Ibiza, Spain
As Faithless once sang, 'God is a DJ', and nowhere is that more true than here on Ibiza. While Coman and I come back to the island for the tranquility of its hidden places, the beauty of its beaches, the dazzling array of wonderful restaurants, and the pleasure of holidaying with friends, there's no denying the banging club culture that prevades the more populous areas of Ibiza.
And so Monday dawns, the day we've decided to throw ourselves headlong into hedonism and visit two of the most famous clubs on the island, neither of which we've been to before. But first the pool is calling.
It's a ridiculously hot day, the searing sun burning down and pushing the mercury towards 40 degrees, so I bask in the shade of the parasol, my white English flesh no match for the relentless burn of the UV rays.
Once the sky reaches its zenith we retire to our room and get ready for the clubbing marathon ahead. Having been told by a number of people that DC10, our first club of today, is renowned for pickpockets and thieves, we leave watches, rings and phones behind, making sure that cash and credit cards are firmly hidden away from prying hands, before wandering down to Hotel Garbi's beachfront restaurant for lunch.
With no timepiece upon us and the beauty of the sea before us, we have a leisurely meal, aware that we're unlikely to eat again for the rest of the day. Unencumbered by the ticking clock we allow the afternoon to unfold at its own pace before we're snapped back into the present by a request from Jo for us to pick up an extra ticket for DC10.
Today is Jo's birthday and DC10 is her favourite club so we're heading there en masse to celebrate. The only problem is, the sun's too fierce for daytime dancing, so once we've picked up the tickets - and received a free shot of apple vodka from the kiosk girl who flogs them - we meet up with the girls and are relieved when they say they're not ready to go straight to the club and would prefer to grab a bite and a drink at Fusion, the nearby establishment.
In fact, the humidity and sheer, sapping heat means I order three drinks at once and sink them fast, trying to rehydrate. We sit out the final hour of baking weather and head to DC10 for 7pm, the temperature having dropped to a mere 30 degrees by now.
At first I'm a bit bemused by the whole place. Once past the entrance there's an outdoor space covered in decking with a couple of bars, and then two cavernous rooms, one of which has big windows, red walls and all the atmosphere of a school hall.
Daylight's illumination makes the sight of hundreds of people chugging away to the nuclear techno soundtrack, which is blasting out at a million decibels beyond full volume, utterly surreal - especially as some of these people clearly haven't been to bed for days and are dressed in preposterous day-glo outfits, fancy dress or their undies.
There is also an abundance of ferocious sunburn going on, fried skin glowing all around us. But no-one cares about that, shades firmly on faces and the deep bass sounds racing through the solar plexus and pummeling even the most left-footed into submission.
There's nothing we can do except start dancing and let the spirit take us, the huge airconditioning turbines sucking the heat from the dancefloor and keeping us all going. Slowly as dusk falls it get busier, funkier and wilder, and still we dance, doing more exercise in this barn-like room than we've done in weeks.
Planes roar past overhead, taking off from the airport just a mile away and thundering straight over the club to increasing cheers from the club massive. And everywhere are security guards, keeping an eagle-eye and heavy-hand out for any evidence of nefarious behaviour, which is obviously failing as the whole place has become ecstatic.
After a couple of hours Jo's friend Eliot makes contact. He books the DJs for DC10 and comes to find us, dishing out VIP wristbands and taking us up behind the DJ booth and into the backstage compound where there's a much calmer outdoor bar, filled with the civilized and beautiful, rather than the hardcore punters out front. Shots are produced and small talk made, a welcome breather from the madness out there.
After thirty minutes chilling we return to the raving masses, worshipping at the temple of the DJ. It's hard, heavy and relentless, red lights making it devilish but insanely fun, the pulsating room lifting off into space. We venture next door to a darkened room strafed by multi-coloured lasers, slightly poppier in feel, and all of a sudden realise Sinead and Sarah are right beside us, having come to celebrate with Jo too.
We rave away, until dripping with sweat and gasping for water we head outside to the decked area and gratefully sink to the floor. It's close to 11pm and the night has taken on the air of a festival, people chilling in groups and the soft lighting making us appear to be in candlelight. Coman stretches out with his head in my lap and we recharge our batteries, aware that we've still got a long night ahead.
Suddenly out of nowhere, we're greeted by a friend of a friend, Rachel, who works at Warners and we met at a party a couple of years ago. She and her boyfriend Stas have also been out here since Thursday night but were due to fly back tonight. They are having so much fun that they've changed their flights so they could come to DC10 tonight. It's a serendipitous turn of events, Rachel and I having a lot to catch up on, our companies merging as we speak with disruption and change on both sides.
More dancing occurs, increasingly transcendent, before we realise it's almost 1am and we need to make tracks. Saying goodbye to all and sundry Coman and I head outside and hail a cab back towards Playa d'en Bossa to meet Emma at Space.
We arrive early and wait outside, realizing in our quest to divest ourselves of valuables for DC10, we've not brought any I D with us. It's a slightly worrying wait, watching the entire guestlist queue being checked, until Emma arrives and announces us as her plus two. Thankfully for once, the door nazi turns out to be human, and waves us through no questions asked, and into the legendary Space.
Having left the sweaty, but intoxicating atmosphere of DC10, first impressions of Space are a little disappointing. It's, well, an ordinary club. I was expecting something beautiful and sophisticated and it's just rather basic, and much emptier than DC10, with worse music. Oh well.
We're here for Emma's friend, James, who plays out with another DJ as Proctor & Fitch, but before they start the floorshow begins, with fetish performances in caged bars, and neon Sex and Peepshow signs flashing away.
Near-naked acrobats twist above us, a grotesque woman dolefully glares out at the crowd, male models spank their colleagues, a woman in a brassiere rides a statue of a horse and El Diablo himself breathes incantations to party, as Marilyn Manson's version of 'Personal Jesus' blasts out its industrial power.
Following that is always going to be hard but Proctor & Fitch keep the crowd dancing, until Amanda Lepore takes to the stage to prance around breathily. James (Fitch) chats to us afterwards confessing they had no idea what's happening, or when, with all the dancers, so much of it took them by surprise too.
Suddenly we're both really tired and realise it's almost 4am. Emma needs to leave too so drops us back at the hotel and our clubbing marathon can end. It's been an utter blast, but we've had enough. And so to sleep...
