Here's a lightning recap of the last few days, 'cos I know you're all *really* interested (note: this is sarcasm, ;o)
Steph and I have moved into our new apartment, which is right above the fabled Ship Inn (Ibiza workers' central). We've got free interweb (blagged, of course) and are right opposite UPmarket, one of the bigger ticket sellers-cum-bit of everything shops in Ibiza.
Steph's doing a trial selling Clubland tickets tonight, and did a PRing trial for one of the strip clubs in the West End the other night.
Ibiza is a land of contrasts and change. That's probably a tired old cliché to anyone who's spent more than two weeks in a row out here, but I thought it might be worth re-emphasising it anyway.
Last night I went from selling tickets (well, trying to), to selling photo keyrings (well, again, trying to).
Ok, one other thing: I need some advice - there's a remote chance that I could make a tit of myself on national TV, courtesy of Living TV. I received a call earlier today from Adam - one of their cameramen who I got chatting to at Hush on Sunday night - who asked me a few questions about what I'm doing out here, and a bit about my background.
Obviously, I lied through my teeth and told him that, having been raised by a pack of wolves - who also, coincidentally, invented Facebook and space travel - I was abducted by aliens with and teleported to Ibiza with only my camera and a laptop.
"So you know where all these hostels are, yeah?" said the PR girl as she handed us €5,000-worth of club tickets and pocketed our passports.
"Sure," Steph and I nodded uncertainly as we scanned a printed list of hostel names I'd only ever seen before in Lastminute.com searches for hotel accommodation in San An, and the thought ran through my mind that I was about to become the latest willing victim to one of the oldest identity theft scams in the world as my passport was whicksed away from me, maybe never to be seen again...
Steph and I are sitting in the air conditioned offices of an Ibizan PR agency-cum-workers' accommodation office-cum-internet café, about to be sent off around San Antonio to sell club tickets to people in their hotel rooms. Well... That's the idea anyway. If nothing else, pretty much everyone comes on holiday with one piece of advice from their parents - "be careful who you answer your door to, and don't give them any money. You don't know what they're really up to," and I for one wouldn't buy tickets from some sweaty English bloke who comes knocking on my door in the middle of my siesta asking for several hundred euros in exchange for some bits of paper. A good start, then.
"One other thing," continued PR Girl. "If you get caught, don't say who you're working for." Get caught? People are likely to be chasing me? "And," she continued, "don't do business in the corridors or the streets. Always ask customer to do the deal in their rooms." At this point, I carried out a quick mental inventory to check whether I'd inadvertently wandered into a prostitution ring. Probably a very low-class one if they'd have me, to be honest...
Anyway, as you can probably imagine, things didn't go amazingly well for me. After walking around for almost three hours without much more than a gruff "no thanks" , I started to seriously doubt my ability as any kind of salesman, with my main problem being that I personally wouldn't buy my tickets this way, so how could I encourage someone else to buy from me?
I was grateful, then, that I could take a break at 9pm to go and meet with Luis - of Foto Luis fame - who I grabbed on Sunday night in the West End while he was wielding my Nikon's older brother (a D80, for the lens perverts among you). This meeting had been arranged earlier in the day over the phone with Luis, a Spanish speaker with heavily accented English, and me - barely an English speaker at the best of times, I was further stitched up by loud traffic noise in the background, so it took some time for us to organise a rendez-vous outside the West End's Tropicana bar.
When he turned up at our dodgy-feeling meeting, Luis took me round the corner to another bar where one of his photographers came out, and they held a conversation in rapid-fire Spanish which I took to be, "where did you find this dickhead? He doesn't even look like a photographer, and all he's done since I met him is smile and nod at me." Well, it was probably something along those lines. I was too busy smiling and nodding and hoping I wasn't about to be kneecapped.
I'm going back to Foto Luis tonight at 7pm to be trained how to turn photos into keyrings and prints, and then hopefully - assuming I don't blow the printer up or maim anyone - I'll be cast out into the West End with my camera to go and get lots of lovely photos of unsuspecting bods. I have no idea what the pay is, although it's probably 100% commission and €0.20 per photo sold, so I'll probably have to take a second job as a beggar even if this one works out.
After that, I pretty much gave up trying to sell tickets. Even if I had felt ok about the job, €1 commission on a €50 ticket isn't the best motivation for anyone, and by the time we finished after 5 hours and several miles of walking, Steph had only managed to secure enough commission to pay for a small pizza and a coke.
Still, work's not a major drama at the moment as there's some money left in the bank. We looked at two apartments yesterday, one of which costs a bomb and is miles from anywhere (but was very plush - everything was brand new), and the other is a workers' apartment right above the fabled Ship Inn at the top of the West End strip, sharing with three other British workers. If everything goes to plan, we'll be putting down the deposit on the second flat and getting the keys today.
Steph & Al
The "Alex is making a numpty of himself in Ibiza" group now has 55 people all salivating at the prospect of me making a numpty of myself if and when it all goes horribly wrong in Ibiza ;o)
Steph phoned me last night from her posh holiday in a villa in Cannes - apparently the holiday's going well, but she's not a fan of lizards or heat. I didn't have the heart to tell her that Ibiza is much of the same, and she wants to spend the next two months in those conditions...
(This has been lifted from my UPSU work blog)
Well folks, that's all from me. As of 5pm last night I ceased to be an employee of the University of Portsmouth Students' Union. Tom Worman has officially taken over the reins of the Media & Publications Officer role, and as I speak is probably swinging 50 new projects into action.
I've been employed by the Union in one capacity or another for one month short of the last six years, so it's quite strange to think that yesterday was the last time I'd be poking around the place as an employee.
(This post was originally published on my work blog)
It is strangely encouraging to see that, about the same time that Pugwash News was suffering its own dramas during issue 9 this year, Imperial College Union's Felix newspaper was suffering as a result of non-editorial pressure to censor itself.
This isn't going to be a rant - or any kind of discussion - about the
The Observer has a very interesting article which interviews ten drug users about their habits, ranging from the occasional cannabis user to a £100-plus-a-day unemployed heroin addict.
This is very random, and very cool - web 2.0 at its best?