Each of us has his places, his friends, furnished with imagination and life itself. Places linked to people, as people liked to places. Some of us have the benefit that such places are scattered here and there, forming a large territory. After all, when at eighteen you waive the mollusk security taking a backpack, starting to walk, those steps end up taking you, no matter how clumsy you are, to some curious places and situations. They draw you a more or less bumpy life map, short of biography.
For nearly sixteen years, Pacha was one of those places on my map. Pacha was where clubbing really was born, on party island set-me-free Ibiza, a little more that an old finca (farmhouse) at the time of our first arrival, beatnik and hippie leanings with aristocratic pretensions long gone, where we can rub with the good, the great and the gorgeous from across the globe.
You don’t know how glad I am to have my funny memory saturated with what the place was, because it will never be again —hopefully, somehow.
Arriving cool Ibiza, we threw our rucks into a wee funky room bit and hit the strip, first port of call you could imagine, Pacha. We took over a large bent near the dance arena as you usually do on any given Monday breakfast time! I realize that after two hours there I’m not getting in the swing, I nip to the bar for a double after shock, this bird from down cockney says “hello, where you from etc.,” she had a deep gravel voice, a bit like that old bint that used to be on Corrie. However, a minger in laymen’s terms, we agreed to have a boogie later. I thought no more about it and made my way back to my well on the way piss-eyed mates.
We ended up in the flag ship terrace’s 19th-hole, candles out for a bit of extra day-light, plenty of drunken minge to be found, a good time was being had by all apart from my room mate who had hit rock bottom back to the room in an emotional stupor with his Spiderman suit he thought “great”. Can’t remember the time but all of a sudden I get this vice-like-grip on my thing, on turning round I found it to be old gravel voice from the breakfast hour, by now she was looking like Kylie, anyhow, we had a dance or two trying to squeeze juice out of each other, it’s called dry sex apparently. I asked old gravel voice if she had a room on her own, “no, I’m a lover homeless, what about you?” she says in her sexy Arthur Mullard voice, “are you sharing?” “I am but mate’s in K-hole” I said.
After a few more drinks and dancing, me and Arthur made it back to the digs, we crept into the room, she stripped off and laid on my bed face down, I kept whispering in her ear, “keep your nice voice down, we don’t want to wake my mate”. All the time I had been stroking her back she was mumbling away in her deep gravel voice, this would have been a big turn off had I not been zoned, anyhow, my tongue up and down snaking her spine when she says out loud, “roll me over and lick my really small knob” with this, a cry from the other side of the pitch black room goes, “Thank gawd for that, for a minute I thought you’d brought a fella back!” I screamed with laughter, the bird switched the lamp on to see our surreal moment all time, she grabbed her kit and banged off calling us all sorts!!! Anyhow, an eff went out of the window but we still have a good laugh about it!
We went straight on the ale, my ginger haired mate just sat in the sun all afternoon with his Borat less than subtle piece of wear, surrounded by undraped girls believing we were “the nuts”, without putting any lotion on necking ale and by evening was burnt to a crisp. Don’t expect to find God there!
No one can cage a memory. What magical-my-arse-experience happens on holiday… stays on holiday is the motto! But still I can’t destroy the evidence…
Confession – Dugutigui (on some stories from the net)