stay till the very end, including Keefster the birthday boy, and turbo-birds Jenny and Katherine. I must admit to being a tad disappointed in myself for being a lightweight and not hanging it out when I see this awesome shot of the final moments…

photo credit: Tatiana Chausovsky

It’s a marathon, not a sprint….fortunately we sprint marathons. After a quick pit-stop at the hotel to shower and change we get a second wind and head back out to continue the party: first at Tantra, then at Bora Bora, which is nothing like the dancing-on-tables extravaganza of the old days, but a nostalgic treat nonetheless.

Soon we’re surrounded by our fellow Space cadets, whose impressive stamina saw them dance til the very end and listen to Carl Cox and (the owner) Pepe’s speeches and the final tune of the night: Angie Stone’s Wish I Didn’t Miss You…

They pull up a seat and we excitedly compare notes…and memorabilia, which is mostly varying-sized chunks of the famous Space terrace wall. Everyone who attended got a ticket to collect a free Space tote bag filled with goodies: a cd, Space tags, a Space t-shirt and history-filled memory card – annoyingly we lost our tickets and missed out on these. Amateurs! Hey ho. We spend the day drinking and chatting to friends old and new at Bora Bora before jumping a taxi back to the hotel to grab our bags and head off to the airport, Blighty-bound…

The Burger King in Departures doubles up as Ibiza’s second A&E: battered-looking clubbing casualties are slumped on every available surface, half-heartedly chomping on a Whopper (likely the first thing they’ve eaten in days) and vacantly gazing off into the middle distance.

It’s time to go home.

Ibiza. This island leaves you fragile as a china doll that’s been smashed into a hundred tiny pieces, then haphazardly glued together by it’s seven-year-old owner. But Beefa, like our first love, you’ll always have a special place in our hearts…and we wouldn’t have you any other way. So, until next time, it’s…

¡hasta luego, mi amiga!

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Space: The Final Frontier appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Until the first episode of Ibiza Uncovered aired on Sky1, the fact that we were about to appear on a weekly television show hadn’t fully sunk in. Sure, we’d signed on the dotted line of the contracts, filmed the “before” scenes: packing our cases at my parents’ three-bed semi in Sidcup, then another happily skipping out of Harvey Nicks after our last shift. The crew had appeared at our apartment a few days after we’d touched down on the White Isle brandishing conspicuous cameras and big fluffy mics. But it wasn’t until that first Friday night episode went out that the reality of the “reality show” finally registered.By this point we were living diagonally above The Ship Inn, having moved three times already; following our two-week package holiday near The Egg in central San An we spent several fraught weeks at Villa Angelina, although that was the mother of all misnomers, seeing as it wasn’t a villa at all, but a damp, stone-walled underground cave with an icy dribble of an excuse for a solar-powered shower slap-bang in the middle of the living area.This low-ceilinged subterranean dwelling was wholly inappropriate for a couple of lanky six-foot sheilas like ourselves, so we took to crawling about in there like a pair of tipsy trolls, necks craned at awkward angles, constantly cursing as we bumped our heads in the darkness after a boozy night out. It was like a scene from Alice in Wonderland; we’d drunk the wrong potion, clearly. Angelina, the crazy old cat lady who owned it, must have been stifling her sniggers as she pocketed our pesetas after that particular deal.

The darkness in the cave was disorientating too – one day I worked 6am-4pm, and went home to sleep at around five, before waking at seven-thirty and running to work in a blind panic thinking I was an hour and a half late for my 6am start, only to discover on arrival to everyone’s amusement that it was actually still the same evening.

The accommodation situation had clearly become untenable, so it was time for home number three. One day we simply pitched up at work with our suitcases in order to take up Juan’s earlier casual offer of residence in the flat above The New Star, which, it quickly became apparent, was an even worse idea.

By this time Kez and I were working opposite shifts, one of us on 6am to 4pm the other 6pm until 4am, which meant we shared a lumpy single bed and slept on rotation, with one of us waking the other when we finished work. Being employed at The New Star was crazy enough, living there as well….total chaos. Dodgy characters, shady deals, suspect “ladies of the night” regularly passing us on the stairs…hmm, time for us nomadic numpties to move on yet again.

Our fourth and final residence of the summer was, thankfully, much more suitable – a two-bed apartment at the top of the strip, aka the West End. It was very noisy, obviously, but being above The Ship was a huge selling point for us, and at least our neighbours wouldn’t be complaining about us playing loud music.

The Ship was, (and still is, 20 years later), a lifeline for workers on the island. Landlord John and his lovely wife Denise were like surrogate parents to the scores of clueless young Brits washing up weekly in search of jobs and a summer of fun. Their toddler daughter Krystal was similarly adored by us workers. To describe the couple as pub landlords would be a gross understatement; they acted as employers, recruitment agents, agony aunt/uncle, estate agents…you name it, they’d be there with a pint and some sound advice. To us workers, John and Denise were Ibiza’s A-Team. If you had a problem and no-one else could help, they were the go-to gurus.

The homely pub was a constant hub of activity as workers gathered around the noticeboard scanning the job ads, watching telly or reading their phone messages, since none of us owned a scrap of technology : no TV, mobile phone or landline. (Come to think of it, we didn’t have work permits either, but times were different back then).
It was like the local post office, with the added bonus of selling beer. If one of our friends or parents phoned for Kez or I, the bar staff would just shout up to our balcony to summon us down. The same happened when our programme was about to start : the pub packed with rowdy holidaymakers watching the show on the big screen, with Kez and I sat cringing amongst them also watching it for the first time, albeit from behind our fingers.

We shared the apartment with two other London girls we’d met called Sam and Maria, who also got roped into appearing in the occasional episode of Uncovered with us. Being savvy Londoners, we soon had the idea of moving various randoms into our living room for an inflated rent, thereby reducing our own payments considerably, including the bonkers bong-smokers Noah and Kristina, a couple of American body-piercers. It was a bit cosy with six of us in a two-bed apartment, to say the least, and sometimes I’d come home from work in the afternoon to find the door wide open, the flat full of revellers, music blaring and several fully-clothed strangers asleep in my bed.

Anyway, back to our fifteen minutes….

After that first airing we got our first taste of “fame.” Maybe notoriety is a better word. Workers and holidaymakers (or “tourists” as us workers patronisingly tagged them) whom we’d never met began calling us by name in the street, asking to have their photo taken with us (I bet there’s some horrific shots yellowing in many an attic), giving us their varying opinions of our on-screen personas and situations and generally offering unsolicited advice.

At first, we assumed we’d met them before, perhaps after a few drinks, but nope, they were complete strangers just sidling up for a chat. One family of nutjobs practically camped under our balcony for two weeks with a camcorder pointing up at us, filming us at every opportunity as if we were Hollywood stars. A few of the bars gave us a frosty reception, of the opinion that the programme brought the island into disrepute. I reckon the island was doing a good enough job of that on it’s own, thankyouverymuch.

We started receiving calls from various journalists and TV production teams via The Ship’s phone service, with regular exciting messages appearing on the noticeboard, leading to some welcome extra wonga from spin-offs and magazine articles. I flew back to the UK several times over the summer to appear on television shows such as This Morning and The Vanessa Show.

By now, we had several jobs on the go. Kez was propping for Amore Mio, an Italian restaurant in the West End. I was still at the New Star, we both did a spot of flyering and also sold tickets for Cream at Amnesia amongst other club nights, plus I was part of the entertainments team at Manumission. This basically involved dressing up as something ridiculous for the themed parties at Privilege on a Monday night, getting wasted and dancing on stage or mingling with the eight thousand clubbers in attendance, doing such random acts as peeling potatoes whilst sprayed head-to-toe in silver paint (over a leotard, of course) or dressed as a milkmaid milking a cow on a podium. The latter was the safer option, as I nearly gouged a few eyeballs out with that peeler as drunken revellers bashed into me. The week I had to hand out melon which I’d cut up in the middle of the club with a machete was a tad hairy too.

My cow co-star was a guy called Ben, who was really beefing up in his bovine attire. He’d get a bit irritable in the heat of a packed Balaeric nightclub in July wearing that full furry costume complete with huge udders. “Mooooo-ve,” he’d cry as he negiotiated the crowds in his costume. In exchange for creating a spectacle (the only vague requirement of the role), we got into the club for free and could help ourselves to the workers’ bar, plus a small wage. Sweet. We’d do a pre-party parade around San Antonio before hopping on a special disco bus (oh, it was special, alright) and heading to the club for midnight.

I have many memories of those hedonistic nights, my favourite moments involved floating about in the back room drinking a Coco Loco (an intoxicating potion whose dubious ingredients were unknown but the effects were pretty spectacular) and dancing ecstatically as the sun came up through huge glass windows. Then it was onto Space for the Carry-On, where Kez worked for a while handing out fruit on giant platters. Oh, how very civilised.

Space opening fiesta was another stand-out snapshot of the summer. Juan closed the bar, got the New Star team in for free, then the Sky crew rocked up and filmed our day, the joyous scenes of us dancing on the terrace in the sunshine with our fellow worker pals immortalised on celluloid, the many tatty VHS tapes of each episode of the series still lurking in my loft.

To avoid the extortionate bar prices, someone would wrap a load of drinks in a half-deflated lilo and sling them over the wall. The less prepared would simply go “minesweeping” instead, which was the unethical practise of swiping unattended drinks from tables.

And so the summer of ’97 passed by – a heady mix of sunbathing, work, partying and general, off-the-charts high jinks, as only one who’s been to Ibiza can understand. The daytime parties at Kanya, Mambo and Bora Bora spring to mind, to name but a few. Radio 1 parties. The Funky Room at Pacha. PAs from Sonique at Amnesia, Skin from Skunk Anansie at Es Paradis stand out in my mind. The MTV quarry party on the night Diana died. Morgana. KM5. There are so many anecdotes I could share, enough for a book not a blog (if only I could remember half of what happened). Perhaps these are best whispered in person directly into your shell-like, so I can watch your lips curl upwards and your eyes widen.

The overriding emotion, looking back, was a feeling of good fortune. How lucky were we to have escaped the rat-race whilst our mates slogged away at home like London-based lemmings? How lucky were we to be spending our days lying in the sun, working (in the loosest sense of the word), and going to the best parties and clubs in the world on a beautiful island at the pinnacle of it’s popularity?

One of our favourite pastimes was sneaking a peak at our watches and then reminding each other what everyone at home would be doing right at that moment. At 8am on a Tuesday morning whilst people at home were on their silent stony-faced commute, we’d high five each other as we stepped over the threshold into Space.

In 1997 Ibiza was in it’s prime, and so were we. It was the most amazing summer. From May til October we’d made firm friendships, most of which endure to this day (largely through the power of Facebook, which reunited us all, years later).

So it was pretty obvious that as we attended our final closing party and packed our suitcases at the end of the summer, the words on every worker’s lips as we hugged each other goodbye were:

“Hasta luego amigo….see you next season….”

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Our Fifteen Minutes appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Following that first girly jaunt to The White Isle, the crew agreed that the trip had been the absolute dog’s balearics and were chomping at the bit to get back over to the party girl’s paradise as soon as our sixth-form schedules would allow.

The summer of ’94 followed a similar pattern to the previous year, only this time we were older and wiser; we swerved the grasping rep’s evil clutches, avoiding the welcome meeting and therefore any attempts they’d make to tease the traveller’s cheques from our sweaty paws in exchange for a lukewarm watered-down jug of sangria and a tacky talent show.

No cheesy congas through the West End for us this time, oh no, now we were clued-up chicas who frequented Space, Ku Club (now Privilege), Amnesia and Pacha. We could cherry-pick the best nights at the creme de la creme of clubland.

Ibiza became an annual pilgrimage; we’d slog all year, tucking away tenners here and there in between celebrating our eighteenth birthdays or spending nights down at The Moon and Sixpence pub in Welling, The Polo Bar in Bexleyheath, or cheesy local Kent nightclubs such as Bridewells, T’s and Zens. These clubs weren’t exactly the epitome of cool clubbing, a world away from their Ibizan counterparts, but they were close to home and so convenient for a mid-week mashup, what with school in the morning and all….

Eventually we’d build up enough funds to trot down to Thomas Cook and proudly slap our hard-earned moolah into their mitts, then we’d be counting down the days on the calendar until our skittish excitement reached a crescendo and the big day arrived, stirring fluttering butterflies in our flat teenage bellies.

Aged 19, despite getting top grades at A level, I’d binned the university offers in favour of gleaning some hands-on experience at the University of Life. I wanted to roll up my sleeves, get to work and start earning some dosh. However, here I was, merely a year or so in and already feeling a bit meh….and then later totally disillusioned. Oh well, only another fifty years to go. But then a little seedling of an idea took root deep in the fertile soil of my brain, and I began to formulate a cunning plan. Why was I spending fifty long weeks of the year working in the UK, for the sake of spending just two weeks in the place I really loved? Surely this was all out of kilter? How did other young people get jobs in Ibiza and pop back to the UK for the odd visit, rather than vice versa? I was determined to be one of them…

The monotony of working at WHSmith Liverpool St (which was basically a slow and painful death disguised in a putrid A-line skirt and naff polyester shirt and sold to me as a ‘fast-track management program’) soon galvanised me into action. It quickly became apparent that the starchy beige uniform and mundane repetition of the role just would not do at all. Not if I didn’t want to gouge my own eyeballs out in frustration at having to manually place daily book orders, poring over reams of print-outs of recent books sales and decide which stock to buy in next. My colleagues and I were eager to shrug off our geeky threads and shimmy on down to the local bars and clubs.
We were the Levis Club : always out the door at 5.01.

However hard we tried, and we were very persistent in our concerted efforts to replicate epic Ibiza-style nights out, the grey and drizzly City of London just wasn’t cutting the mustard.

Over an Archers and lemonade (hey, it was fashionable at the time!) we’d fantasise about telling Mr Philpott (our boss) to shove his book orders somewhere unspeakable and jet off to the white island, pronto. I’d suggest this poker-faced and deadly serious, but when the dutch courage had worn off the other girls seemed a little less sure. I didn’t fancy being Billy-No-Mates on Bossa beach, so the idea was temporarily shelved.

A year on, I saw my opportunity for a new life in the sun and seized it with both hands. It came packaged in the form of a fellow six-foot blonde bombshell colleague. By this point, I’d sacked off Smiths in the name of sanity and was now working in the more suitably glamorous surroundings of Harvey Nichols in Knightsbridge as a make-up artist and skincare consultant for Clinique, alongside a new party-loving partner in crime, Kez Wells. Equally passionate about what happened between the hours of 5pm-9am rather than the boring 9-to-5, she listened quietly yet intently to my plans…and to my delight instantly signed herself up.

“I’m in!” she declared with a high five, and off we trotted to the pub to celebrate.

By sheer coincidence, a few weeks later we were working our notice periods and planning our new life in Ibiza when we had a chance encounter that was set to spice up our summer. Kez was chatting animatedly to a customer on our Clinique counter, who happened to ask if she enjoyed her job. “Yeah it’s cool,” replied Kez casually, but me and my good mate Sam over there are off to live in Ibiza next week.”

The customer, it emerged, was in fact Sam Brick, a producer for Sky, who was about to start work on a brand new fly-on-the-wall documentary, the first of it’s kind. It was to be called Ibiza Uncovered. Another ballsy blonde who I’m still in contact with, Sam has since found fame as an acclaimed author and journalist, becoming a household name in part due to appearing on Celebrity Big Brother after writing several outspoken articles.

Hearing Kez’s words, Ms Brick’s eyes lit up and she took our phone numbers, promising to call. And call she did. The very next week, the Sky crew descended on my parents’ house in Bexley to start filming, much to the surprise of my family and neighbours, whose net curtains were soon twitching with curiosity at the van unloading huge lights, cameras and microphones outside our three-bed semi.

They filmed us packing our cases, interviewed us lying on my single bed gushing enthusiastically about our plans, which were woolly at best, having simply booked a two-week package “18-to-Herpes” holiday with no onward accommodation…or job, for that matter. Full of the optimism (folly?) of youth, and long before the days of smartphones and social media networking, we weren’t remotely concerned that we had not a single solid contact and only one very weak job lead, figuring since we were heading over in May (’97), the season hadn’t yet kicked off and we’d have our pick of the barwork.

A few days later, reality set in. We were staying in an apartment block by The Egg, a central landmark in the middle of San An. It was 10th May, the weather was a bit unpredictable and the West End, which I’d raved about to Kez, the Ibiza virgin, was deserted during the daytime, eerily quiet and dare I say it…a tad depressing. A bit like Brighton pier in winter. It became apparent that she thought we’d made a mistake in coming to Ibiza…which she told me, brutally and vocally, during a fraught fracas after a particularly boozy afternoon’s sunbathing.

Nerves began to fray as time and money starting running out : we had to find a home and jobs quick-time, or face slinking back, tails between our sunburnt legs, to the UK….and reality….which neither of us wanted.

To be fair, we weren’t exactly trying our hardest to find work, as every time we went into a bar to enquire, we ended up stopping for a “quick one” which led to another and another and suddenly it was 6am and we’d be dancing on the bar, the job-hunting as far from our minds as the childhood bedrooms that awaited us again if we failed. With the Sky crew rocking up at our apartment every few days to check on our employment status, it got even harder to find a job, since the huge cameras trailing us everywhere had a Pied Piper effect, a steady stream of lagered-up blokes forming a never-ending procession behind us, eager to get their grinning rat-faces on the telly.

A cheeky money-saving ploy employed by the bar owners seemed to be to invite potential PR staff to work for free on a ‘trial shift’ basis, whereby you spend several hours bouncing about outside the bar like a deranged goalie, desperately trying to catch every passing holidaymaker swerving to avoid you, then field them into the bar, babbling incoherently about free shots, all under the watchful eye of the owner. Us Brits are accustomed to the tactics of Chuggers (charity muggers) on every high st up and down the country, so are pretty adept at side-stepping the tackles.

Having watched his potential employee springing about like Tigger in the name of good propping, the owner then makes a decision: will he a) employee you and give you the peseta equivalent of a tenner for a good eight hours of nightly sweaty toil?…or b) blow you out in favour of the next desperate hopeful, thus securing himself a whole summer’s free labour as a steady stream of expats come begging?

We ‘worked’ a few unpaid nights here and there in this manner, until one day we happened upon The New Star, a rather innocuous-looking bar on the outskirts of town, up past Bar M (now Ibiza Rocks Bar), near the petrol station. It was early in the season and a very quiet afternoon in the bar, virtually empty, so we chatted to the two young Brits already working there, Claire and Leon, who then beckoned Juan the owner over to us (later photographed below with myself, Leon and other New Star workers). He looked us up and down, asked if we’d done bar work before, to which we both instantly and instinctively lied “Yes!”

“Okay guapas,” he said in his thick Spanish accent through his equally thick black wiry ‘tache, “come back at 6am tomorrow to start work.” Juan’s business partner Manuel, looked on, bemused, from across the bar. Emilio the chef glanced up from his newspaper.

We wanted to leap over the counter and kiss him with delight, but instead simply sauntered out of the bar as cooly as we could, feeling a weight lift from our peeling shoulders, erupting into giggles as we rounded the corner.

Of course, being a relatively small venue on the fringe of San An, we calmly assumed it’d be a breeze – a chilled-out first shift whence we’d gently ease ourselves into the bartending saddle. No-one would be any the wiser that we had no idea how to mix cocktails or pull a decent pint. We’d soon learn the ropes.

Little did we know, as we innocently clip-clopped up to work in our heels and miniskirts at dawn the next morning, that in reality the New Star would be one of the most popular and notorious after-party bars on the island, a heaving hotbed of hedonism, a veritable den of iniquity, that would be the backdrop of an unforgettable summer.

Combine that with a stint in the entertainments team at Manumission, plus the television show we were set to feature in weekly with the first episode about to be aired, and it quickly became apparent that this was certainly going to make a refreshing change to the continous commutes and tedious tasking of our lives back in lustreless London. Oh yes, this was going to be an interesting season alright…

….To be continued….

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post The Dream Becomes A Reality….Show appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I fell in love with clubbing long before I was old enough to set foot in one. Well, legally anyway.

At fifteen, I papered my bedroom walls, door and even the ceiling with flyers for raves and club nights, signing up to the Flying Squad mailing list to have all the latest party invites posted to me. I would eagerly await their arrival, marveling at the trippy graphic designs and poring over the intriguing details of all the upcoming raves in fields, manor houses and other off-limit locations.

Okay, so I wasn’t allowed to actually go to any, but it didn’t stop me listening to the pirate radio stations on my old stacking stereo system, making my own mixtapes and plotting my escape to run off and join the circus of parties.

It was around this time that I first became aware of a magical little island in the Mediterranean Sea that was set to become an important feature in my early adult life and beyond: Ibiza.Ibiza (pronounced eye-beef-ahh in my downmarket teen dialect) popped up regularly in the various dance music magazines that I had started buying, such as DJ and Mixmag, and I became focused on the idea of jetting off, sans parents, for a party-packed package holiday with my fellow female schoolmates to this mystical floating clubber’s paradise.One evening, I recorded a TV show called The Rough Guide To Ibiza, hosted by the glamorous Magenta Devine and that was it, I was officially obsessed. I’d sit there in my school uniform, gazing transfixed at the screen as beautiful exotic dancers clad in feather headdresses, towering heels and jewel-encrusted bras paraded through the streets of Ibiza Town, promoting the night’s festivities ahead of their later stints in the club, where they’d be gyrating to pumping house music on the stage at Pacha. I’d rewind the VHS and replay that TV show ad infinitum, or until my Dad came in and commandeered the remote so he could switch over to the footy.

To my absolute amazement, in 1993, not only did my parents agree to allow me to go on a two-week jaunt to Ibiza on a Club 18-30’s holiday, but so did the parents of my fellow 17-year-old besties….all eleven of them.

Our naive Olds were obviously under the illusion that since we were all intelligent, well-behaved and well-performing grammar school pupils we’d be more than capable of taking care of ourselves. Well, we may have breezed through our Eleven-Plus exams, but we hadn’t all got full marks in that most important of life lessons….common sense. Some of us may have even bunked that particular class.

Imagine a room full of hyped-up puppies bounding around, tails wagging furiously, multiply that ten-thousand-fold, and you still won’t come close to conjuring up the excitement we all felt as the cheap early-morning red-eye flight filled up with fellow teens and twenty-somethings. As we soared skywards, everyone on the plane was chain-smoking and guzzling alcopops (pilot and crew probably included) despite the early hour. Why? Well, because we could, of course. Duh!

There were no smoking bans in those days, even on tube trains or aeroplanes, so we flipped open our little armrest ashtrays and puffed away. It was an airborne party from take-off.
Rip-off baggage charges had yet to be dreamt up by the money-grabbing airline fatcats, so our suitcases were jam-packed with every item from our wardrobes (I remember opening the doors and just scooping the whole contents out and into the case), along with a ton of make-up, beauty products and about ten pairs of shoes.

My beloved ‘ghetto blaster’ – a giant black plastic monstrosity – and a selection of my favourite cassettes were also vital items of luggage, the stand-out tunes of the summer being Mother’s ‘All Funked Up’, Nightcrawlers ‘Push The Feeling On,’ Aftershock’s ‘Slave To The Vibe’ and ‘Give It Up’ by The Goodmen:

 

 

 

The Poniente Apartments overlooking Kanya beach were basic at best, but to twelve buzzing young birds on their first foray to The White Isle, it was The Ritz. We squeezed ourselves six to an apartment to keep costs down and within minutes the two adjoining rooms looked like a bomb had gone off, as cases were flung open and clothes tossed over shoulders in an unpacking frenzy. It was boiling hot, we’re talking ninety Fahrenheit (no metric measures for us!), so we were stripped down to inappropriate hotpants and vest tops with a Budweiser in each hand before you could say “Hola Guapa!”

Determined to rinse us whilst we still had pockets full of pesetas, the 18-30 reps set about the serious business of parting everyone with their hard-earned cash, acquired mostly from various Saturday jobs in hairdressers, hotels and shops. In an effort to kill twelve birds with one stone, they backed us into a corner of the bar following the ‘welcome meeting’, plied us with ominous-looking shots of something cheap and luminous, and convinced us that if we didn’t sign up to all their trips we’d be social outcasts in our apartment block, shunned by our fellow fun-loving holidaymakers, who’d be trotting past us smirking as they headed off on all the exciting excursions. Spirits consumed, and our own spirits eventually broken, we handed over the majority of our cash, shrugged, and headed down to the beach.

Every detail of that first holiday is forever etched on my memory. Well, the bits I was conscious for anyway. Which is probably about a third. The days were spent on the beach, whereby we’d line up our twelve identical lilos and bronze (ie burn) our tender teenage skins to a crisp, rotating at regular intervals like suckling pigs on a spit. Nothing to worry about, skin cancer wasn’t invented in those days.

When the scorching Balaeric sun became too much to bear, we’d trot out to sea and line up the aforementioned lilos along the length of the safety ropes, tucking the ropes attached to lifebuoys under our heads so that we could doze lazily without fear of being washed out to sea. The bass from the pumping house music at Kanya would drift across the ocean – soothing our ears as the waves gently rocked the bobbing airbeds. Bliss!

We quickly fell into a routine – rise at lunchtime, chuck on bikinis, eat cheap English fayre such as beans on toast or burgers and chips. In those days, food was merely fuel.Well, we didn’t want to waste our precious drink money on such boring necessities as food, did we?  The lazy sunbathing days were broken up with games of cards (Shithead or Blackjack), as well as the occasional boozy party boat trip or hair-raising ride on the banana boat. The girls would sing Simply Red tunes to me in jest at my sunburnt skin, as my fair colouring turned an increasingly alarming shade of puce in the glare of the midday Med sun.

As the sun went down, it’d be a bunfight to get ready for the evening’s events. Imagine the carnage of twelve teenage girls, packed six to a bathroom like spruced-up sardines, attempting to simultaneously shower, primp and preen, hairdryers all blowing in unison, make-up everywhere, music pumping from my tinny old stereo. Clothes were strewn from every available surface, sticky drink-stained worktops were littered with half-empty beer bottles, the air thick with a heady mixture of Impulse and duty-free Anais Anais, Poison and Samsara.

The EDS (Early Drinking Sesh) was all part of the prepping process, and by the time we tottered out for the evening we were all ‘refreshed’, in high spirits and a little unsteady on our high-heeled Top Shop sandals. We’d dance the nights away in San Antonio’s West End, in venues such as Nightlife, Trops, Gorms Garage and Koppas: free-entry clubs that the British PRs (or props as they were often known) would coax us into on the premise of free shots and group discounts. Their eyes would light up at our huge gaggle of giggling girls, and we’d be ushered into the bar before we could protest. Which to be fair, we didn’t do very often. We’d dance until dawn, taking occasional breaks to sit sipping cocktails and people-watching outside the clubs on the bustling strip.

The most memorable night came courtesy of Es Paradis, a stunning pyramid-shaped labyrinth of a club filled with palms, podiums and posers. Having been given a fistful of free-entry flyers, we set about throwing some shapes to all the latest floor-fillers, awaiting the ‘piece de la resistance’ – the Fiesta Del Agua, whereby the dancefloor filled up with water for the last tracks of the night, and everyone jumped and splashed about in waist-deep murky water in the name of fun.

Obviously the foam and water-parties of old would never work in these tech-obsessed times, but we’re talking about the early Nineties here, when Smartphones were merely a twinkle in Steve Job’s eye. We didn’t have to stress about destroyed Iphones, (nor incriminating photos ending up on social media within seconds) or our hair going frizzy, as  ‘mobile’ ( ie ‘housebrick’) phones were the sole preserve of yuppy bankers, and our hair was already of the kinky afro variety as we’d not yet been blessed with straightening irons. When I speak to young girls about the ‘good ol’ days’, they look at me open-mouthed in horror when I inform them that there are people still alive today who grew up without phones or GHDS, those now-essential hair-taming devices.

If someone chucked me in water at a club these days I’d be livid, but I can clearly remember the euphoria of sloshing back to our apartments at sunrise with soaking-wet clothes stuck to our skin, the dye seeping out of cheap China-made garments, flat hair plastered to our pinheads.

On ‘excursion’ nights, we’d be herded like groggy cattle by the holiday reps on a by-numbers pub crawl or hypnotist show, drinking cheap toxic spirits and eyeing up the other groups of tourists, who all seemed to come from just around the corner back home.

Those two weeks were a rite of passage, our coming-of-age celebrations which will stay with us all forever. We squabbled, gossiped and bonded our friendships with a superglue that remains stuck fast even now, 23 years later.

 

It was the cementing of our life-long girls-own gang, and my love of those ladies remains as strong today as ever. My budding romance with Ibiza was also sealed on that trip, although little did I know at the time that I would end up living on the island, and ‘starring’ (I use that term loosely) in the first-ever fly-on-the-wall documentary, Ibiza Uncovered.

But that is another story…

 

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

 

The post San An Shenanigans: Twelve teens hit Ibiza appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

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It’s Sunday evening after the previous night’s clubbing, you’re slumped in the local old folks’ home wearing a pair of stained, too-big jeans, which you’re sure until recently were the perfect fit.
Suddenly, over the course of what feels like only a matter of days, your body appears to have withered and contracted in the manner of a grape morphing into a raisin, any last vestige of fecundity disappearing with the last drops of moisture. As you lick at the spittle in the corners of your mouth hoping for some relief from the dryness, you realise that a couple of young lads are eyeing you with suspicion from across the room, marveling curiously at the events that may have preceded this old vessel coming to be washed up in this depressingly dead part of town.

“S’up lads?” you enquire through glazed, rheumy eyes. They look away, embarrassed. It’s at this point you realise with a jolt that these young whippersnappers are mistaking you for…..a resident.

“Nah boys!” you correct them, attempting to laugh through cracking voice. ” I don’t live here! I’m not a…..whispering in hushed tones as you glance around….geriatric!
Christ, I’m only about twenty years older than you two!”

Their eyes widen with shock as your trembling hand reaches out to show them a recent selfie on your Iphone. There. There it is. You’re wearing the same top, same jeans, but you look….decades younger.

“See?” You implore, incredulous. “I’m not a pensioner you fools. I’ve just been to Clockwork Orange.”

The awkward silence is broken with peals of relieved laughter and high-fives as you explain that, overcome with post-party guilt at not having visited your grumpy Gramps in the local care home for a while, you decided to pop along this evening before a busy week back at work tomorrow.

“Blimey, mate, you’re doing it all wrong!” one of them laughs, reaching over to pat their  dear old nan’s arm, who’s looking on, confused, as his brother pops another boiled sweet into her gummy mouth.

“You wanna take a tip or two from our mate Sam. She’s as old as the hills but she follows these simple rules that MUST be adhered to as an ageing cheesy quaver.”

He pulls his plastic chair in and leans closer as he prepares to share the hallowed secrets.

“Now listen up, and listen good…..”

1. Always follow the 1/4 rule
To avoid looking like one of the Rolling Stones’ older meth-addicted brothers, only go on a bender one week in four, tops. At 18, someone’s only gotta start the sentence “D’ya fancy coming to….? and you’re there : showered, flossed, fluffed and waiting by the front door.
At forty, you’ve gotta be a bit more selective. Pick and choose your nights with care. Whereas before you’d go to the opening of an envelope, now you want the ensuing three-day hangover to actually be worth it. And who wants to bust those well-honed moves surrounded by a load of spotty oiks off their nuts on some random plant fertiliser they’ve bought off t’internet, eh?

2. Don’t peak too soon
When you’re buzzing with excitement about the upcoming festivities, it can be tempting to celebrate the night before with a few cheeky beverages. Big mistake. What starts as a cheeky chupito often ends up surrounded by empty wine bottles on the morning of the big party itself. Fail! On the night before the rave, barricade yourself in the house, turn your phone to silent – smack yourself over the head with a shovel if you need to, but DO NOT, I repeat NOT, get on it! You’ll ruin the main event.

3. Be prepared
Remember the boy scout motto. You’re old. The post-party hangover is gonna hurt. Fact. Minimise the damage by getting your beauty sleep and eating well beforehand. Take Milk Thistle (liver protector) and 1g Vitamin C (antioxidant) every morning. Oh, and drink hot water with lemon for a few days prior. Aloe Vera juice is pretty good too.

4. Make the most of it on the night
You’ll be brown bread soon enough. Get those stylish yet deceptively comfy shoes on and dance like your pathetic little life depends on it. Rave face on, hands in the air, reach for the lasers and grin like a Cheshire cat, safe in the knowledge that most of your mates are tucked up in bed fast asleep, whilst you, you absolute legend, are defying the laws of both nature and gravity and are having it with a largeness those lightweights can only dream of. Take it all in : these memories will need to keep you going til the next party, so make sure you stow them away well.

5. Recovery position
Once you’ve raved to your heart’s content, get yourself rehydrated, chuck a load of multivits and a fistful of 5-HTP down your gullet and hibernate until the next permitted soiree in four weeks’ time (see rule 1). By all means make a cheeky foray to celebrate a mate’s birthday, have a post-work drink with a colleague, but do NOT be tempted to go flat-out hardcore raving on a weekly basis. That way trouble lies. And remember, what goes on tour, stays on tour. At your age, don’t be tempted to overshare. If someone asks “Good weekend?” over the water-cooler on a Monday morning, a simple “yes” will suffice.

“That’s it. Simples. You got that mate?”

“Mate…..?”

Having shared these pearls of wisdom, the young lads glance over at the foolish old graver (grey raver) to check he’s taken it all in, but it’s pointless – the clubbing casualty has succumbed to the heat of God’s waiting room (aka Sevenoaks Retirement Village) and is unconscious; furry tongue lolling out of the side of his downturned mouth.

Shrugging, they glance over to acknowledge his spritely grandad, who simply raises his eyebrows and gives them a knowing smile. With twisted arthritic hands, he slips his Dr Dre headphones out of his bedside cabinet, places them atop his wispy white head, then carefully presses ‘play’ on Jason Bye’s latest Clockwork set on his Ipad.

Index finger pressed to his lips in a silent sshhhh, he indicates to the lads not to wake his slumped, slumbering grandson as he double-taps his Google app and with slow, deliberate movements, slips on his half-moon spectacles and types four words into the search engine…

“…Cheap…flights…to…Ibiza.”

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post One Foot In The Rave appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

When the long-awaited day finally comes for you to stand before your beaming congregation of family and friends, feeling lighter than air, wearing the most expensive dress you’ll ever own and full of hope and optimism for the future, it’s easy to repeat those solemn vows. The hard part, as I was to discover, is keeping them.

As my new husband and I turned to each other, rings exchanged, smiling as the hot Ibizan sun dropped down behind the sprawling hills of Santa Eulalia, neither of us had even the slightest inkling of the fate that was about to befall us. Having been together for the previous seven years, we knew each other inside out – our strengths, weaknesses, similarities and glaring differences, and had decided that yes, this was my forever partner.

We weren’t perfect (who is?) but we were perfect for each other: a young working-class couple sharing a love of travel, clubbing and all things fun. Of course we’d faced challenges, such as the untimely passing of Liam’s father a few years previously, but had come through it closer than ever.

Little did we know as the cameras flashed, the champagne flowed and we danced into the early hours, that our vows would soon be tested to the limit…

Like most couples, we intended to follow that well-trodden path: love, house, engagement, marriage, children. It’s human nature to yearn for a partner, someone to share our lives with….then the irrepressible desire to reproduce kicks in and the rest is history….isn’t it?

After a few more years of working, holidaying and partying we looked up through the fog of our Sunday morning hangovers and realised that our friends were gradually dropping off the radar, having been struck down with that lifelong disease that is as yet incurable – parenthood.

A fate worse than death, since they are still standing in front of you but their eyes have glazed over zombie-like; sure, they look the same, they sound the same, but they are lost to this condition and one glimpse of them clutching the fruit of their loins in a loved-up fug of oxytocin and you know that your friend, and your friendship, will never be the same again.

It would be easier to accept in many ways if you never saw them again, such is the torment of seeing your buddy in this state – still present, but knowing that your relationship is changed forever. The first time this happened it took my breath away.

We trotted round to visit our fun-loving, clubbing mates, bottle of bubbly in hand, hoping they’d introduce us to their first little bundle of joy…then we could bundle it off to bed and have a party. Not so! Once a baby has been dispelled from the body, a large portion of that woman’s personality is lost with the placenta, chucked in the hospital incinerator with the afterbirth, never to be seen again. Did she have a baby or a lobotomy? I wondered.

As we made our way home, sober and sobered by the experience of our lost pals, I consoled myself with the knowledge that soon I too would have a personality bypass as I passed a sproglet.

Only it never happened.

Baby after bouncing baby claimed the fun-loving friends I’d shared so much with, until there were more babies than bird-mates left. It was an epidemic. Except I seemed to be immune from catching this particular contagion. It was like being the only remaining survivor after the apocalypse. I could empathise with Will Smith in I Am Legend.

Years passed and soon I was the only female left on the face of the Earth not pushing a pram and discussing breastfeeding versus bottle or little Johnny’s sleeping patterns. Or so it felt. Friends dropped like flies, and I hung around the sidelines, hoping their abundance of hormones would somehow perk up my progesterone, awaken my barren womb.

Reluctantly we surrendered and called in the big guns. The St Barts fertility doctors performed every humiliatingly invasive procedure they could think of (plus a few more seemingly thrown in just for their own amusement), before 3 agonising rounds of IVF. Eventually they gave up on my flat-lining embryos with a sigh, visibly frustrated as they downed tools that my faulty Fallopians had messed up their 25% live birth rate success stats

The decision to stop was far, far harder than the decision to start. Starting something, whilst scary as you step into the unknown, is accompanied by optimism, excitement, anticipation. Stopping is an admission of failure. It’s final.

Henceforth followed the demise of my marriage – two painful years of gradual decline into the irretrievable abyss. Sadness, resentment, despair are not emotions conducive to a happy marriage, it turned out.


“For better, for worse, in sickness and health, ’til death us do part….”

The words echoed around our empty big house until they became deafening and the walls began closing in. Tears flowing, we divided up the accumulated belongings of our 15 year union….and said goodbye.

The following year was the worst of my life. I’d never lived alone before and suddenly here I was, 37 years old, single, sad, alone. My friends and family were very supportive, but everyone ultimately has their own busy lives to take care of and, like a baby (ironically), I had to learn to self-soothe.

Somehow I’d been performing really well at work throughout and had recently been promoted to regional manager, responsible for running 18 London shops. Inside, though, I was dying. I recalled something I’d read, that ‘suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem’ and tried to tell myself that ‘this too shall pass.’

Miraculously, after a tumultuous year of reckless self-wrecking, it did.

I took the decision to resign from my draining management role and fled to Thailand for a month of reflection. The intention to sit navel-gazing in the sunshine, taking yoga lessons and finding inner peace didn’t quite materialise, however, as I soon reverted to type and hit the Full Moon Party (Full Moon, Half Moon, Black Moon, I wasn’t fussy) but slowly, once the aftermath of the Sangsom buckets had worn off, I started to feel better..

Little by little, with each gradual change in the colour of my skin came a subtle change on the inside too. It was like the sun was warming my soul as well as my bones.

Without wanting to sound too hippy-dippy, I would say I experienced an epiphany, alone on those beaches sipping cocktails and seeing the most breathtaking scenery. I became aware of both my tiny insignificance in the great scheme of things as well as the enormity of the importance of my outlook.

Gradually, my bitterness faded, my great sense of loss and injustice subtly being replaced with….well, gratitude I guess.

I started to see my situation differently. Before, when well-meaning mates had pointed out all the good things in my life in a vain attempt to make me realise how lucky I was, I would angrily shut them down. It dawned on my that only when you are ready to start to open up and see the world through grateful eyes can you truly start to move on.

I re-watched The Secret, which if you don’t already know, is a self-help film (and book) which works on the law of attraction, the theory being that positive thinking can create life-changing improvements in health, wealth and happiness.

I started to actually believe that things would be ok. And they were.

Today I have finally moved on.

To quote Elsa from THAT Disney movie, I’ve ‘Let It Go.’
(One perk of not having kids is that I’ve never had to sit through that bloody film, for a start!)

And there are lots of other perks, it turns out. I can go out on a bender on a whim, buy whatever I like without even the most fleeting feeling of guilt, and the house that once felt eerily silent is now a peaceful haven that I share with my partner, Andy – a fun-loving fella who I jokingly refer to as ‘the child I never had.’

So if life is getting you down and you feel like there’s no way out of a particular situation, I’m here to tell you that whilst the situation may not change (infertility for example, is pretty permanent), your attitude to it can.

There’s nothing worse than someone else preaching about positivity if you’re feeling down so I won’t prattle on any further, but keep in mind that when you’re ready the world will tilt on its axis and your entire perception of it will change. Then you will truly know that you can find peace and be happy.

Let It Go.

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Let It Go appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.