So the shortest day of the year has been and gone, and Christmas dinner feels like it was about two weeks ago, and that means one thing: it’s practically summer. Come to think of it, it was actually pretty mafting in the run-up to Crimbo; global warming treating east London to a toasty 13 degrees of your finest celsius in mid-December! You what.
So as I’m heading back to work after Christmas, and realising that it is in fact almost time for Summer, I’m thinking about just how many fucking Ibiza statuses the internet is going to have to put up with over the coming months. The way in which people have altered their lives to become drug-hounding deep-house-skanking Ibiza ravers is beyond me; the UK has literally gone mad.
Now I may be complaining about Ibiza statuses, but I actually went to Magaluf not once but twice in my youth (only five or six years ago but who’s counting) and I 100% left a status or two about that.
Gals first holidays are amazing. In fact, any first holiday away from your parents is liberating, whether or not it looks like Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents. We did the whole shabang, investing in some stylish sloganed t-shirts (Holy chuff, we’re in Magaluf), and sparing no expense when it came to buying tickets to see our fave superstars (N Dubz of course).
We actually had the best of both worlds on our cultured trip to the isle of Majorca. We stayed in a swanky little area about a 5euro taxi away from Maga itself, and so avoided the hellish fabled hotels of central. We’d hit up Cactus Jacks at the bottom of the strip first off – each ordering a “Fuckin’ Mental” and pretending it didn’t taste like cheese, whilst getting our grind on to Chipmunk’s Diamond Rings.
On one particular evening, we happened to have a run-in with none other than the local hoes. Anyone who’s visited Magaluf will probably be familiar with these ladies of the night, who prey on poor ‘lads’ who’ve not managed to find a pull for the evening and are in need of a happy ending to their holiday in Shagaluf. My gald and I were poised at the edge of the strip, having danced it out to some Basshunter in one of the bars, when a pair of screaming men came pelting down the hill towards us and physically used us as human shields from a very angry lady, who it would seem they had denied. Watching the lads cowering behind us, this lovely lass told me I was ‘stealing her profits’ and gave me a complete bollocking, even though we’d never seen these poor chaps in our lives, and were certainly not making any extra Euros selling our bodies.
It was later in the week when I came to the realisation that karma really does exist. When strolling back from a late-night post-N-Dubz tattoo (which by the way looks like five bullet wounds in the back of my neck), we stumbled upon a hoard of these ladies being rounded up by the local policia, and herded into the back of a van. Unlucky lasses, that’ll teach you not to accuse poor 17-year-old gals on tour of being on the game.
Although places like Magaluf may seem like chavvy hellholes full of naked youngsters swigging back too many voddies and behaving like animals, we actually had a fuckin’ blinder mainly just laughing at all the creatures we could see, and headed back two years on the trot. If you’re a 17-year-old shopping around for your first girls holiday and have stumbled upon this post, don’t strike Magaluf off the list just yet, it’s pretty hilarious.