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First Holiday Away After Leaving School
by Bernie Bostik
Ibiza 1988, what imagery does that conjure up in your head? Oakenfold's mullet, Alfredo dropping some Woodentops in Amnesia or all kinds of other assorted boring Balearic bollocks. For me Ibiza 88 meant; getting pissed, fighting, throwing up and getting locked up with the ICF, all done to a Lisa L'Anson voice over.
I'd never heard of the place before we booked but I was assured it was the best place to go for a shag. With no bad-biffs-abroad programmes on the telly to guide us to Europe's flesh pot hot spots , these thing's were normally word of mouth. With an older lot from the local going the year before, they surprised us with tales of shagging and other naughtiness. They could of been (and looking back on it now they probably were) sex liars, but we were willing to bow down to their peerage and believe them.
One hundred and sixty pounds was the cost and with me taking one hundred spends. It took me 13 months to save up from my YTS money (£5 a week given to me mother). Two weeks in the sun, I couldn't wait. We spent the night before around Mark's with his Mum & Dad being away and the mini-bus was picking us up early doors. We had done one of the tenner deals of hash in already and had only one more left for the trip. In the airport I spunked more of me spends on vodka , 200 Number1's and hefty bar bills. By the time we reached the Hotel- every single one of us slaughtered-I had fifty quid in me pocket.
After the first night I woke up with shrapnel, a condom and a quarter of henna in me pocket. We ended up in the Star club down the front near the harbour after we'd done a pub crawl of the West End bars. I can't remember much about the place or what type of music they played, it was all just disco music to me, if it wasn't Floyd I didn't wanna know. They had some bird dancing on a podium that kept Bren enthralled all night. We sat in the outdoor bit on some wall and got chatting to some mad Moroccan called Mogga and it was him I bought the henna off.
Most nights we would end up in the Star, it was our favoured place and as we were all skint it was the easiest to mind-sweep in. We tried everynight to get Mogga to take back his ever diminishing lump of shit but he just laughed and walked off. With no money for drinks we were leaving it later and later to go out, after spending a night on the balcony drinking robbed red wine and eating dry spaghetti with tommy sauce. All day & night we would watch the young beings in our apartment entertaining themselves around the pool. Everybody was pals with everybody else, apart from us. They ignored us completely but I don't suppose we helped matters. You see we weren't the mixing type, we're the type that no one invited to parties, the type that turn up anyway mob handed and wreck the place, we were those type of people. We sat on the balcony looking hard , smoking shit filled spliffs, listening to the only two tapes we brought with us (Rumours, LA Woman), while the rest of our hotel copped off with eachother.
They were southern beauts with bad barnets, we were wannabe northern hard-knocks with skin heads (apart from Bren who had a pair of curtains going on), It wasn't a good combination. We finally cracked one evening when they were around the pool enjoying a group hug, they had the cheek to send someone up to use our balcony as a good spot to take a photo from, with our balcony one of only few looking out over the concrete oasis. The knock came from Northampton Nobby with a load of camera's in his hand. Tez leaves him at the door and asks the hierarchy for guidance. "TELL HIM TO FUCK OFF" was the hierarchy's answer. The door was slammed and the lads lost it. We hit them with a barrage of ketchup bottles, lamps, batteries, a pan full of 3 day old dirty dish water that stank and Tez's trainees that also stank. They retreated in doors and we sat triumphantly drinking and smoking away. That was until the plod turned up at the door brandishing batons. I was on the balcony and caught them out the corner of my eye, I quickly flicked the spliff out towards the pool, just as the cunt came and rattled me on the knee with the truncheon. We all got handcuffed and led out side and put into the car; me,Mark, Tez in the back, Bren in the front, and Huky in the boot.
We could hear H every so often shout 'Where we going?...dont let them forget about me?'. Me & Mark had a fit of the giggles and the driver stopped and produced a butterfly knife. With one swift hand movement the cold steel blade was protruding in our direction."shut up you English" he ordered before putting the weapon back with the same skill as when it was produced. We then headed for the station once again and we never uttered a single word to eachother. It was hard holding the giggles in with H's cries of "eh lads what the fucks going on?" coming from behind us. We got took inside to the other horrors that awaited us. The cell was a big communal one with about 15 people in; two hells angels, a few rockies/spanish and a couple of cockney's. We sidle up to the cockney's and when the shout of 'where are you lot from?' comes, some of the gang play the Liverpool card, but I get talking to one of them and find out they're proper Londoners not your Northampton Nobby types, these are Canning Town boys. The only time I'd heard about Canning town back then was from that ICF video were Cass described it as "a city of thieves" So I knew there was no hood-winking these chaps. I tell him the truth and he's a friendly enough bloke.He tells me they only smashed a patio window and not to worry as it's the norm round here with the plod. I find out the plod are in cohorts with the hotel managers and whenever there's a bit of drunken foolish behaviour, it's a night in the slammer, a fine in the morning and the plod and hotel managers have a chop up.
The hells Angels rolled and smoked rollies non stop and never uttered a word to eachother, while we started to get a bit brave with a cockney back up behind us. Mark shouted at one of the guards for some water and was hit a few minutes later with a cup full of I-dont-know-what. We were giving it the Risley roar for the benefit of the cockney's and they found it amusing. In the morning three of us got let out with instructions about returning with 5000 pts each (about 25 quid) and 5000 for the remaining two still held in the shovel. With us all being skint it was down to Bren to bail us out, who we knew had a secret stash of dough somewhere. We were all on a YTS except for Bren who had a top job at Dista in Speke. On one Friday alone in every month he would pull in three and a half ton, doing a shift he called the golden nugget. Starting at 6, then doing a mini-shift till 10, then a 2 hour break before working straight through till 10 the next morning. On a normal week he must've been pulling in 4 to 5 hundred quid easy. With a few pulling out a couple of snidey stashed tenners from socks and with Bren paying the rest we had enough to free the Ibiza 2. We did toy with the ideal of leaving them there, but the plod had hold of our passports.
We had new neighbours for our last few days, a gang of Mancs from Longsight in the apartment above. They were everything we aspired to be. They were older & wiser than us, dressed better than us and had a better smoke than us. They were also better at copping off than us, which wasn't hard really as we had practically given up by then. On their first night they spit-roasted some German chick and when one of the mancs knocked on for a drink out the fridge we seen the bird pass by the door on her way home. Quick as a flash I was up and on her tail and what followed the lads still don't believe me to this day. I followed her for a few minutes, then over took her and slowed down, when she caught me up I stopped her for a light and within ten minutes of chatting she was sucking me off behind some bins in the street.
We finally all made it back to England in one piece. The next Friday we were in the local regaling the younger crew about our sexploits, mine being the only story of any substance while the rest of them made it up as they went along.
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