Despite the labyrinthine ways into the bowels of Space Ibiza (RIP), leaving is like stepping out of the office. Push some huge fire doors and a savage blast of light and heat denotes that it’s both unbelievably daytime and steaming hot again. You know you should go to the hotel. You want to.
But it isn’t going to happen.
Too many times you’ve tried and failed. It’s not just the high you’re on from performing; your body clock has been flipped. The flight is some hours away. Better to carry on than pace around a room on your own. A location for the carry-on is always found. The promoter drives us to a dreary dive that’s clearly some sort of brothel. Ibiza has been party central for a very long time, and beneath all the glitz it has a seedy underbelly.
Weave through the sad, tired, fading ‘girls’. Nod to the two ancient locals sitting on stools and emerge out back onto a terrazzo complete with plastic lobsters in fishing nets, false palm trees and rattan – and a couple of hundred panda-eyed veterans of the previous night. It’s a buzz you can almost touch. It’s great talking to people after the isolation of the booth. A crowd may cheer, but sometimes it’s better when an actual person thanks you afterwards – more real. It’s not you they were cheering back there anyway. It was the music, the party. If you think it’s you, well, that way madness lies. So it’s great to meet the people from last night. In a way you were just one of them, but denied any contact. The boy in the bubble. Mad faces and grinning loons come at you. Even if you don’t think the night revolves around you, many of them do. And if someone had a bad night it’s your fault too. It’s so easy in these moments to lose perspective. To believe the hype about you. I excel at it.