Monday 11th August 2003-09-01
The Squadron turned up at chez moi around 3.15 pm, annoyingly taking me away from my beloved Ibiza-Spotlight website (Rob/James see how I did that, big upped your site without even a hint of cheesiness – I take all major credit cards for future reference by the way), which in hindsight was probably a good thing as looking back at the posts….what the fook was I on??
I was spouting some serious shite that weekend, ok more than normal but hey I was on the verge of my 2nd Ibiza adventure and I was one loaded spring ready for take off 
. I had an excuse I guess. What had seemed like an eternity away was looming ever closer…. we’d booked it, packed it and we were ready to fcuk off. I was determined to better last years trip.
The problem with holidays, if you can call it a problem, is that it never actually feels like you’re on it until you are on the plane…..it’s a kind of surreal feeling I find. This was how I was feeling when the first pilots turned up….cue 1 Rose Jnr and 1 Doogalbug. Rose Jnr had brought his mobile wardrobe; dishwasher, cooker, fridge freezer and kitchen sink in a suitcase the size of an average 2-bed bungalow. Had he brought a chicken suit especially for the occasion? Only he knows.
The other Squadron members soon followed – Trouble, BeerMatt (on time which in itself is a feat not to be sniffed at as this boy would be late for his own birth, wedding and funeral given the chance) and the Crane. The weather was stonking in Manchester that day, in fact the minibus journey to Ringway airport could be classed as a forerunner for the sweatbox which was to be our home for the following 10 nights. On arrival at the airport we headed for the pub in Terminal 2 where the Dublin carnage had begun. BeerMatt and myself nailed a casual black rascal (Guinness) apiece, which as the Crane rightly pointed out, tasted like sawdust. Doogie Cam made it’s first appearance for the occasion as we rang all our mates who weren’t going and were still at work. Evil I know . The Brain, who was originally travelling for the whole nine yards, had recently bowed out due to his future wife inflicting pressure last seen in Star Trek in the form of the Vulcan Death Grip, to his heart strings, as they are due to be married next Saturday and she felt it was a tad excessive to be living it up when there was so much to organise. Like most men, he buckled like a deck chair sat on by Pavarotti and agreed to only come for the last 4/5 days…..this was 100% a great idea now we have witnessed the state he managed to get himself into, in such a short space of time. Anyway, we all spoke to him and basically took the piss out of him….oh and you wouldn’t?
We sank some more ales once through the arse clinching experience know as the metal detector, at the main bar. Even managed to sneak off for a weasely Smirnoff Ice just before we were ready to board. The flight was a dream although I’m sure the pilot barrel rolled at one point. Perhaps he was bored… nobody likes a show off mister especially my bowel
. I love that when you arrive in Ibiza they always hand out those free brochures at the airport as it really gets the old mind racing and feet tingling when you flick through the club advertisements. With Michael Schumacher driving our bus around some frighteningly narrow lanes we finally made it to the Fiesta Palymras appts in one piece…….We all ambled in to meet the now infamous Grouch brother numero uno. No sooner had we stepped in the foyer, El Groucho was dishing out the law and giving us our first warning. Take a chill pill Groucho and give us the keys to the room you Muppet. The Hex brothers (the Crane and Dr Fox) were on fire. Room 108, our new abode was hotter than, a hot thing in a very hot place. Not only that, Lake Zurich was emanating from the fridge all over the floor. A great start. Got changed quicker than Superman with a case of the trots and moseyed on down to our new local, the one and only Bar M. Casual. The tunes were smoking, so much so that I considered dousing the DJ with a bottle of water, as he was becoming a fire hazard! I don’t know about you but when I get to Ibiza I have this feeling of being truly at home, it’s a strange sensation, unlike any other I’ve felt in any other destination I’ve been to. As time was getting on we had to hike swiftly to Mambo in order to get the tickets in for Pacha. Del Fox wheeled and dealed with the resident ticket seller and managed to get them for around 28 Euros. Result. A taxi ride later and we were outside Pacha. Making our way to the first bar, accompanied by the amazing tune that is Lee Cabrera’s Shake it, I had Ice Cube’s line “Today was a good day” ringing in my ears.
Roger was spinning stuff that you could only dream of, basically a replica of the Release Yourself cd’s and he played to the crowd as if his life depended on it. Unlike last year, we had a tour of the place and even made it to the terrace for a quick breather. Spoke to some lovely Deutsche girls before returning to Roger in the main room all sweat-Foxed up. A trip to the hand dryer in the bogs would become a ritual performed several hundred times over the course of the holiday. If you saw somebody drying their clothes in the gents, it would invariably be me. I have to say, it was one of the best sets I’ve ever had the pleasure to witness and if you are visiting Pacha this season, you have to see Roger….it’s as simple as that. The crowd was varied and there appeared to be a lot more Spanish than last year, which didn’t bother me, as everyone seemed up for it. In fact anybody who says that dance is dead wants to go along to this night and see the place rammed to the rafters with funk loving disciples, oh and just make sure I'm there so I can give you a right good beatch slapping too . The sound system this year seems to have improved too, crisp bass without the slightest hint of distortion, definitely not out of a Vauxhall Nova that's for sure. The Fox had certainly come home. It had been a long slog and the Squadron called it a day at 7am with Mr Sanchez still firing them off as we left the building. The taxi situation hadn’t improved on 2002 and it took an age before we were able to flag one down …..What a night, what a start and what a holiday this was proving to be already. Could it be bettered? You betcha!!
The Squadron turned up at chez moi around 3.15 pm, annoyingly taking me away from my beloved Ibiza-Spotlight website (Rob/James see how I did that, big upped your site without even a hint of cheesiness – I take all major credit cards for future reference by the way), which in hindsight was probably a good thing as looking back at the posts….what the fook was I on??
I was spouting some serious shite that weekend, ok more than normal but hey I was on the verge of my 2nd Ibiza adventure and I was one loaded spring ready for take off . I had an excuse I guess. What had seemed like an eternity away was looming ever closer…. we’d booked it, packed it and we were ready to fcuk off. I was determined to better last years trip.The problem with holidays, if you can call it a problem, is that it never actually feels like you’re on it until you are on the plane…..it’s a kind of surreal feeling I find. This was how I was feeling when the first pilots turned up….cue 1 Rose Jnr and 1 Doogalbug. Rose Jnr had brought his mobile wardrobe; dishwasher, cooker, fridge freezer and kitchen sink in a suitcase the size of an average 2-bed bungalow. Had he brought a chicken suit especially for the occasion?
Only he knows.The other Squadron members soon followed – Trouble, BeerMatt (on time which in itself is a feat not to be sniffed at as this boy would be late for his own birth, wedding and funeral given the chance) and the Crane. The weather was stonking in Manchester that day, in fact the minibus journey to Ringway airport could be classed as a forerunner for the sweatbox which was to be our home for the following 10 nights. On arrival at the airport we headed for the pub in Terminal 2 where the Dublin carnage had begun. BeerMatt and myself nailed a casual black rascal (Guinness) apiece, which as the Crane rightly pointed out, tasted like sawdust.
Doogie Cam made it’s first appearance for the occasion as we rang all our mates who weren’t going and were still at work. Evil I know . The Brain, who was originally travelling for the whole nine yards, had recently bowed out due to his future wife inflicting pressure last seen in Star Trek in the form of the Vulcan Death Grip, to his heart strings, as they are due to be married next Saturday and she felt it was a tad excessive to be living it up when there was so much to organise. Like most men, he buckled like a deck chair sat on by Pavarotti and agreed to only come for the last 4/5 days…..this was 100% a great idea now we have witnessed the state he managed to get himself into, in such a short space of time. Anyway, we all spoke to him and basically took the piss out of him….oh and you wouldn’t? We sank some more ales once through the arse clinching experience know as the metal detector, at the main bar. Even managed to sneak off for a weasely Smirnoff Ice just before we were ready to board. The flight was a dream although I’m sure the pilot barrel rolled at one point. Perhaps he was bored… nobody likes a show off mister especially my bowel
. I love that when you arrive in Ibiza they always hand out those free brochures at the airport as it really gets the old mind racing and feet tingling when you flick through the club advertisements. With Michael Schumacher driving our bus around some frighteningly narrow lanes we finally made it to the Fiesta Palymras appts in one piece…….We all ambled in to meet the now infamous Grouch brother numero uno. No sooner had we stepped in the foyer, El Groucho was dishing out the law and giving us our first warning. Take a chill pill Groucho and give us the keys to the room you Muppet. The Hex brothers (the Crane and Dr Fox) were on fire. Room 108, our new abode was hotter than, a hot thing in a very hot place. Not only that, Lake Zurich was emanating from the fridge all over the floor. A great start. Got changed quicker than Superman with a case of the trots and moseyed on down to our new local, the one and only Bar M. Casual. The tunes were smoking, so much so that I considered dousing the DJ with a bottle of water, as he was becoming a fire hazard! I don’t know about you but when I get to Ibiza I have this feeling of being truly at home, it’s a strange sensation, unlike any other I’ve felt in any other destination I’ve been to. As time was getting on we had to hike swiftly to Mambo in order to get the tickets in for Pacha. Del Fox wheeled and dealed with the resident ticket seller and managed to get them for around 28 Euros. Result. A taxi ride later and we were outside Pacha. Making our way to the first bar, accompanied by the amazing tune that is Lee Cabrera’s Shake it, I had Ice Cube’s line “Today was a good day” ringing in my ears. Roger was spinning stuff that you could only dream of, basically a replica of the Release Yourself cd’s and he played to the crowd as if his life depended on it. Unlike last year, we had a tour of the place and even made it to the terrace for a quick breather. Spoke to some lovely Deutsche girls before returning to Roger in the main room all sweat-Foxed up. A trip to the hand dryer in the bogs would become a ritual performed several hundred times over the course of the holiday. If you saw somebody drying their clothes in the gents, it would invariably be me. I have to say, it was one of the best sets I’ve ever had the pleasure to witness and if you are visiting Pacha this season, you have to see Roger….it’s as simple as that. The crowd was varied and there appeared to be a lot more Spanish than last year, which didn’t bother me, as everyone seemed up for it. In fact anybody who says that dance is dead wants to go along to this night and see the place rammed to the rafters with funk loving disciples, oh and just make sure I'm there so I can give you a right good beatch slapping too
. The sound system this year seems to have improved too, crisp bass without the slightest hint of distortion, definitely not out of a Vauxhall Nova that's for sure. The Fox had certainly come home. It had been a long slog and the Squadron called it a day at 7am with Mr Sanchez still firing them off as we left the building. The taxi situation hadn’t improved on 2002 and it took an age before we were able to flag one down …..What a night, what a start and what a holiday this was proving to be already. Could it be bettered? You betcha!! 
. Chatted with a charming American girl, if that was you I’m sorry for my usually impeccable conduct, but I’d been Milliganed and probably made no sense whatsoever. The tunes were once again flowing like fine wine, Louie doing what he does best,always one step ahead of the crowd. Savannah was packed like I’d never seen, which considering it’s size is not hard to do but it’s this feature what sets it apart……intimacy Ibiza style. Considering that the music was ablaze, little did I know that my wingman had nipped off to Eden without me, lured by a certain set of orange hot pants no doubt? I was not impressed as by the time I noticed he’d vanished it was pointless to go to Eden. Trudged home, ate a hot dog, got propositioned by a prostitute who looked like the rear of a bus involved in a serious road traffic accident and passed out in the chill out lair of the Bay Bar - our appts excellent bar. This was after I’d try to light a cig with around 80 matches…I don’t even smoke 
. Made it to the room and passed out on the balcony gutted I’d missed one legend but ecstatic I’d witnessed another. Gravy. 8)
. Doogie and myself hired a fan each from El Groucho numero Dos..... what an a-hole he is as well. He does this really annoying roll of the top lip under his Basil Fawlty moustache…I can’t express how annoying it is….think nails scraped down blackboard, not even close…..sand in your underpants, nowhere near…..Victoria Beckham….now yer talking but worse. Anyway, the fans were marginally better in that you couldn’t move an inch away from them before the waterfall begun. To give you an idea of how hot the room was, the bathroom with no windows and a low-slung ceiling with roof light was a national disgrace. No sooner had you laced your toothbrush with toothpaste, you looked as though you’d been taking a shower