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by Phil Thornton

It was 1984 and I'd had a proper job for about six months and had just been up on quite serious charges of assaulting a bizzie and criminal damage after booting in the light of his car. I somehow got away with a fine and was bound over but my mate, who I was attempting to rescue from some nobhead bizzie who was kneeling on his throat while trying to arrest him, got stuck down. I felt I needed a holiday after that and at the time I was seeing my first long-term girlfriend and was proper in love. She had her own flat and I was suddenly having regular sex which had its own problems as I soon discovered my foreskin was three sizes too small for my bell-end and that surgery was required. Yes, at the age of 18 - Ok I was a late starter - I went to see the quack and he told me what I'd known for years but hadn't had the bottle to confront; I needed circumsizing and the op was booked a few days after we got back from Ibiza. The lads I went with weren't really my mates but mates of mates and the night before we flew out from Manchester, I'd been to a party and had downed a full bottle of Cinzano on top of a load of cans which made me violently ill, so much so that I feared I wouldn't be able to fly and for the first two days and nights, stayed in to shake off one of the worst hangovers of my life. We were staying in an absolute shithole in San Antonio, about half a mile away from the town centre opposite a welding business. It wasn't so much of a hotel as a bar with a few rooms above it and the one that me and Sully shared measured about six foot by eight foot and had one window which looked out onto a covered chute that looked over adjacent rooms. It wasn't pretty, it was fetid, humid and it stank but we weren't arsed. We were in Ibiza; party island!! On the second night of my self-enforced abstention, the lads came back in a state of nervous excitement. It transpired that a gay lad had approached them and, true to neanderthal small-town form, they'd wellied him all over the road. Infact they'd wellied him so hard, they feared they'd done him serious damage and the next day returned to the scene of the assault to find only a patch of dried blood. Nice lads.



By this time I was a bit of a fashion snob and a bit of a clubber but I was also painfully self-conscious of my puny physique and wouldn't wear t-shirts and also something of a boring twat who found sunbathing and chasing skirt tedious beyond belief, prefering visits to places of architectural or historical interest, of which there were none in San An, or if there were, then the others certainly weren't interested in visting them. No, every day was the same, get up, go for a full English brekky, go down to catch the ferry to Cala Basa, stay there all fucking day, come home, get a shower, cover ourselves in after sun, get our heads down for a bit, go to the pizza place down the road for our tea, then hit the town, which in those days meant a few half-trendy bars and a load of shite Blackpool type pubs such as Sgt Peppers with its resident Beatles covers bands, then onto the Star just off the prom.



I didn't mind the Star as the music was pretty decent and it avoided all the foamy nonsense of Es Paradis opposite which reminded me of so many plazzy fun pubs that had started to pop up at home. I hated the idea of forced jollity - those pathetic rep beach BBQs and pub crawls - because in essence I was a boring, too cool for school type who just stood in a corner trying to out nonchalent everyone else. I'm pretty sure Pete Tong was the resident DJ in the smaller of the two rooms at the time and remember being impressed as he mixed Funky Town into Boogie Nights...won't you take me to...boogie nights...funky town! Mixing was still quite new to UK dancefloors so I was cheesed off to find out 20 years later that this was a pre-mixed mash-up anyway and had fuck all to do with the dj's dexterity. I was well into my dancing but the ritual was still that you had to get a girl up in those days as lone dancing or single sex dancing was frowned upon. It could get you hospiltalised in clubs by us infact. In two weeks, I danced twice; once to Candido's 'Jingo' and once to Frankie's 'Two Tribes' which I hated but was simply a vain effort to impress two local stunners who failed to be impressed by my fancy footwork, my array of cutting edge terrace fashions or indeed my Damon Grant haircut.



My favourite item of clothing was my white Pierre Cardin blouson with the blue pin stripes, a pair of semi-flared Wranglers and my trusted cord shoes. I collected glasses at a local club and one of the bairmaids who'd been to Ibiza a few months before had informed me to dress a bit more 'trendy' because everyone had dyed blonde hair out there and wore the sort of gear that Wham wore' ie wackily patterned cap sleeved shirts, silly very short shorts and those ridiculous espadrilles. No way was I wearing stuff like that even if it did get you a jump and I wasn't even looking for a jump anyway because I was loved up and had a very tight foreskin, so what was the point? To my horror the other lads had opted for a range of Fila, Lacoste and other sporty labels that were atleast a year out of date but that didn't stop some Pompey goon approching us in Peppers one night and informing us that he knew what brand my mate's t-shirt was;

"That's Feelar innit?"

We sneered our reply and a few seconds later were being legged all over San Antonio by about twenty 657 types. Nah, the most outrageous I got was buying a cycling top a proper cycling shop in town which I wore for our holiday rep sponsored trip to the world famous Ku club, slap bang in the middle of the island. This place was supposed to be the biggest and best club in Europe, the home of the continent's jet set and anyone else they could fleece into parting with 40 quid for the opportunity of standing about next to a pool bored shitless by the shit music as a couple of faintly preposterous wannabe Studio 54 types danced badly to hi-NRG under the mistaken impression that they were shocking people. Our coach consisted of us lot, two fit Manc birds who didn't wanna know and a load of Spurs skins who were frantically growing out their number ones and attempting to disguise their tasteful tatts under kerrazy prehistoric casualwear labels. We spent the entire evening trying to make our one free drink last for five hours and mooching around the various terraces feeling, as Rotten put it, cheated. I'd seen more decadence and heard better music at the Cherry in Runcorn. For the rest of the fortnight it was back to The Star, although we did venture to Ibiza town one night but as my mates put it, 'it was full of quegs' which is funny because the only other club we ventured inside was one by our hotel named San Francisco. Now the name should have given us a clue but we were young and naive and so paid our dough only to find that we were a) the only white men in there and b) the only straight men in there. Infact the main room was virtually empty whilst what appeared to be the island's entire population of 'looky looky' men of which there were hundreds, frolicked about in the backroom which was infact a swimming pool. We soon realised our error and quietly made our way to the exit.



Ibiza then wasn't the Balearic hippy paradise it had once been or indeed the corporate dance phenomena it would soon become; it was just another ted theme park full of small-town whoppers like ourselves. I had seriously had enough of the place after a week and couldn't wait to get home to my trophy girlfriend who I could shag til the cows came home (or to paraphrase Groucho I could shag you til the cows come home, on second thought I'll shag the cows til you come home), after my little op had removed the discomfort of sexual intercourse ofcourse. Infact when I did get home, she'd gone off with her mates to Corfu and while she was there I had my foreskin removed and my bell-end stitched-up and bound with surgical bandages and lint. Involuntary night-time boners stretched the stitches and made the bandages fall off and I suffered two weeks of total agony but when she got back she'd see a new Phil, a Phil who didn't have to go the bathroom and stretch his nob every time they had sex, a Phil now self-confident in his manhood and ready for action, any time, any place, any fucking where. You guessed it, as soon as she got home, she jibbed me. Never mind, she's a fat dog now anyway. I had a lucky escape. As for Ibiza, I returned to white isle three years ago and have been back every year since. I love the place, it's just wasted on 18 year old homophobes in Fila shorts, that's all.






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