Oops.

Anyway, lesson learnt - my portfolio now doesn’t look a *total* mess in Internet Explorer, although I’ve had to do a bit of simplification to make sure it’s working (I don’t have all day to rebuild it, unfortunately), and hopefully I haven’t missed out on too many good positions as a result of not testing in Internet Explorer.

Life goes on :o)

• BBC Common Platform: Handling Ross/Brand in an open way

This is interesting for me: in my last job at Portsmouth students’ union, I remember trying - and failing - to express as eloquently as Steve has exactly why openness in a crisis is A Good Thing, and this school of thinking - be open and honest with your stakeholders and always maintain a dialogue - is one I really do believe in (uhhm, unless you’re MI5…).

Well worth a read, especially if you’re in a position of power in any company. Or if you’re bored ;o)

Sorry, no related articles found.

• Faceberk - helping you disconnect with the people in your life

I’m slowly listing my whole vinyl collection for sale on discogs.com. If you’re into your house, trance, hard house or progressive from 1990-ish to 2006-ish, please take a look here.

There’s 40-something vinyls up for sale at the moment, and more will be added over the next week (the plan is to have all 1,000+ vinyls online by the end of the month - scary…).

Another shameless plug: I’ve also knocked together a “stuff for sale” page which I’ll update with new randoms as I put them up for sale. Go on, take a look - you know you want to… :o)

… doesn’t mean this is fair:

… especially the second “get a girlfriend” one - I mean, c’mon! That’s just targeted advertising at its most cynical ;o)

Download the zip file here:

• Fireworks wallpapers - clicky here :o) (9MB download)

(Info for non-geeks: to get the pics out of the zip file, find the zip file on your computer in Explorer (if you’re on Windows) or Finder (if you’re on a Mac). Often all you’ll have to do is double-click the file and your photos will either be “extracted” automagically, or a new window will open asking you if you want to extract the files. See your computer’s help file for more help, or you can Google for info on zip files or Google for info on changing your desktop wallpaper).

But don’t mistake the tone of this post - I’m not complaining (for once); oh no, this is a genuine “happy moment” post, ‘cos Last FM’s magical radio station widget has been throwing all sorts of previously-undiscovered audio goodness in my direction, which is how I stumbled across a little-known group from a few years ago called “Frou Frou” and their spine-tingly “Let go” (you’ve almost certainly heard it, even if you don’t know the name). “Breathe In“’s another luvly bit of tuneage, too. Think The Cardigans meets Opus III. Maybe…

Oh, and Frou Frou is/was 50% Imogen Heap, an artist I quite like (feel free to laugh - see if I care), but there is no way she’s 31 already. Is she?

Ok, do bear in mind that this recommendation should come with a tiny pinch of salt - it’s not impossible that a reeeeeally cynical disbeliever might label one or two of their tracks as the tiniest bit “lightweight-130BPM-drum-’n-bass-music-designed-as the-soundtrack-to-a-female-sanitary-product-advert/soundtrack-to-a-girly-movie”, but it’s not going to cost you anything to go and find out for yourself. So there :P

Anyway, I’ve managed to waste a couple of hundred words saying what I could have written as “Go and listen to Frou Frou’s stuff. It’s really ace (mate)”. D’oh…

/Al

p.s. watched Deja Vu last night. Had a funny feeling… Yup, I’d already seen the film (this is a true story. No, really, it is).

p.p.s. yes, I know, I’m an idiot. Taxi please… ;o)

So I guess I ought to try and do a mini-recap of my time out here, just in case you missed anything or I forgot to mention what’s been happening the first time around so, well, here’s the last 2 1/2 months* in a nutshell…

* Well obviously there’s been a necessary amount of censorship in my stories: for obvious reasons I can’t tell you about the villa/topless dancers/baby oil/massage incident (but I swear it was NOTHING other than a massage!), the naked gigolo incident, meeting the very gay bouncer whose “Shagged Celebrity” count this season alone is on 21 (allegedly including a cast member from a well known gritty Northern comedy drama set in Manchester… ahem), the sheer number of strippers and dancers I’ve embarrassed myself in front of/drunkenly proposed to (honestly, it’s not like I go looking for them!!), Room 101, and some of the other “standard” Ibiza activities which should be filed under the “what happens in Ibiza, stays in Ibiza” category. Anyway, I digress…

August 2nd: arrived in Ibiza with Steph, booked into a hotel for six nights. I’d left the UK telling my parents that I’d almost certianly be home within 6 days as I wouldn’t be able to find a job or anywhere to stay - plan for the worst, hope for the best, etc. As you might’a been able to guess though, Steph and I both found ourselves jobs - her PRing for Clubland, and me working for a psychopathic Spanish photography chap, and found a pretty nice room with a heyowge balcony in central San An living next door to the Ship Inn with Nathan, Nick and Johnny. Ma and Pa were told I was staying out here, at least till the end of August, and I set out on a mission to find the cheapest food in San An to survive on.

After a week of working for my psycho boss I decided that my mental health was more important than scratching a living - I was acutely aware of the fact I was likely to end up involved in an Ibiza Sun front-page headline story beginning “Photographer Beats Boss To Death With Camera In Portrait vs Landscape Argument”. Maybe. Soooo, I quit my job and spent the next week or two chilling out, bored out of my head. Around this time I had to pop back to the UK to play “Whose Laptop Is It Anyway?” with The Thin Blue Line, and managed to spend more in two days on travel and food than I had done in the previous two weeks in Ibiza. Still, it was definitely worth it thanks to a certain someone… :o)

Back in San An and after my week of skyving off work, I managed to blag a night taking photos for Ibiza Voice (http://www.ibiza-voice.com) at the DC10 Circoloco opening night. Very messy and great fun. Photos at http://greyhead.co.uk/photography in case you still haven’t seen them!

Still technically jobless, a few days after Circoloco, housemate Nathan told me that the laughing gas munki working at his bar had quit the previous night, and would I like to give it a go? The job was 100% commission, so I wouldn’t earn any money unless I could sell the gas, but regardless I went along for a trial night as I had nothing better to do, and fully expecting to hate every moment of the ordeal. Surprisingly though, I actually found the job quite enjoyable - although the boss was, to begin with, very scary - and think it’s probably one of the best non-specialised jobs you can do in Ibiza, ‘cos you’re selling something that gives people an immediate laugh, and there’s very little actual pressure once you’ve got your sales patter down to a tee. Not to mention all the people you get to chat to/be cheeky with, and the free drinks… Oh, and the money was good, too. Which is nice!

Steph and I also discovered the Shipwrecked boat party, a mainly-workers’ sunrise boat party which left San An harbour at 6am on Wednesday mornings, and which was the scene of many of my most embarrassing moments. Well, it’s got to be done, hasn’t it? ;o)

Fast forward through many messy nights and lazy days and we get to the truly amazing workers’ Shit Party, held at the Old Zoo near Ses Paisses (close to where I’m living at the moment). It’s organised every year by the enigmatic Loco, and is a fancy dress-compulsory, workers-only event which raises money for the Spanish equivalent of the Samaritans. Want photos? http://greyhead.co.uk/photography Going next year? Join the Facebook Group and sign up to the Facebook Event!

I’ll skip over the incident with the angry tourist/glass/my lip/lots of blood and pain, but if you heard about it when it happened a couple of weeks ago, I’m sure you’ll be completely disinterested to know that my lip is now completely healed, there’s only a tiny scar, and as a result my youthful good looks have returned (errm… maybe… ahem).

As a side note, if any of you caught the “Ibiza” series on Living TV this year, I don’t think I’m libelling myself too much to point out that, while Sam was and is indeed a numpty of the highest order (just ask his housemates), there is little doubt in many people’s minds that huge amounts of the controversial parts of the series were complete fabrications designed to boost ratings, causing a great deal of upset among the Ibiza workers population. More information and discussion here and here. Grr….

Fast forward a bit more and, as the end of the season drew close, the closing parties started to come round. I finished my laughing gas job at the end of September as the number of customers in the West End dropped to a fraction of their August numbers, and was all set to fly home on the 4th October after making it to a couple of great closing nights when my friend Kate suggested I cancel my flight home and stay at their villa a couple of miles out of San An in Ses Paisses for a couple of extra weeks, do the closing parties and generally chill the hell out. So, I accepted her offer - I mean, it’d be rude not to, really - and that’s how come I’m still here in Ibiza now instead of freezing my bits off looking for a McJob back in the UK tonight.

The villa is very nice, living with seven other bods (and the world’s coolest kitten called Bruce), comes with its own hammock, and is in a quiet enough area that I could actually sleep at night. I made it to almost every one of the closing parties, spent far too much of the money I’d saved from my laughing gas stint (oops, sorry!), and saw some of the craziest, weirdest, and most amazing nights on the planet. My favourite closing night has got to be Space’s truly immense closing fiesta. Good times :o)

Yesterday was the last opportunity for a day out together for most of us in the villa, so five of us headed over to Atlantis, a beautiful natural sandstone feature on the coast in a very secluded part of the island just round the corner from Es Vedra, the third-most magnetic rock on the planet, and an outstandingly beautiful area. When I get the photos online you’ll see that getting there - descending around 900 feet on a stony, sandy, extremely steep footpath (like, a 1 in 3 gradient) and then shimmying down a 50 foot sandstone cliff-face to get to Atlantis, was nothing compared to the challenge of climbing back up the incline to the car park a couple of miles away. Still, totally worth it…!

I also have a shedload of other photos to put online, including the day and night down at Cala Gracio, and our visit to the island’s highest point (also yesterday), so I’ll send a message out once they’re online so you can take a look if you’re interested.

I guess that pretty much wraps up the last couple of months, although I guess I could write volumes about what I’ve seen and done (but that would take most of the fun out of finding out for yourself what it’s like out here!). Also, Ibiza is different for everyone who comes out here, and you really should try to “do” it at least once as a holiday - even just for a couple of days - if you possibly can.

Also, if you happen to be one of the bods I met in Ibiza and I didn’t get to say goodbye to you, sorry! My last few days have been… well, interesting, and I haven’t had a whole load of time to do anything apart from the running around I’ve been concentrating on. Stay in touch, and maybe I’ll see you back out here/there next year (if it didn’t scare you too much to meet me for the first time!) - who knows?

Anyway, that’s pretty much all from me, so those of you who have found my updates depressingly boring can now breathe a sigh of relief, and I guess this means it’s about time I buggered off to find a real McJob back in the UK. Yey!

… Well, assuming I don’t miss another flight home, hee hee… ;o)

Hokay, last of all, a short list of Ibiza highs and lows, in no particular order.

Highlights: workers’ parties,  workers’ guestlists, sunsets, friendly people, beautiful people, beautiful friendly people, making a new best friend in under 30 seconds at a superclub, great food, beautiful quaint old towns, Circoloco moving to Privilege?, finding out I’m not the complete social retard I thought I was (I won’t explain further, but it’s a huge thing for me :o), acquaintances who help you out when y’re in need, and loads and loads and loads and loads of other things.

Lowlifes: the proliferation of crap drivers, drunken English lager louts, violent drunken English lager louts, “friends” who lie and/or steal, people who don’t say thankyou, the funny smell in the streets of San An in the summer, the corner of Capone’s bar which always smells suspiciously of sick, not having enough hours in the day, not having enough money in your wallet, “friends” who are only friends while you’re getting them into clubs, DC10 closure (boo!), and just a couple of other things which really aren’t that bad when you think about it :o)

“Get out of the fucking taxi so I can fight you, or I’ll fucking glass you right there” shouted the irate London-accented man to my friend Neil*.

Rewind two minutes and my latest new friends Louisa and Neil had decided, after leaving it far too late to get a taxi to El Divino before their guestlist closed, that the only possible way of getting there was to jump in the front of the 40-string queue at the taxi rank at the bottom of the West End strip in San An. So, like a true sheep, I followed them as they jumped into the first taxi to arrive, resulting in 40-odd booze- and other substance-fuelled club-goers shouting angrily at us.

As we got into the taxi, my new best mate - the shouty angry, potentially violent one I introduced you to at the start of this piece - held the taxi door open on Neil’s side of the car and, armed with a half-pint glass, started to try and drag him out of the car.

Now, I knew we were in the wrong - massively in the wrong in fact - and I could well understand that what we were doing deserved nothing less than being pulled out of the taxi and told under no uncertain circumstances that we were to piss off, but threatening to glass someone? To cause them life-threatening injuries? Over a taxi queue? What the hell is it that goes through peoples’ minds to think that this is in any way acceptable?

So, as these threats - and the beginnings of a series of punches - were thrown back and forward between Neil and Louisa, I leant over them and tried to calm the situation down. “Whoah, whoah, STOP IT! That’s enough! It’s only a taxi! We’ll get out - there’s no need for that!” - but my placation fell of deaf ears on both sides.

Turning to the taxi driver, I was amazed to see him dumbly sitting there, an expression of bemusement on his face. As far as he was concerned, we could all get out of his taxi and kill outselves on the street. All he wanted - understandably, I guess - was for us to go away and let him earn his living.

In hindsight, my shock must have registered at some deep-rooted level, as all I could do was taphim gently on the shoulder and say “vamos, por favor - please, let’s go. Just go!”. Eventually, with one of the doors still open, he started to pull away slowly, and it was at this point that Angry Shouty totally lost his rag. As we pulled away, he stood up. I thought it was all over and we’d made it out of trouble intact, albeit with our tails thoroughly between out legs but, no, there was still one final act to be played out.

As I turned my head to look forward and thank the driver, I heard a noise like a car door being slammed hard. Everything went black and then I saw an explosion of stars in my right eye. Suddenly the whole side of my face was numb, and I could feel a stream of how, sticky wetness spreading all over my lap. Instinctively I caught the half pint glass - miraculously unshattered - as it landed in my increasingly bloody lap.

I had no idea how much damage had been done, but the most important thing on my mind at the moment was that the taxi driver was SLOWING DOWN! “VAMOS!” I shouted - well, spluttered. I was vaguely aware of the spray of blood going all over the car’s plush new light grey leather upholstery, and as my hearing returned I could hear Louisa saying “let me look at your face. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my…”. She was panicking big time, and - something you should never do with an accident victim because it only makes them panic more.

Still without any feeling in my face, I looked down to see my trousers, t-shirt, the back of the driver’s seat, the door, ceiling (how I don’t know), window glass and my arms pouring blood. Now, I know that blood and milk can both look like a lot more has been spilt than actually has, but within about 15 seconds my lap looked like it had been painted a dark crimson. Yuk.

“I’m sorry folks. I think we’re going to need to go to the hospital” I managed, and started to probe around my face. One of my top front teeth - the right one - was completely numb. The cartilage of my nose hurt like buggery where it joins my skull at the top of my lip, and my top left front tooth had a large crack running up its back. All of my top right teeth were either numb or hurting like hell, and - worst of all, I could feel two large gashes in my top lip, big enough to push my tongue into. I also had the worst migraine I’ve ever had coming on.

By the time we arrived at San An hospital, the bleeding was subsiding. The taxi driver kindly gave me a tissue to put over the holes in my lip, and all I could do was apologise repeatedly for all the blood on his car - his reply? “It’s ok, don’t worry”.

To add insult to injury, my EHIC card - the mandatory E111 you’re supposed to keep on you at all times - was safely tucked away in my apartment, so the hospital refused to treat me, despite nearly blacking out twice in the waiting room so, with my broken Spanglish and the night nurse’s broken English, we established that I was going to have to head home and get my card. By this time I was getting the feeling back in my lip, and I made the mistake of trying to flush the blood out of my mouth with water. That was the point that I realised that I didn’t have two separate cuts on my lip - it was in fact an entry and exit wound, where my top tooth had gone clean through my lip - but I only realised when I tried to wash my mouth out with water and it sprayed out of the hole in my lip. The pain was like nothing I’d ever experienced, but worse was yet to come…

Back at the apartment, having had to walk through San An covered in blood and looking like a train wreck, I cleaned up the wound with some vodka and water, and examined the damage. The entry wound was faily straightforward, and had stopped bleeding. Just a hold about half a centimetre wide, but the exit wound was a different story (gory details ahead, kids): my lip was torn in three different directions, and the swelling had pushed the edges of the cut right out, distorting my lip into a gruesome mess. Yes, it was “only” a cut, but the damage looked so severe that I began to really worry that there might be some long-term damage.

A quick change of clothes later, one much cleaner face, and I was back at the hospital where the night doctor - with the use of Google’s translation service (Google is bloody everywhere these days, isn’t it?!) - decided that my migraine was nothing important (yeah, bloody cheers mate), my teeth were fine (despite the numbness, crack and throbbing pain), and that I needed A stitch in my throbbingly-painful lip.

Oh, and they weren’t going to give me a local anaesthetic. Bloody cheers.

Ten minutes later and I’m lying on the couch in the next ER room, with an old boy tugging and prodding a stitching blade through my torn lip. I’ve never felt pain like that before and, I’m not ashamed to admit, I had tears streaming down my face.

You can probably imagine then, like a prisoner being subjected to torture, that I nearly died of fear when the old boy decided that one stitch wasn’t enough, and that he was going to give me a second one. This one hurt even more that the first, and to add insult to injury, he then had a good old prod to realign the edges of the cut into something resembling the shape of a lip again.

Still, despite the pain, I thanked him for his efforts as I woozily made my way out of the hospital, obsessively feeling my new stitches with my tongue (something which I continued to do without even realising for the next couple of days, making me look like a gurning freak even at ten in the morning, hee hee).

I have no idea what it is that makes people think they’re somehow invincible, above the law, and/or that it’s perfectly acceptable to act like deranged animals on holiday, but it’s something I have seen an awful lot of while I’ve been living and working in Ibiza: holiday makes, more often than not British, being incredibly rude, starting fights, being unbelievably racist - listening to a Bromley wide-boy describing a Spanish club-goer at Space as a “dirty spick” who he could “easily take [beat in a fight]” just because he was “standing next to me, innit. I want my own room - I’ve paid to be here”. Err, yeah, right mate. Has it maybe not crossed your mind that he has far more right to be here and enjoy the place, given that this is his country you’re besmirching?

The levels of violent crime in San An - particularly robbings, knifings, and (thankfully usually with less human injury involved) burglaries, is scary, and much more noticeably towards the end of the season as the income streams dry up and the more desperate will resort to robbing their friends, employers, or people in the street in broad daylight.

All of this said, I don’t want to put anyone off visiting Ibiza. It really is a fantastic place, and everywhere in the world has its problems, but like any town centre on a Friday or Saturday night, the combination of alcohol, drugs, testosterone and venues packed so full you can’t move, is an explosive combination. The responsibility here is on none other than the licencees of venues, and those that oversee the smooth running of the streets - the police - to ensure things don’t get out of hand. The police in Spain are much more capable of dealing with problems, as anyone who’s been on the fast-moving end of a police baton will know, as the polica local and, to a lesser extend, the guardia civil, have no hesitation in kicking ten bells out of anyone who thinks it’s a good idea to get lippy with them.

Obviously back in the UK, the police’s obligation to adhere rigidly to the EU’s interpretation of the human rights laws means that, unless you’re waving a loaded gun around - and even then, it’s not a guaranteed excuse to do so - they can barely ever use any kind of force to calm down violent people. It’s a rock-and-hard place conundrum, but given the comparative levels of trouble in Ibiza, I sometimes wonder whether the Spanish police might have got it right.

Mind you, I don’t know if I’d be saying that if I had ever received a kicking from them myself, but then I hope I never will, either…

Life in Ibiza continues, and talking of crime, I’ve got a great tale about the two girls who tried to rob me in Privilege last night, but I’ll save that for another day I think… ;o)

* Names changed to protect the guilty…

Since I last wrote to you all, I’ve made it back to Ibiza, and blagged myself a job as a laughing gas sales monkey at one of the bars on the West End strip. The pay was 100% commission - 1 euro per balloon sold (each balloon is 5 euros), but it turned out to be one of the easiest jobs I’ve ever done:. You get to talk to loads of people, make a shedload of friends - many of which I’m still in touch with - and the money works out really, really well. All good! Oh, and I got as many free drinks as I could manage throughout the 5 hour shift, and free entry to every Eden night. Bonus!

In other “news” (well, it’s news to me), I’ve discovered that saying “yes” instead of “err, nah” to every invite to every party has turned out to be a lot of fun. I’ve made it to the Cream, Amnesia, Space, Tiesto, Monza, Eden, Wonderland, and a shedload of other closing parties. All were incredible - especially the Space party on Sunday night - and I’d recommend that everyone comes out to Ibiza for the opening and/or closing parties each year. The absolute highlights of the season.

Shipwrecked - a mainly-workers boat party - which sets sail from San An harbour every Wednesday morning, was definitely one of the highlights of the season, and again I’ve made so many new friends through it I’ve been finding myself bumping into someone I know every time I turn around in places like Privilege, Amnesia and Space for the last couple of weeks. Only problem is, with my terrible memory for names and faces, everyone’s been christened “mate” or “fella” for the last couple of weeks. Still, I don’t think anyone’s noticed.

The most random thing to happen over the last few days was seeing two absolutely stunning blonde girls escorting two very wrinky old guys (rent-a-date perhaps?) on the beach at Playa des Agua Blanca on the north-west of the island on Saturday afternoon. Thinking nothing more of it apart from the eye-candy value (hey, I’m still a dirty old git at heart), I was gobsmacked to find myself being asked to vacate the sub-box/podium I’d declared my own in the main room at Amnesia’s closing party that night so that the exact same two girls - wearing barely any more clothing than they’d been wearing on the beach - could have a dance on the sub box. I even survived the slightly awkward moment when one of them recognised me, turned to her mate, whispered something, and the pointedly ignored me - gotta feel the love there. Hee hee… ;o)

So, what’s this about missing my flight you ask? Well, a few nights ago I was complaining to my friend Kate - who I met at the DC10 opening party in August and ended up walking all the way to Bora Bora afterwards, that I was a bit sad to be heading home in the next couple of days. “Why don’t you come and live in my villa for the next couple of weeks then?” “Err… Argh! Decisions!” Still, 12 hours later I’d notified the two most important ladies in my life that I was going to stay a bit longer (and they were incredibly cool about it - thankyou ladies :o) and so, at the point I was supposed to be boarding my BA flight home - complete with courtesy meal and drinks - I was actually dancing my arse off with my new housemates at the Hust closing party. Woohoo!

So, the plan for the next couple of weeks is to chill out in the new villa with my new housemates Emma, Kate, Dan, Xander, Mark, Nicky, and the world’s coolest kitten Brucey, spend some time in the hammock (we have a hammock - woot!) and do some reading, chilling, and visiting remote parts of the island with the camera (loads of pics to follow - hell yeah).

Hopefully you’re all doing well back in Blighty. I’ll be back on the 19th October to face the inevitable music, but until then, let the randomness continue.

Love you all! Hope you’re all well.

Much love,

Alex - still lost in Ibiza and loving it :o)

I’ve finally got the Shit Party photos online - check them out on my Flickr photostream (here), or on the Shit Party website (mixed in with the other photographers’ photos) here.

Enjoy, darlings!

For those of you who hate being spammed by me, watch out: there’s an update coming shortly, and I’ve got LOADS to annoy you with… ;o)

Righto, on to the thing I want your opinions on: walking back from the beach this morning in the glorious Ibizan sunshine (oh, sorry, sunshine you ask: it’s that hot bright yellow thing which you don’t see much of in August in the UK…), a thought occurred to me.

What if, instead of simply packing a bag and hopping on a plane at the end of my time in Ibiza, I saved up a few quid, bought a bike, and had a go at cycling from Ibiza to the UK?

Google Maps reckons it’s just under 1,100 miles, so I reckon I could probably do the journey in around two weeks. If everything works out here, that would mean the middle of October, so the weather wouldn’t be *too* hot or cold (except across the Spanish/French border mountains).

Then I thought, what if I did it for charity? Would I be able to organise enough people to sponsor me to make it worthwhile, and would I be able to make it even as far as the San An ferry port (about 400 metres, downhill) before my tar- and nicotine-infested lungs packed up and exploded?

You can find a map of the route here:
http://tinyurl.com/ibizatouk

Let me know if you think I’m:

a) stupid
b) crazy
c) annoying - please go away
d) all of the above
e) a Pot Noodle

Much luv,

Al

Randomly, it looks like I might have snapped flavour-of-the-season DJ talent Sarah Main at the event, although I had no idea it was her at the time:

Check the pics out here :o)

***

“You cannot bring camera in here,” barked the neo-Neanderthal bouncer in broken English.

“Whuh?” was my eloquently-phrased reply.

“You cannot bring camera in here. You from Tillatedotcom?”

“Err, no, I–”

“You cannot bring camera in here, then” repeated the droid.

“Oh.”

It was at this point that my evening photographing the Clubland night - featuring A-list superstars Kelly Llorenna and Flip ‘n Fill (hey, there’s no sarcasm here) came to a sudden and unexpected halt. Ah well…

Still, the Clubland night *was* good fun, even if it was totally cheesy and about 45% populated by drunken beer-boys (nothing wrong with that, except when one of them insists on bouncing his elbows off your face/head/shoulder/drink. Grr…!).

p.s. Es Paradis - sort your lives out. Upping the price of a bottle of water from €6.50 to €9.50 just ‘cos it’s a “VIP” area takes the screaming piss :P

***

Last night I managed to blag my way into Garlands at Eden (or “The Balearic Ritzy’s” as a certain chap described it to me with a grimace). Again, the night was fairly good, even though the music was a 50/50 mix of cheesey commercial house and some pretty dark and dirty underground beats. Their bongo drummer was, in all fairness, a very nice touch :)

***

So I found myself this morning chatting to some new friends down at a place apparently known as Ket Cove in San An, named because of its association with a certain type of veterinary tranquiliser (and no, I bloody well haven’t, and wouldn’t, ta very much!). Suddenly, a girl - ok, woman (she was very much the wrong side of 30 to be a girl) - came running down hissing “the police are heerrre! They’re about to come down!”.

No-one really made much effort to move, although that was possibly as much to do with a large number of the clubbed-out beachgoers suffering from mental processes running at about 10% speed as the fact that no-one was massively bothered - from my point of view, this was mildly amusing, although rumours of undeserved beatings by the policia local and the guardia civil (Ibiza’s two police forces) run rife through San An, so I did wonder what was in store for us if the plod should arrive.

True enough, a couple of seconds later, three male and one female police officers started taking a leisurely stroll down the stone path on to the beach. In my head I named the policemen Grumpy (not the happiest-looking chappie, although that might have been the early morning start), Lurch (he only grunted broken English), and Father Jack (his wasn’t much of a speaking part - swear words only). The policewoman seemed to be the big-boss, possibly because she spoke perfect English with no trace of a Spanglish accent. I didn’t have time to think up a title for her, but she’d have made a very good Bond girl (one of the bad ones that try to kill him, obviously).

As the police walked round hauling off people who were asleep or otherwise incapable of standing up by themselves, I noticed a few people around me making sandcastles… How odd…

After about ten minutes of sitting down (at the police’s orders), we were told to get up, pick up as much rubbish from the beach as we could carry, and then leave the beach so, being good boys and girls, that’s what we all did (some in a more wobbly state than others), leaving behind a largely-pristine stretch of sand.

As we trudged up the stone path back to the carpark, I realised there was a chap about my age crying his eyes out on the edge of the path. Between myself, another Brit, and the female policewoman, we managed to find out that he was a worker, and just moments earlier while the police had been detaining everyone else on the beach, he had been robbed of his €100 wages (probably a week’s worth) at knifepoint in broad daylight by two men. From the way he’d reacted, I’d say that was probably all the money he had to live off, and that he was pretty certain he was in serious trouble during the robbery - the thought of something like that happening in a place like Ibiza is horrible.

The policewoman, while pleasant enough to deal with, didn’t make any written notes, and told him he’d have to travel to the police station near Eivissa town (about 20 miles away) to file a report. I asked if we should take her name but, just as the police here get VERY upset if they think you’re taking their picture (again, stories of beatings and smashed-up cameras circulate among photographers and tourists alike), she would only tell me that she is “the only female police officer in San Antonio”.

And I promise, I wasn’t trying to chat her up. Honestly.

Naturally, the resilience of clubbers is immense, and not two seconds had passed after the police had left the carpark by Ket Cove before everyone was back on the beach, but this time breaking up their sandcastles to triumphant whoops. Ah, methinks they weren’t sandcastles at all, but possibly some kind of secret hiding places…? ;o)

***

Last couple of things: I was gutted to find out that I couldn’t make the still-not-100%-definitely-happening DC10 reopening party this Friday night - ibiza-voice.com e-mailed asking me to photograph it - but they’ve been lovely and got me and the camera on the guestlist for Monday, so - if I’m back - it should be a very fun night.

Tonight was spent enjoying a pizza with Steph watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall on our balcony. A nicely chilled last night here :o) Shame I’ll need to go on a diet for the rest of my life to burn off all that fat though ;o)

***

Tomorrow morning I’ll be up at 6am and hopping on a plane back to the UK. I’ve managed to cock something pretty important up and as a result may or may not be allowed to return to Ibiza on Sunday. If not, Steph will no doubt keep you updated on her travels. Unfortunately, I’m not sure Facebook is allowed when residing at Her Maj’s pleasure, so if it *does* all go Pete Tong, it’s been a laugh :o)

Toodle-pip.

Al (& Steph, although she’s currently on her way to Cream. Lucky cow ;o).

I promise this will be a 2 second update. Promise!

• caught a beautiful sunset last night - pics on Facebook or on Flickr
• Steph blagged me in to Es Paradis for Pukka Up last night. Some cheesy tracks but good fun :o) Also got a card from the Pukka Up top photographer chap, but he seemed less than impressed at my messiness, and then I dropped his card on the floor in front of him, so I won’t be expecting a call back when I e-mail him… ;o)
• Steph’s also blagged me in to Es Paradis tonight for Clubland. More cheesyness, but SHE’S GOT ME PERMISSION TO BRING THE CAMERA IN! Get in!
• I’ve quit the photography job. The boss was, in all fairness, a total arse (those of you who have had to work for or with me in any capacity will no doubt be laughing at the irony of this karmic treatment by the Gods. What can I say… ;o)
• I’ve got to pop back to the YooKay this weekend to tie up a cock-up of mine. I may or may not be able to come back out to Ibiza, so I’m trying to enjoy the last couple of days here before it all goes Pete Tong… :o)

Hope you’re all well wherever you are!

Al & Steph

This is, without doubt, the soundtrack to my summer so far. Beautiful :o)

YouTube - Knee Deep - All About Love.

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. I think she’s dropped the Shades PR gig now - not a bad thing, ‘cos the place is in a nightmare location for getting customers through the door.

I did my first night selling photo keyrings in the West End last night. The photo printer is set up in a back-room in That Bar, a room whose decor reminds me of the prison cells from Midnight Express (i.e. grim, for those of you who haven’t seen the film). The basic idea is that Luis (the boss) does his salesman/David Bailey thing (fussing about where people are standing or sitting and generally overdoing the Customer Feng Shui aspect), while I try not to look too embarrassed and get a good photo, keep track of the orders, and then run back to my prison cell/photo booth and print up the keyrings before people get bored and wander off.

Still, he’s paying my wages, so I’m not arguing. Yet!

More importantly, GOOD NEWS! Carla at Ibiza Voice got in touch this afternoon and asked whether I wanted to photograph the DC10 opening parties on the 15th and 18th August. As you can imagine, I deliberated long and hard… For about 2 hundredths of a second, and gave her a resounding “f*** yes” so, unless she changes her mind, I should be off for My First Photography Gig where I might actually get paid (and, let’s face it, it’s DC10, so even if I don’t get a penny for it, it’ll be a good night).

Right, it appears that I lied about this being a 2 second update, so a huge apology to Jade for making you jealous again, and to everyone else out there who isn’t in La La Land, I hope you’re all peachy-good :o)

Big luv,

Al & Steph

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). I’m a trainee for Foto Luis at the moment, and my job last night involved wandering round the bars and hotels of San An bay with the man himself, Luis, trying to convince people to buy a photo of themselves, either as a photo, or printed into a keyring.

The “contrasts and change” thing comes into the story after I finished work last night and, €55 better off, ended up in Viva with Steph drinking copious amounts of something alcoholic which stung my throat and made me feel very happy. There I got chatting to a girl - I have no idea what her name is - who is working for Ibiza Rocks in one of their highly sought-after PR jobs. When asked what she did before Ibiza, she said “I was a retail manager with eight years of experience … great money, great job, and I jacked it all in to come out here. I couldn’t be happier.”

That seems to be a pretty common story out here, especially with the more successful workers who can take home a few hundred euros each night - they might not be doing a job which is seen by employers back home as particularly worthwhile if you’re looking to slide your way up the greasy career pole, but the fact remains that common to everyone who comes out here looking for work is a desire to work their arses off, in many cases seven days a week, in exchange for only a couple of hours’ R&R and a reasonable pay packet. That said, no-one seems to be feeling particularly shafted. As my future flat-mate Nathan quipped yesterday, “we’re living the dream [in Ibiza]“.

In the face of all these hard-working people, I’m feeling quite overwhelmed. I think I need a lie down… Although that could equally have something to do with the lingering after-effects of last night’s brief-but-concentrated alcohol consumption…

We picked up the keys for the new flat yesterday, and I’ve got to wander over to the ferretaria (an ironmonger’s, not a ferret monger’s) later to get a copy cut for Steph. Tonight I’m going back to do another night of photography sales fun tonight. Luis wants me to print the keyrings there and then in the bars, which is a bit scary ‘cos the printer probably won’t handle being beer’d too well, so I might have to try and explain that doing them later and dropping them round to peoples’ hotels - as we do with printed photos - might be a better bet. Still, he’s the boss, and he’s paying me, so I’m not massively worried.

Steph did a trial with Shades bar last night. The owner (umm, I think she’s the owner anyway) Carly seems like a lovely English lass, and Steph seems to be making loads of new friends, so that’s definitely a Good Thing. I heard a couple of stories of PR/police hide-and-seek involving some of the Shades PRs, but nothing bad seems to happen (touch wood), so again that’s another Good Thing.

The only thing I’m missing is fresh fruit and veg, and the gym. Going to have to work on the food side of things before I turn into a pizza. The gym can wait a bit longer…

Life out here continues. Where are you? ;o)

p.s. more photos on Flickr and in the Adventures group photo gallery.

Al

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. He didn’t buy it though, so I had to tell him what I was doing last year, and why I’m really out here (looking for fame, fortune, etc…).

So, my question to you is: if they get in touch and ask me to do a small piece, follow me round and maybe an interview, is it a good idea, or should I avoid it like the plague? If you’ve seen the Ibiza series on Living TV, what’s it like? Are they stitch-up merchants, or do people generally come across alright?

One last thing: instead of messaging me on here, could you drop a message in the discussion forum on the Facebook group, ‘cos it’d be better to get a bit of a discussion going on this I think:

http://www.new.facebook.com/topic.php?topic=5174&uid=21470882407

Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanks!

Al :o)

“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.

Ooh, and we popped in to Lineker’s bar last night - photos on Flickr (http://flickr.com/photos/alexharries) or in the Adventures Facebook group photo galleries. Enjoy!

Tarrah chucks,

Steph & Al

Yehay!

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… ;o)

I’ve also had a couple of people put me in touch with bods out on the white isle for accommodation and jobs, so a huge thanks to you all for the help!

Tomorrow we’re flying to Ibiza, so I have about 24 hours to do a million things - pack, burn demo CDs, build a small portfolio of pictures, go shopping, post a load of eBay’d stuff, write my CV, and of course travel back to London.

Actually, tomorrow, Steph flies back from Cannes into Heathrow at 4pm, and I have to somehow get us both from there to Gatwick by 7.30pm. Knowing the traffic on the M25 it’s going to be a comedy of cock-ups from start to finish, so there’s a very real possibility we won’t even make it as far as Ibiza.

Still, only one way to find out… ;o)

Tarrah for now!

Al (and Steph. Kinda…)

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. In my time there, I’ve learnt to pull the perfect snakebite (although I’ve probably forgotten how to, as well) as a bar monkey, put together and run a sound system and lighting rig as an ents monkey, been involved in designing, building and running the website as a pixel monkey, and - for the last year - been the media officer, looking after the Union’s student media output.

I’ve made a few friends, upset plenty of people, and been given some very cool opportunities, so really this is a thankyou from me to everyone who’s made the last six years - and especially the last year - as fun, interesting, and challenging as it could have been.

I’m not sure what’s next for me. I have a one-way ticket to Ibiza booked for this Saturday, and I’ll be out there looking for a job and a flat with next year’s Pugwash editor Steph Hall. We might only survive a week and find there’s nowhere to live, or we might get lucky and make it through the last two months of the summer season - I really don’t know. If you fancy laughing at me, join the Facebook group and I’ll keep you updated on the latest stupid thing I’ve done…

No doubt I’ll be in the news soon for being involved in some embarrassing scandal involving a goat and a nudists’ beach in Ibiza…

Rena, Elle, Mike, Steve, Jaf, Fraggy, Tom, Jacob, Tallie, Laura, Pete, other Pete, Ben, Darby, other Steve, Jo, Karen, Tracey, Cherelyn, Sharon, Graeme, Wayne, Cat, Gamel, other Tom, Aakash, Caroline, Gina, Fred, Maz, Sloppy, Carl, Clive, Jim, Ryan, Rob, Hannah, Bex, Shrey, Rich, Alex, Scott, Janet, Stuart, John, Mario, Adrian… ok, «everyone» at the Union: thanks :)

Good luck Tom, goodbye ev