An American in Ibiza 2008
- Thread starter letsgetdownanddirtybaby
- Start date
WeLuvIbiza
Active Member
Maybe he went back there to re-live the moment....
Hope all is well, let us know you are ok m8
neilly303
Active Member
If this is a wind up it is the best one ever. I enjoyed the whole thread well done./5
No I reckon the guy is for real in what he says!
If I found myself writing an imaginary holiday review on an internet forum i'd probably end it lol
What an amazing story!!!
letsgetdownanddirtybaby - dude, you have a big talent for writing. I owe you a beer or three. Respect.
letsgetdownanddirtybaby - dude, you have a big talent for writing. I owe you a beer or three. Respect.
I
icebaer69
Guest
beatpusher
New Member
Looks like this guy has created quite a following.
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
Ladies and Gentlemen,
After being gone so long and taking my last vacation to the Philippines in stead of Ibiza...let me apologize for the wait. more to come in the next couple of days...promise.
And to the haters...the experiences were real and yes I was there...rediculous.
It's not my fault you people never learned how to dance you jelous ****s.
L.
After being gone so long and taking my last vacation to the Philippines in stead of Ibiza...let me apologize for the wait. more to come in the next couple of days...promise.
And to the haters...the experiences were real and yes I was there...rediculous.
It's not my fault you people never learned how to dance you jelous ****s.
L.
dark horse
New Member
This is one of the funniest reviews that I have ever read about Ibizan adventures. Cant wait for the next bits.
I
icebaer69
Guest
"...
Watch your back: YOU COULD BE RICKROLLED
First iPhone worm discovered - changes wallpaper to Rick Astley photo
This week an Aussie has claimed credit for a virus that Rickrolls jailbroken phones,
and a similar attack last week hit the Netherlands.
In that case, the Dutch hacker took over the device and demanded
a fee to release the data.
Oh, and my dear imaginary friend/reader, to Rickroll means to chuck
in a sneaky picture or video of 80s pop sensation Rick Astley.
It started out as a bait-and-switch setup, with the unsuspecting victim clicking
on a link that appeared to be something they would be interested in –
a joke, free porn or an exciting news story perhaps –
only to be diverted to a video of Astley singing Never Gonna Give You Up.
The joke became so popular that YouTube made every featured video
on the front page a Rickroll on April Fool's Day last year ..."
(http://www.stuff.co.nz/southland-ti...54259/Watch-your-back-you-could-be-Rickrolled)
I
icebaer69
Guest
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
A trip to Merry-Old-Merry-Old
The early-to-bed routine while on vacation was of course for a reason: the next morning was a surprise trip to England to see a Soccer game. G is a soccer coach back in the states so I arranged for us to fly to Liverpool and return that night in time to see Hed Candy the next day.
Two months before the trip I saw a highlight reel of Torres unbelievable rookie season and had to see him play once in my lifetime. Of course he’s been injured and unable to play for the beginning of the season. I knew that going in but still had my hopes up.
MYTH # 12: You must arrive 3 hours early for an international flight. This must be some kind of US regulation. The flight to England leaves at 7am so we get there for 4 and there is no one at any of the check in gates. Even the ticket booth for the discount airline we are flying is closed with a sign that says they open at 8 am. This hurts that much more since I could have had another 2 hours of sleep. I’m in for another 5 bottles of airport screw top wine as G tries to sleep for two hours in the plastic chairs with the metal –“anti comfortably rails” that are installed on the Ibiza pre-gate waiting area. Around 550 AM there are a hundred or so Brits beginning to file into the airport and the baggage/ticket monkeys arrive with coffee in their hands, scratching their vag’s with equally salty attitudes. I don’t even bother to comment about opening up 50 minutes before the flight to even let us closer to the gate area as that would be a complete waste of time. The care level of airport employees can only equal the blank expressions of those going home and the pressure from both parties appears to equal out in an equal glow of disdain.
I can’t accurately describe the feeling in the airport. It is a unique thing to go home from Ibiza. It was a premonition of the end of vacation depression mixed with the “can’t believe I actually got to do that in my lifetime” feeling. I thoroughly recommend on any trip to Ibiza that you go to the airport as you’re winding down from some big night and look at the expression on the downtrodden faces leaving the city when you don’t have to leave yourself. It’s a cross between the runny make-up-morning-after-walk-of-shame and next-day-drug-induced-tantric-sex-swollen-genitals-satisfaction.
The flight to England is uneventful. I ordered the extra leg room and that allows for an extra hour of sleep and everything leaves and arrives as to be expected. We have to take a train to Liverpool and I am counting on the efficiency of the English transit system to keep us on track. We’re going one way to some city east of Liverpool on one airline and back to Ibiza through another city south of Liverpool.
We touch down and take a train to an area near the stadium. It’s an away game for Torres but the stadium of the other team is still in Liverpool. I suppose that is like the Mets and the Yankees but you can almost see one stadium from the other. We have breakfast at a small dive near the stadium and watch some spanish kids argue over the drinking age.
Everything seems dreary in England. The weather is dreary, the people seem down-trodden, the train itself even seemed sad on a football day? Hard to imagine what it would be like if your entire country was Seattle, Washington. Why the suicide rate isn’t through the roof in England says a lot about the fortitude of the English People. Living a life of quiet desperation seems like such a waste but if it’s all that you know it must make ignorance of tropical weather a true blessing. It explains why there are so many frumpy looking people since they have layers of clothing on most of the time. Of course, this leaves no excuse for Texans!
I make a stop after breakfast for a bottle of Scotch and find Famous Grouse as the tailgate party special. With a bottle of water, it can have a warming effect that leaves the cold wanting.
We’ve been warned in advance by the ticketing office not to wear the other team’s colors as this is a “rivalry cup” game. What an understatement.
When we got off the buss from outside the restaurant, there was a 70-80 year old man that we asked directions of and he walked us to the stadium, expecting nothing in return. I thanked him with the bottle of scotch anyway. The streets he took us down reminded me of any place in America you didn’t want to be after dark. Brick paved roadways and grey old buildings seemed to say “rape here”.
The game was incredible and Torres did play. He actually scored two goals and I tried not to tear up so much like the big pussy I am. Since I was in the preferred seats of the home team with an open bar, I tried not to celebrate too much and get my ass whipped. We saw no less than a dozen beat down. Once Torres had scored for the first time, the supporters of his team seamed unable to control themselves and had to shout something and were immediately attacked. After the first couple of hidden outbursts, random fans began shedding jackets revealing team colors and standing in the middle of the isles for as long as it took for someone to either pound them down or the black-jack coppers to rescue them and take them to safety.
We were on such a tight schedule to catch the train after that I had to give my 40Quid winning ticket at 3 to1 (that Torres would score the last goal) to some random fan walking down the street…he checked the ticket twice before pumping my hand once and running back toward the stadium…
The early-to-bed routine while on vacation was of course for a reason: the next morning was a surprise trip to England to see a Soccer game. G is a soccer coach back in the states so I arranged for us to fly to Liverpool and return that night in time to see Hed Candy the next day.
Two months before the trip I saw a highlight reel of Torres unbelievable rookie season and had to see him play once in my lifetime. Of course he’s been injured and unable to play for the beginning of the season. I knew that going in but still had my hopes up.
MYTH # 12: You must arrive 3 hours early for an international flight. This must be some kind of US regulation. The flight to England leaves at 7am so we get there for 4 and there is no one at any of the check in gates. Even the ticket booth for the discount airline we are flying is closed with a sign that says they open at 8 am. This hurts that much more since I could have had another 2 hours of sleep. I’m in for another 5 bottles of airport screw top wine as G tries to sleep for two hours in the plastic chairs with the metal –“anti comfortably rails” that are installed on the Ibiza pre-gate waiting area. Around 550 AM there are a hundred or so Brits beginning to file into the airport and the baggage/ticket monkeys arrive with coffee in their hands, scratching their vag’s with equally salty attitudes. I don’t even bother to comment about opening up 50 minutes before the flight to even let us closer to the gate area as that would be a complete waste of time. The care level of airport employees can only equal the blank expressions of those going home and the pressure from both parties appears to equal out in an equal glow of disdain.
I can’t accurately describe the feeling in the airport. It is a unique thing to go home from Ibiza. It was a premonition of the end of vacation depression mixed with the “can’t believe I actually got to do that in my lifetime” feeling. I thoroughly recommend on any trip to Ibiza that you go to the airport as you’re winding down from some big night and look at the expression on the downtrodden faces leaving the city when you don’t have to leave yourself. It’s a cross between the runny make-up-morning-after-walk-of-shame and next-day-drug-induced-tantric-sex-swollen-genitals-satisfaction.
The flight to England is uneventful. I ordered the extra leg room and that allows for an extra hour of sleep and everything leaves and arrives as to be expected. We have to take a train to Liverpool and I am counting on the efficiency of the English transit system to keep us on track. We’re going one way to some city east of Liverpool on one airline and back to Ibiza through another city south of Liverpool.
We touch down and take a train to an area near the stadium. It’s an away game for Torres but the stadium of the other team is still in Liverpool. I suppose that is like the Mets and the Yankees but you can almost see one stadium from the other. We have breakfast at a small dive near the stadium and watch some spanish kids argue over the drinking age.
Everything seems dreary in England. The weather is dreary, the people seem down-trodden, the train itself even seemed sad on a football day? Hard to imagine what it would be like if your entire country was Seattle, Washington. Why the suicide rate isn’t through the roof in England says a lot about the fortitude of the English People. Living a life of quiet desperation seems like such a waste but if it’s all that you know it must make ignorance of tropical weather a true blessing. It explains why there are so many frumpy looking people since they have layers of clothing on most of the time. Of course, this leaves no excuse for Texans!
I make a stop after breakfast for a bottle of Scotch and find Famous Grouse as the tailgate party special. With a bottle of water, it can have a warming effect that leaves the cold wanting.
We’ve been warned in advance by the ticketing office not to wear the other team’s colors as this is a “rivalry cup” game. What an understatement.
When we got off the buss from outside the restaurant, there was a 70-80 year old man that we asked directions of and he walked us to the stadium, expecting nothing in return. I thanked him with the bottle of scotch anyway. The streets he took us down reminded me of any place in America you didn’t want to be after dark. Brick paved roadways and grey old buildings seemed to say “rape here”.
The game was incredible and Torres did play. He actually scored two goals and I tried not to tear up so much like the big pussy I am. Since I was in the preferred seats of the home team with an open bar, I tried not to celebrate too much and get my ass whipped. We saw no less than a dozen beat down. Once Torres had scored for the first time, the supporters of his team seamed unable to control themselves and had to shout something and were immediately attacked. After the first couple of hidden outbursts, random fans began shedding jackets revealing team colors and standing in the middle of the isles for as long as it took for someone to either pound them down or the black-jack coppers to rescue them and take them to safety.
We were on such a tight schedule to catch the train after that I had to give my 40Quid winning ticket at 3 to1 (that Torres would score the last goal) to some random fan walking down the street…he checked the ticket twice before pumping my hand once and running back toward the stadium…
dude,
the other team is everton and yes the grounds are very close to each other, a few minutes walk practically.
here is the game report
http://www.mirrorfootball.co.uk/new...oal-drought-to-sink-Toffees-article38536.html
the other team is everton and yes the grounds are very close to each other, a few minutes walk practically.
here is the game report
http://www.mirrorfootball.co.uk/new...oal-drought-to-sink-Toffees-article38536.html