I said before I went, whenever it was on, that I would only really know I’d done Ibiza, when I heard that, in Ibiza. I still never do, apart from when I play it as many years later I managed to find an old copy on vinyl in a charity shop. There was one particular song that I really liked on that years Clubbers Guide album, it was very girly house and I hadn’t heard it anywhere else ever. I cried again, but these were happy tears of pure joy. ![]() Listening to that euphoric trance, in Pacha in Ibiza was all a bit much. Alice Deejay – Do you think you’re better off alone. So we danced to what are now classics such as Veracocha – Carte Blanche, Madagascar – Art of trance and what is total cheese, but is now my guilty pleasure. 99 in the clubs was the year that trance went boom. So we headed to Pacha and had an amazing night. This was my chance to make those hours spent daydreaming over the Clubbers Guide a reality. They hosted Sundays at Pacha and Judge Jules was on. We were going to save ourselves, but my fave DJ Judge Jules was on at a night that was known for being a bit crazy, Sundissential, was a Sunday party in Birmingham. Mondays in Ibiza meant one thing, Manumission at privelege. Meaning the clubs did not have their best nights on at the weekend so we decided to save ourselves over the weekend, for what was the biggest night on the island, or actually the world. Back in the day, weekends were usually the transit days. And there I was, stepping over a fat Geordie, who lay on the floor, with his pasty arse hanging, shouting obscenities and covered in sick. I thought this was it, it was like any town centre on a weekend, but warmer. As they are contained, kind of like in a zoo, which allows the rest of the island to live free of their shit. I later realised that this is a good thing. It’s like one street that contains every single absolute whopper, absolutely smashed on free shots and shit lager. If you ever see Ibiza Uncovered, Brit abroad style programmes, showing what are basically pissed up nob heads, with no respect or self control on holiday, acting like idiots. I had only heard snippets about the West End. ![]() So they said we should just have a few, down the West End. They said that they weren’t going mad that night as it was already quite late. Doing fire shows and carrying snakes and all that kind of stuff. They worked as entertainers in clubs all over Europe. We got chatting to them on the transfer coach, they were called Phil and Vicky. So I dreamed of going to the island and being allowed to be free, to be me. You soon find out that standing out was not the done thing. Trust me I looked different, I remember being on my way out, stopping off for a drink in the local pub waiting for my taxi to the club, ready to go, dressed in some of the nineties finest club wear, think orange Paul Smith velvet pants, a skin tight John Richmond Destroy top, with see through strips on and some natty Patrick Cox wannabes…. ![]() East Manchester, where it rained all of the time and being different was frowned upon it looked like another world, a world where I wanted to be. As someone who grew up in a place that was a polar opposite to this laid back Balearic heaven. This magical island, where the sun always shone, everyone was welcome and it was house music 24/7. Then on payday, I’d buy them… although I didn’t ever have any money left as I’d spent it clubbing. So I’d spend all of my lunch hours in WH Smith, reading magazines for free. It wasn’t that easy in those days as there was no internet. I spent all of my spare time getting immersed in this scene listening to music and reading clubbing magazines, Mixmag, DJ, Muzik mag, Jockey slut. I literally lived for the weekend and going out dancing to amazing DJ’s. I totally fell in love with it, that and going clubbing. I started getting into house music when I was 18.
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