Es Vive hotel will be my downfall. Mark my words. I live but two minutes' high-heel-clad sashay from the front door and it is swiftly becoming a kaleidoscopic wormhole of late night adventure. Arrive there alone at midnight and prop up the bar where you will be befriended by a variety of wronguns in various states of inebriation and undress. The other night a guy came in at about 1am and sat at the bar munching euphorically on his own face for about an hour, before spontaneously falling off his stool into a relaxed heap on the floor.
‘I’m fine’ he said to the barman. ‘I just fancied a lie down.’
In Es Vive (by the way, people, I checked, and you pronounce it Es Vivay....not Es Veev like so many saaarf londoners seem to think) my vodka and coke mysteriously never depletes (despite my advancing blind-drunkeness). I have a blister on my elbow from so many hours’ leaning on the bar. The barman is cute. He is flanked by two elfin and immaculate cocktail waitresses, the Spanish pixie, Josefine and the vaguely satirical, verbally economical, typically Slovak Jana.
The problem is, it’s open all morning, 8am, 9am, 10am.... So whatever club I go to it’s a pit stop on the way home. It would be rude not to just pop in.
And better still, if you befriend whoever’s staying there (I’m thinking pick a different group every week) and plead loneliness (‘I’ve just arrived in Ibiza, I’m on my own’ ...yada yada yada) and flash your cleavage a bit you get invited to sit round the pool and bought lunch the following day by some Dolce & Gabbana’d up socialite. And my my do you meet some interesting types.
Like Sid Shanti – (saggy round the edges one-time 90's Manumission DJ reborn as Chef to Ibiza-type celebrities including P-to-the-Diddy, Jamie Oliver and half the England football team) -who tried to snog me, told me you reap what you sow and invited me to lunch. In that order.
Then there was Fat Tony. A painfully thin, painfully tanned, theatrically camp 40-something DJ with ‘God Help Me’ tattoo’d down one arm and ‘Surrender’ tattoo’d down the other ....and a fabulous set of pearly whites. Fat Tony told me he had been clean for 3 years. He had to get clean because he’d boshed so much gack up his nasal cavity in the years preceding that eventually his friends found him in a darkened room, rocking back and forth, having pulled out every one of his own teeth. Talk about all gone Pete Tong. Must have looked like a fertility celebration at Dracula’s castle.
Apparently his face collapsed and his cheeks got so thin he had to have collagen implants and a whole set of new dentures.
‘You reap what you sow man, you reap what you sow’, said Sid.
Well, indeed. And by all accounts Tony sows ‘em pretty thin. He spent the afternoon entertaining those congregated around the pool with his new favourite iPhone application – Grindr. For the uninitiated, Grindr is a service to which (if one is so inclined) one logs in to find out how far away the nearest man in need of a quick, dirty, incognito one up the bum is. Truly the iPhone is a magical phenomenon. It has given birth to a whole new way to spread venereal disease. Anyway. The previous night, bored and alone in his room at 4am, Tony had logged onto Grindr and found to his delight the nearest available candidate was in the very same hotel. He sent a message and minutes later came a knock on the door.
He opened it to find a member of the hotel staff – a waiter - gurning at him.
FT: ‘....fuck do you want?’
Latino waiter: ‘Sssh ....don’t thay a worrrd’
FT: ‘old on a minute...didn’t you serve me my lunch?....what’s your name?’
Latino waiter: ‘Ith no important’
FT; ‘Oh f.....just get in ‘ere for fuck’s sake’
Latino waiter: ‘Ok....but we mutht never thpeak of dis ’
...Shame, cos Tony did quite a lot of speaking about it. In fact he pointed him out to us when he was serving drinks around the pool.
According to Grindr, in Ibiza you’re never more than 10 yards from an enthusiastic cock.
....on another note...I have discovered that the Catholic paedophile axe murderer who lives in this flat off season is also a Flamenco aficionado. Surprised? Well, Hitler was a vegetarian painter with a Wagner fetish, so you shouldn’t be. Think Hannibal Lecter. Found his stash of warbly latino clap clap clap trap in a dusty cupboard and am getting quite into it...ole!