Jackie Bleaklook hauled her weary 40-something body from the comforting cocoon of her warm bed and padded slowly into the bathroom. Peering reluctantly into the mirror, she winced at her pallid complexion, which appeared to be the exact shade and texture of cold porridge under the harsh strip light. Letting out a sigh, she acknowledged that she could postpone the doctor’s appointment no longer; this could be something serious. She’d been working extremely hard lately, but a slight feeling of “meh” had deepened into persistent pessimism. She showered and applied her makeup as she always did, day in, day out: painting on a happy smile with her trademark red lipstick and concealing the bags under her tired eyes with copious amounts of concealer.

At the doctor’s office, the empty-nester receptionists clucked and squawked into the phones, defensively covering the appointment booking system like a hen guards her eggs. Trying to get a slot with the GP was an ordeal in itself; she’d almost needed a lie-down after the monumental effort involved. Anyone would think the ladies behind the desk were being paid not to book anyone in. Jackie jostled for a seat in the packed waiting area, attempting to drown out the screaming infants and phlegmy cough of the elderly gentleman next to her as she scrolled idly through Facebook for an hour. She was just about losing the will to live when she heard her name being called.

Gesturing for her to take a seat, silver-haired Dr Spiderscrawl sat back in his chair, pushing his horn-rimmed specs up higher on the bridge of his nose in order to get a closer look at her. “What seems to be the problem?” he enquired earnestly. He had the mahogany skin tone of someone who clearly enjoyed regular Caribbean holidays and as he smiled the corners of his eyes crinkled, softening his face. Jackie took a deep breath and began listing her symptoms: lethargy, low mood, anxiety….the list went on. The doctor stole a brief glance at his expensive gold watch as she continued to rattle off an alarming amount of concerns. Jackie even surprised herself with just how many issues she’d been holding in. Once she started speaking, it was like a river that had burst its dam; the flow was unstoppable. Eventually she closed her mouth and slumped back into the seat, exhausted. She looked expectedly at the doctor. He ummed and ahhed as he took her blood pressure, peered down her throat and checked her breathing. “All work and no play makes Jackie a dull girl,” he concluded, as he removed his stethoscope. “What you need my girl is a rather large dose of….FUN.”

Dr Spiderscrawl started scrawling spider-style onto his prescription pad. He paused, thinking deeply. Changing his mind, he tore off the script and scrunched it into a ball, expertly tossing it into the waste paper basket a few feet away as Jackie looked on quizzically. “Ms Bleaklook, my dear. I’m afraid you have a classic case of Midlife Malaise, brought on by over-work and disillusionment. I’d usually prescribe Prozac and exercise, but in your case it is an emergency, so….”

He reached down into the brown leather holdall which was open at his feet and, much to Jackie’s amazement, produced a large conical flask containing a bubbling bright orange liquid. “What the…?” began Jackie. Dr Spiderscrawl held his palm up in a gesture of silence. “Listen, Ms Bleaklook, he said, in his plummy English tone. “I’m old school….or should I say Old Skool with a K. I firmly believe in the restorative power of a good night out, preferably involving a decent crowd of up-for-it revellers, loud, repetitive beats, lasers and flashing lights. Alcohol is one way to relax from the stresses of modern life, but it has adverse long-term health implications; good-quality house music does not. Fortunately I have just the remedy for you – although this one is a non-prescription drug combination, so I ask that you be discreet. I could get struck off for my, ahem, slightly unorthodox – although highly effective – methods. Not because this potion is dangerous – quite the contrary in fact – but there are pharmaceutical companies who lose a fortune when people choose these alternative remedies.

Holding aloft the conical flask betwixt bronzed and manicured fingers he smiled as he announced grandly: “let me introduce to you…Danny’s Marvellous Medicine.”

“But, but, what’s in it? And who’s Danny?!” stuttered Jackie. “Well, I can’t reveal the exact formula, because even I’m not privy to that top secret information, but let’s just say it’s a heady blend of stamina, house music, euphoria, orange-flavoured smoke, glitter and friendship. The side-effects include indescribable happiness and uncontrollable dancing, as you’re transported back to the carefree days of your youth by the restorative powers of music and freedom. Danny Gould is one of the creators of the original formula. He discovered the chemical reaction quite by accident one day back in 1993, along with his good friend Andy Manston. They decided to name the potion Clockwork Orange. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to attend to.”

He spider-scrawled on his prescription pad once more. “Go to this address on Saturday night. Tell them you are on my guestlist. Drink the potion there. Don’t be tempted to drink it at any other time or place; it won’t work properly.”

Back at the flat where she lived alone, having subconsciously dedicated a large portion of her adult life to an ungrateful boss, Jackie placed the flask of orange liquid on the windowsill and carried on with her busy working week, barely having time to eat or sleep. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a date or a night out with her friends, who were mostly mums and had different priorities these days.

By Saturday she was exhausted and considered not obeying the doctor’s orders, but by mid-afternoon her curiosity got the better of her and she could ignore the flask no longer. Lifting it gently from the windowsill, she carefully removed the cork stopper and took a tiny swig of the bubbling orange liquid. “It’s probably just Berocca,” she mused as she swallowed it down. “He’s expecting a placebo effect.” Within minutes, she knew it wasn’t simply an effervescent vitamin supplement after all: her head crackled and fizzed as if she’d eaten popping candy; she felt alert…and she was sure she could hear the faint sound of 90s house music in the distance. How strange.

Feeling suddenly energised, she hurriedly shimmied into her favourite party dress (which only now was she realising she hadn’t worn for years), wedged her feet into teetering heels and applied the sparkly makeup she’d have worn back in her clubbing days. Stepping back from the mirror, she admired her appearance. It had been a long time since she’d looked this glamorous. That potion had definitely stirred something within her. She took another small swig, before slipping the flask into her sequinned handbag and silently closing the door to the flat, the address the doctor had given her tucked into her jacket pocket.

The chilly September air took her by surprise, and she felt suddenly silly and self-conscious as she tottered to the station and stepped onto the tube dressed up to the nines. She clutched her bag in front of her bare legs, the outline of the flask against her body and the doctor’s words ringing in her ears providing some reassurance.

As she approached the venue she was aware of hordes of very animated people, all heading in the same direction. Jackie was pleasantly surprised to see that they were mostly the same age as herself, and appeared to be highly excitable. Knowing that she’d have a job getting the potion past the octopus-like bouncers, and reasoning that she was almost inside the venue, Jackie nipped around the corner, yanked off the stopper, and downed the orange liquid in one. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand in a most unladylike fashion, she stifled a belch. She caught the eye of another middle-aged woman doing the same, who winked at Jackie and tossed her own now-empty flask into a nearby bin. “First time at Clockwork?” she enquired, noticing Jackie’s nervous demeanour. “It won’t be your last.”

Finally entering the venue some time later, having queued with thousands of other partygoers eager to get inside, Jackie was instantly energised by the music: heavy bass reverberated in her chest and uplifting vocal house music caressed her ears, the words to which she was surprised to note came instantly flooding back, despite the fact she’d not heard them for years. Her feet were moving uncontrollably to the beat and she had the urge to throw her hands up in the air. She grabbed a vodka Red Bull from the bar before jostling through the crowds to get to the dj booth, by which time she’d finished her drink and was determined to focus fully on the serious business of dancing like no-one was watching. Because, well, nobody was.

Everywhere she looked people were smiling and dancing wildly, the dj seducing the crowd with soulful house music interspersed with heavier, dirtier beats. A bongo player accompanied the music and people were singing at the top of their lungs to their favourite tracks, heads thrown back, completely unselfconscious. Suddenly a welcome blast of icy air from a smoke machine hit her, cooling her sweaty body, before a giant glitter cannon exploded, sending thousands of pieces of metallic ticker-tape up into the air before landing on the writhing throng. A cheer went up. Jackie looked around her at the incredible sight of so many happy faces and realised with a jolt that she felt emotional, tearful almost. She hadn’t had this much fun in…well, forever. How had she missed all of this for so long? When had she decided to spend so much time working that she’d forgotten to have fun. How had that happened? She’d lost herself. She shook her head, sad for a moment.

She was roused from her sombre thoughts by a gorgeous tall, dark-haired guy dancing in front of her, who she realised was gesticulating wildly to attract her attention over the din of the music. Making the universal motion of bringing an invisible drink to his lips and raising his eyebrows questioningly, he put a strong arm around her waist and guided her gently in the direction of the bar. Smiling contentedly, Jackie danced towards the bar, taking his hand as he turned to kiss her on the cheek.

“Oh yes,” mused Jackie with a giggle, making a silent promise to herself to seize as much fun as possible from now on, “Clockwork Orange is just what the doctor ordered….”

Are you suffering from Mid-Life Malaise? (Trust me, it’s a very common affliction). Clockwork Orange takes place every six months in London, in March and September, as well as a weekend of events in Ibiza each July. For more information and to become a member check out the Clockwork Orange website here. 

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 Danny’s Marvellous Medicine 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.

Sparkles Lips: add some glitz to your lips

They say you should never wear glitter over the age of 40…or is it 30? Whatever! I say to hell with them and their rules – whoever ‘they’ are anyway! ‘They’ are probably the hoity toity, buttoned-up Fun Police – the conservative rule-followers who also disapprove of holidaying in Ibiza (so common!) and clubbing at any age after graduation. Well ‘they’ can just push their horn-rimmed specs back up their aquiline noses, quit quoting endless dos and don’ts from the play-it-safe rulebook and go back to finishing the Guardian crossword – ’cause we ain’t listenin’!

I’ve never been particularly fond of being told what to do, so I’m not about to start now. I’ve always had plenty to say for myself – too much, perhaps. My mouth does have a tendancy to run away with me: I was born lippy. But I’m an upstanding member of society and have never been in trouble with the law, so if the only crimes I’m committing are those against growing old gracefully then I think a mere caution is ample punishment, don’t you Officer?

Sparkles Lips in Holographic Pink

Yes, glitter sits in your wrinkles and shimmer shows up your crow’s feet, but does anyone really care? I’d far rather see someone out having fun, eyes crinkling, head thrown back and giggling uncontrollably with a bit of glitter settling into her laughter lines than a perfectly stylish yet stony-faced ice maiden.

There’s a time and a place for everything of course – the glittery lips I’m demoing in the clip below are not geared towards the school run (the dried glitter has the texture of sand so will probably remove several layers of little Johnny’s delicate peachy skin as you kiss him goodbye on the cheek at the gates) or zipping round Sainsburys (people will assume you’ve pulled an all-nighter and not slept yet), but on a big night out or a summertime festival they are perfect: fun, frivolous and – in my humble opinion – 40 year old-friendly.

I know I have major crow’s feet around my eyes and in a few years will resemble a big blonde shar-pei, but having a strong sense of humour is what’s got me through life thus far, so I wear the resulting laughter lines with pride. And besides, I’d rather crinkly eyes from smiling than deep frown lines and a furrowed brow.

So tear up the rule book (and that boring Boden catalogue whilst you’re at it), whack on the tunes to get you in the mood and get out the glitter pots, girls! It’s time to shine bright like a diamond and join the glitterati. Let’s sparkle, shimmer and shimmy our way through life while we still can (if we listen to the nagging naysayers it won’t be long before the ol’ knees give way and we won’t have the option anyway, eh?).

If being covered in a fine layer of fairy dust makes you happy then go right ahead, I say. I’m sure even the most fastidious of fashion rule-followers would agree: the best accessory you can wear – whatever your age – is a smile. So you may as well make it a sparkly one…

Now you’ve got your glitzy lippy sorted, why not try glitter eyes too? Crank up this old club classic and get yourself in the mood to party….have fun!

The post Born Lippy: My Guide To Getting The Sparkliest Lips In Town! appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I’ve always liked the idea of being an ‘IT Girl.’ That’s IT as in rhymes with fit, not IT as in Information Technology. As a teenager flicking through the glossy pages of Vogue (in the newsagents, before putting it back and buying More magazine), my secret ambition was to be an It Girl (well I didn’t want my grammar school education going to waste, did I?).

I had visions of being an effortlessly chic and stylish siren, wafting in and out of parties, dry martini dangling from one perfectly manicured hand, on a cloud of Chanel number 5. It all sounded so glamorous, such fun – and so easy. You simply loitered casually around the swankiest bar you could find, primped and bouffed to within an inch of your young life, and your Prince Charming would appear in a puff of smoke (well, through clouds of cigarette smoke at least – you could smoke in bars in those days) and sweep you off your stiletto-clad feet…and into a life of elegant luxury.

Only that never happened. The slight flaw in my plan was the fact I lived in Bexley and not Bayswater, and the swankiest bar in town was….The Polo Bar. Where the men were chavvy rather than chivalrous. And not even men, it turned out. They were mostly pimply boy-racers named Dave or Steve, driving pimped-up Escorts and sporting snyde Ralph Lauren polo shirts with the collars turned up. You know the type: more no money than new money. The hours spent getting ready for a night out felt like a waste of make-up as soon as you got to the bar and had a quick scout about, talent-spotting. Jeez, the totty sure was thin on the ground. The fellas I seemed to attract like drunken moths to a flame were more Mr Potato Head than Mr Head of Finance.

I had a go at hanging around the King’s Rd for a while in my late teens, but the cliquey Hooray Henry’s seek out their own, and the Sloane Rangers could sniff out a Cockney (or Mockney, in my case, having been born in Kent) at a thousand paces – even (especially?) if it’s doused liberally in Erith Market knock-off Chanel. Or perhaps it was my Joker-style attempt at a brick red pout that put them off (I was channelling Heath Ledger’s interpretation of The Joker long before he was even a twitch in his dad’s pants).

So my plan backfired.

By my early twenties I began to wish I’d studied IT instead of Latin, as any hopes of living in a penthouse in Knightsbridge with a gaggle of daschunds and an oligarch began to evaporate like my cheap synthetic fragrance. It was looking like I was just going to have to fend for myself. How very modern, I sighed. I still dressed up like a Disney princess on a night out, ever the optimist, but alas I was just a donkey making an ass of myself in a sea of Shreks.

Since I wasn’t interested (or capable, probably) of being a doctor or a vet, and had zero interest in horticulture (I was more interested in hotty-culture), it quickly became apparent that Mr Chandler’s Latin classes would be as much use in my future endeavours as a chocolate fireguard. The other occupation best suited to a Latin speaker is a Latin teacher, and judging by his rhino-hide skin, horn-rimmed glasses and miserable downcast expression, Mr C’s career path wasn’t a line of enquiry I was inspired to pursue.

So it was an endless merry-go-round of beauty and make-up artist jobs for me. Yes, Dear Reader, I’m afraid I ended up working in Harvey Nics instead of shopping there. Ah, the irony! I think I was subconsciously hoping some of the wealth would rub off; that by making up the faces of the It-girls, one day I’d meet a sister-from-a-richer-mister whom I’d instantly bond with; she’d whisk me off to Bond St for shopping and cocktails, before introducing me to her trustafarian brother and heir to the family fortune, Tarquin.

But alas, it was not to be. Oh I met many a Tarquin, for sure, but he usually had a bejewelled Tamara on his arm, looking down her perfect aquiline nose at me with smug condescension. She’d give a visible shudder as I thanked her with my weak vowels (chucking in a bit of gratuitous rhyming slang just to watch her wince), before snatching her bag of pricey products and turning on her Valentino heels to clip-clop off for a (liquid, fizzy) lunch on the 5th floor (because eating in public is sooo vulgar, sweetie).

Fortunately, life on the shop floor doesn’t call for IT skills. There’s no need to be tech-savvy when your day-to-day business involves comparing the merits of various caviar face creams. We specialised in soft skin, not software. By evening we were out clubbing, not poring over computer manuals: I prefer techno to technology. I’m more familiar with fish ‘n’ chips than microchips…and if you mention gigs I picture music concerts. Which is why I come unstuck in the modern world.

I love to write, but when it comes to code and formatting – forget it. You may as well be speaking in Japanese. My eyes glaze over and I zone out. If I’m having trouble sleeping, I whack an Excel tutorial on YouTube and I’m snoring quicker than if I’d swallowed a fistful of Valium. You know you’re a technophobic dinosaur when your two-year-old nephew takes the ipad out of your hands with a sigh, before expertly flipping through the apps to find the one he likes.

My mind boggles when I’m blogging and I have a technical issue. Whenever someone praises my blog, I laugh nervously, terrified they’ll discover I’m a fraud: one-finger tapping it out on an ancient Amstrad. That’s a joke, by the way. I have a beautiful baby named Mac – well, her full name is MacBook – and she’s been keeping me awake all night just like the real thing. I look blankly at her while she makes noises at me, wondering when I’ll learn how to look after properly. These things don’t come with a manual, you know (oh no actually they do – I was confusing her with a real baby for a moment there).

Somehow, amidst the travelling, the partying and the chaotic noise of life, I forgot to tick the achievement box marked “PC literate” on my CV (Curriculum Vitae – see, fluent in Latin). Anyone will tell you I’m the most un-PC person, in all senses of the term. I’m a 40-year-old I.T virgin.

So if anyone fancies popping my Apple cherry, I’m all yours. No gooseberries allowed, just a right pear of sorts. I’ll whip out my Blackberry and let’s get fruity. I’ve got all-you-can-eat data on the Orange network so we can really go bananas. I’m not taking the pith, I’m just a bit of a plum on the ‘puter.

Sorry. I’ll stop.

It would appear my puns are about as good as my IT skills – and my fruitless attempts at becoming an It-Girl.

Sam x

Pssst! If you’re a technophobe like me, you might find the following helpful….

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 40 Year Old (I.T) Virgin 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.

1/ There must be sun…or at least a pretty good chance of it. None of this mid-May madness. (Yes, Glastonbury, I’m talking to you).

2/ An abundance of covered dance tents are essential in case of rain (although rain is, of course, forbidden).

3/ They must last just one day – no camping required.

4/ Must be easily commutable from Kent.

Not too much to ask, really. Funnily enough, “mashed mud-wrestling” does not make my festival shortlist.

Does that make me a proper festival-goer, or a half-hearted charlatan, merely dipping a toe in the muddy festival waters?

Well, you certainly won’t catch me in grungy hippy get-up, gleefully caterpillaring through the gunk at Glasto, or giving a cheerful thumbs-up as my flimsy tent floats downstream in a downpour. Even if the backdrop is my favourite band, belting out killer beats.

The problem with camping? It’s in tents (….intense?). Ba-dum-tsh!

Don’t get me wrong, I have enjoyed camping in the past, but we’re talking sleeping under the stars alongside Ayers Rock in the Aussie outback, or perched atop a misty mountain in Peru whilst on the Inca Trail…..not festering knee-deep in mud under the slate skies of Somerset, catching the down-wind whiff from rows of overflowing pissers.

A trip to Millets is not my idea of fun. Even the concept of “glamping” doesn’t get my juices flowing when it’s cold, damp and well, BRITAIN, outside. A turd rolled in glitter is still a turd, after all.

I’m slightly ashamed to admit it, but I must confess: I’m a Fairweather Festival-Goer.

As with any long-awaited event, the build up is almost as exciting as the big day itself: there’s the circling of the date on the calendar, months in advance. Then comes the rounding up of your mates, the tagging on Facebook with a hopeful “who’s in?”

Later comes the ticket-buying, the choosing of an outfit, accessories and those cutesy mini festival essentials that us girls love: teeny bottles of anti-bac gel, mini packets of wetwipes. It’s like prepping for a holiday, albeit a very short one.

A fringed cross-body bag is a must for hands-free raving, along with ankle boots as a show of optimism vis-a-vis expected bog levels (wearing wellies is just encouraging mud tsunamis – you may as well do a raindance). Am I too old for bindis and face gems, I wonder? Who the hell cares, they’re going on!

The look I’m aiming for is casual boho chic: a floaty summer dress roughed up with edgy jewellery and cute battered boots, maybe a tatty denim jacket to keep out the “summer” chill. Sunnies are of course, compulsory, if only to hide the glazed goggle-eyed expression that often accompanies daytime drinking. I have to admit, the look that starts off as Boho slowly evolves into hobo….and is probably closer to SuBo by the end of the celebrations.

As the party looms, I’ll be anxiously checking the weather for imminent typhoons, “watching” rainproof ponchos on Ebay and pondering purchasing waterproof mascara, since the “6ft panda-eyed raver” look is not quite the one I’m hoping for.

Post 40, the windswept matted hair and gothic smudgy eyeliner sported by “real” festival-goers is no longer endearing – you just exude an air of desperation, as if clinging by gnarled nails to one’s youth. At best, it exhibits an amateurish lack of prep. No, I prefer ninja-style planning tactics, so that on the day I’m (seemingly effortlessly) ready for any eventuality that the cruel British summer may throw at me.

Come rain, hail or shine (usually all three at once, knowing our country’s appalling weather record) I’m there, shaking my money-maker. Hot, dry weather brings it’s own set of problems, of course: lobster-like sunburn plus huge clouds of dust that fill your lungs as the moshing masses get into the groove. One day of all that is enough for me.

Yes, I’ve watched Glastonbury on the tellybox. I’ve scrolled through mates’ messy shots of their “epic Glasto bender” with a teensy sense of envy….but then I remember that it’s spring, it’s freezing and they will be picking crusty mud out of their belly-buttons for months to come, and I soon get over it. I crank up the heating, pour myself a large Sauvignon and switch to Netflix whilst I wait for the whole unpleasant experience to blow over.

Even in August the UK weather is far from guaranteed. I remember one particularly soggy SW4 festival when the heavens opened the second we laid one besandaled big toe on Clapham Common. It was a total washout. The tents were rammed to bursting with clammy bodies, steam rising from frizzy heads as everyone gyrated to the music like funky drowned rats. When the tents were simply too full to allow any more partgoers respite from the rain, restless revellers huddled together in portaloos or cowered by wheelie bins, their lids flapped outwards to provide a makeshift plastic roof. It was a sorry state of affairs.

And if said portaloos are festering cesspits by 2pm on a one-day music event, I can only imagine the bio-hazardous hell-holes they become during a week-long shindig. I’ve witnessed Trainspotting-worthy scenes at Lovebox whereby squiffy partygoers,  elbow-deep in waste, attempt to retrieve precious iPhones from loos. Shudder. One tipsy girl had accidentally dropped her designer suede handbag into the bowl and was weeping silently as she yanked it from the slurry, door open to allow her to breathe, albeit with one arm held over her nose. Bleugh.
All this unpleasantness is just part and parcel of a festival : the dodgy weather, puke-making portakabins, overpriced cider, dirty burgers and lunch-curdling fairground rides that look as though they’re one loose screw away from a disaster.

But let’s not forget the real reason we’re all here, stomping in unison in this muddy field : our collective love of the music. That sense of utter freedom and carefree abandon that only comes whilst throwing some shapes out in the fresh air, cavorting to your favourite ear candy.

I skip and swirl to the music, hyperactive as I high-five randoms, all of us fully embracing the experience. I suck up the atmosphere….right up until the very last tune, squeezing every last drop from the shenanigans.

Then it’s onto some afterparty or other, carried along by the surging throng as everyone makes a bee-line for the tube. Several more hours of partying ensue, until we collapse, exhausted, into the back of a taxi as the sun comes up.

I never know where we’ll end up – that’s all part of the fun – but one thing’s for absolute certain: when I do eventually allow my shattered body to succumb to slumber, it’ll be in the comfort of my own bed…

….not some water-logged tent.

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 Festival Chic vs Mud-Covered Freak appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

What is it that makes me so particular about partying? Well for a start, they are bloody good fun. But it’s more than that : a decent knees-up has three stages….the build-up, the night itself, and then the gossip-fuelled post-mortem, whereby I’ll dine out for weeks (sometimes years) on the flashbacks and anecdotes of a memorable night, basking in the afterglow of a successful shindig.

At the age of 40 my love of all things fun has not diminished – quite the contrary. At 18 the nights and possibilities seem endless, it’s impossible to imagine that the raucous rampaging will ever stop. By 40, you’re more aware that the opportunities for wild nights of dancing with abandon upon a sticky bar are somewhat limited.

Therefore, when they do present themselves I grab them with both gnarly hands. It’s not that I myself am not up for the craic….no, no, no! As a childless woman I can do pretty much as I please – my parents are not yet peeing themselves and drinking their meals through straws, so I’m currently carefree. The majority of my party-loving pals, are, however, time-poor parents.

Partying and parenting, I’ve discovered, do not go hand in hand. Of course there are some things kids and clubs have in common : both keep you up all night and leave you feeling jet-lagged and jaded by the morning. But only one will make you smile for years to come, providing lasting memories that will carry you right through to old age….unlucky, parents!

Ok, ok so the fruit of one’s loins may fill you with pride, but I reckon when they are crowded round your deathbed waiting for their slice of your wedge, it’ll be the flickering images of dancing, laughing and raving on a beach in Ibiza or Thailand as a vivacious twenty-something that’ll be playing out behind your papery eyelids as you take your last breath, not the endless pooey nappies or the heated rows with hormonal teenagers.

One by one, my clubbing comrades succumbed to motherhood, and I had a silent memorial service for each of the fallen ravers, our social scene taking a hit every time one of my previously party-loving pals dropped off the radar to raise another little ruffian. What had previously been a big enough group to fill the entire tube carriage as we teetered and tottered on skyscraper heels on our way to a club, gradually diminished until it was just a handful of the hardcore hailing a cab. These days, it’s mostly just me and my fella.

Except, that is, for one event that never fails to fill the dancefloor with an army of forty-something thrill-seekers – Clockwork Orange : a bi-annual London clubbing extravaganza, with a cheeky jaunt to Ibiza thrown in every July for good measure. Thank Christ for that! I was in serious danger of being THAT wrinkly old bird bustin’ moves on a dancefloor full of fluffy chicks, that sad creature refusing to let go of her misspent youth, who the cool kids nod towards with a mixture of pity and admiration, that woman over THIRTY who would still dare to dance.

But amongst my fellow Clockworkers I fit right in – for one, we’re all old birds (or blokes) and we all share one common goal : to immerse ourselves in some proper old school house tunes, dance til our high heels are ground down to stumps and our faces ache from beaming (or in some cases, gurning).

At our age, we’ve no time for trouble-makers, competitive flirting and bitching, or general posing and pouting. For us, it’s all about the love of the music and the genuine desire for each and every fellow raver to have the best night ever. It’s taken weeks, months, even years, to get some of these old faces back on the party circuit, so we all appreciate the effort everyone has made and respect each other accordingly. From baby-sitters to hotels, shoe-horning into skinnies and carefully filling the cracks that have mysteriously appeared in faces since those early raving days, getting a load of like-minded ageing cheesy-quavers in one place takes a LOT of preparation. And that’s just the DJs.

Once a weekly occurrence in our twenties and just part of our regular social routine, clubbing til 6am as a responsible adult is now a major event. The wardrobe of suitable dancing attire is likely replaced with suits, sensible shoes sitting where sparkly stilettos used to reside.

So the pre-Clockwork foreplay is a long and languid affair – there’s the hair, the nails, the outfit, carefully selected to strike the right balance between slinky and slutty, eager to show a hint of leg rather than the whole joint of mutton. We may be looking fierce at forty, but we are also wise enough to know that resembling the fairy off the top of a Christmas tree is not a good look, and besides, glitter emphasizes crows’ feet….even if we do prefer to refer to them as laughter lines.

As the night draws closer, excitement reaches a peak. Going to work doesn’t seem such a chore, as every early alarm signifies one less sleep until the party, and we leap from our beds as fast as our bad backs will allow, the spring in our step coming from nervous energy rather than our new comfy insoles.

On the night itself, it’s a mixture of emotions, the first being relief and joy that most of our mates with tickets actually show up. Of course, there are a few casualties struck down by familial responsibilities – little Scarlett has a fever for example, or ” I’m tired (yawn), I think I’ll stay in with a takeaway and Ant and Dec.” Bore off!

Whereas as teenagers the FOMO (fear of missing out) alone would have dragged everyone from their homes come rain, hail or snow, as adults the conditions have to be ‘just so’ for a night of hands-in-the-air frolicking. Only the most dedicated dancefloor demons will brave the elements to fling down some foot.

The evening’s proceedings commence with prinks (pre-drinks) at a pre-agreed watering hole. The regular clientele gawp as a fleet of ageing peacocks strut to the bar for an energising Vodka Red Bull to get the party started. Suitably refreshed, it’s off to the club early-doors to secure our spots on the dancefloor – us oldies have decades of dancing experience between us, and we take our raving very seriously. High-fiving all the old Ibiza faces and cheers-ing with cheeky chupitos (shots), we settle in for a night of ecstatic catch-ups, wide-eyed with excitement to see all the old raving crew together once more, reunited for a nostalgic trip down memory lane.

We exchange knowing looks as all our favourite Nineties club classics are expertly mixed by the best old-school DJs in the business for our aural pleasure – from Brandon Block and Alex P to Seb Fontaine, Paul Trouble Anderson, and of course not forgetting the legendary geezers who are responsible for Clockwork Orange’s 23-year run: Danny Gould and Andy Manston.

These guys have been bossing the clubbing scene for so long the early pictures of their club nights feature the now-bald Manky with a full head of hair and the silver fox Gouldy without the merest hint of grey. Hats off to the lads whose winning formula of top-quality house music and the friendliest footloose and fancy-free atmosphere has withstood the test of time, drawing clubbers young and old (but mostly old) from all over the country. It’s a veritable party pilgrimage.

As the night powers on full-throttle, glitter-cannons fire ticker-tape into the heaving crowd, the bass reverberates in our chests and our feet stomp in time to the music. Everyday worries and fears are left far behind and we are all fresh-faced sweaty teenagers once more, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as we throw some shapes, concentrating on cutting rug as if our lives depend on it. Satisfied with the reaction on the dancefloor, the DJs happily engage with their adoring legion of loyal clubbers, whose lives may have taken different paths in the intervening decades but our one true love, the love of house music, is the glue that bonds us all.

photo credit: Daddy’s Got Sweets

Sadly, even the best nights must eventually end, and as the birds start tweeting the crowd reluctantly begins to wind down, ready for the dreaded journey home.

The Walk of Shame is not great at any age, but there’s something particularly painful about stumbling about shame-faced on a Sunday morning on public transport as a forty-something in a dress and heels that causes me to clench my teeth a little harder. Sometimes it’s easier to hit the after-party than face the grim journey, but we’re long enough in the tooth to realise that we’re just prolonging the agony.
Like putting a wounded animal to sleep, it’s better to get it over with as quickly as possible, hence we scurry home bleary-eyed before we all turn into pumpkins. With the amount of orange attire and dodgy tan-jobs knocking about, that particular transformation is a distinct possibility.

Once safely in the comfort of our own homes, we dissect the evening’s events fully, revelling in the glory of another outstanding night. Looking bone-tired, dog-rough and with a monster hangover already kicking in, we’d all agree nevertheless that it was worth it. No-one looks back and remembers the nights they got plenty of sleep, after all.

photo credit

As our bloodshot bulging eyes finally flutter closed, memories of the club nights of our youth merge with these fresh memories as we upload them to our internal hard drives, stored away to be recalled and enjoyed time and again, say on a wet Wednesday afternoon at work, during a particularly dreary commute – or until the next Clockwork club night creates fresh ones in six months’ time.

And at our age, it’ll take us that long to get over it….

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 Regular As Clockwork appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.