Calvin Ayre does Ibiza, Ibiza does Calvin Ayre

When I used to do celebrity promotions for Bodog in Los Angeles a few years back, we had a standard joke whenever someone told us they were an actor. We’d say ‘that’s great,’ then ask what restaurant they worked at. I was recently in Ibiza, where the joke works just as well if you substitute ‘DJ’ for actor. In Ibiza, you literally cannot swing a dead cat around your head without hitting an aspiring DJ, from the guy taking your morning coffee order to the real estate agent showing you the lay of the land (okay, I confess that I would like to live there).

What can I say about Ibiza that hasn’t already been said? Bottom line, if you consider yourself a player, you need to make this place a ‘must stop’ every summer. I ‘must stopped’ with my London-based friend Marissa Jiang. Poor thing, she doesn’t really show well in photos, but I include a few with her in the hopes that it will sharpen your focus on some of the dazzling sights behind her.

We stayed in a swank presidential suite that was right on the edge of the beach. The entire resort was basically a thumping rave party that got underway mid-afternoon. The water was great, it was sunny all day and the party literally did not stop. I only half-jokingly say we did not leave Ibiza, we escaped. That place can kill you just from party exhaustion. Walking on the beach, you feel like an extra in a softcore porn with all the nudity, drunkenness and carrying on. Its clear that Charlie Sheen never cornered the market on steroids on the Ibiza beach and there is enough silicone coming in by the planeload that I felt a lemming-like urge to open a smartphone chip manufacturing plant on the island. And there are even casinos on the island. Downright civilized of the locals to provide a refuge from the extreme partying going on around you.

Other highlights included dinner at Lio Club with its live dinner show of dancing and Cirque du Soleil-style acrobatics. Of course, this being Europe, they also had a ladyboy show. The hookahs (that’s hookahs, not… you know) at KM5 were also great, as was the party with my local friend Massimo on a boat belonging to the owners of Pacha. For those of you who don’t know Pacha, it’s the hottest club on the island, where shit just goes OFF. My friend Massimo is a bit of a rounder with connections in all the clubs and let me just say, nothing starts early in Ibiza: you have dinner at 11:30pm with the aim of getting to a club by 3am, but this late start is mitigated by the fact that the party never seems to end.

After Ibiza, we headed for Barcelona, one of my two favourite cities in Europe (alongside London). Marissa had to return to London to attend to her job as an inventory auditor at a Knightsbridge convenience store, and I carried on to northern Europe for the next few weeks. This is my 50th birthday gift to myself, spending the entire summer doing things even barnyard animals would never do. Assuming this half-century-old hedonist survives, I promise to present all the salacious details in due course.

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