Living in Ibiza

Lousy service from Littlewoods Europe

2009-12-30T20:46:00.004+01:00

It's now a day since I started my social media campaign to get a real response from Littlewoods Europe. It isn't easy.

Eight days ago I received an automated response warning me I'd have to allow "up to 48 hours" for them to get back to me. Maths was never my core competency but I'm pretty sure that there are more than 48 hours in eight days.

I certainly don't blame the staff. Earlier this year Shop Direct, the parent company of Littlewoods Europe, closed its call centre in Liverpool making all the staff redundant. Clearly the company sees communicating with customers is a waste of money.

Anyway, today I've flagged up my blog entry with a few Tweets mentioning Littlewoods Europe in negative terms. I've also started putting negative responses on the appropriate parts of its website. I'll keep on with that.

The idea eventually is to get some sort of article out of this fiasco. In the past I would perhaps have used my position as a journalist to approach Littlewoods' PR company and get them to kick the appropriate people up the backside.

This time I'm only going to use the online tools available to anybody who has been badly treated by a company. Unfortunately so far they don't seem to be having any effect.

Why buying from Littlewoods Europe proved to be less than a bargain

2009-12-29T21:48:00.004+01:00

A number of British high street brands including Littlewoods, Argos and Marks and Spencer started to target British ex-patriates in 2009 via the internet. With the collapse in the value of the pound their prices look good in comparison with many local shops in Spain.

I noticed the difference when the back of my office chair collapsed a couple of months ago. The only replacements I could find in Ibiza were uncomfortable, badly made or over-priced, and generally a combination of the three.

At the end of a dispiriting day trudging round the shops I came across a link to the website for Littlewoods Europe. The link promised a 10% discount.

I love a bargain and the site impressed me. The range was a bit limited, but the prices were good. Now I wish I'd never discovered the Littlewoods Europe website.

My wife needed a new winter coat. She found one she liked the look of and I found a chair which had been well-reviewed.

I should have realised that Littlewoods' European operation wasn't up to speed when I started to try and place my order one Sunday evening in the middle of November.

It took a few minutes to fill in all the usual details followed by a click to confirm. The result was an error message clearly intended for the IT people who manage the database. I had a few attempts before I eventually gave up.

It seemed logical that the error messages would alert somebody in Littlewoods' IT department, after all, I probably wasn't the only potential customer failing to be allowed to make a purchase. A couple of days later I was able to make the order, except it wouldn't accept the discount any more.

I decided to carry on and get the stuff ordered as my wife wanted her coat sooner rather than later as it was getting cold. It was a slight disappointment that once the order was completed the tracking on the website said that the delivery would take nearly two weeks instead of the three days or so it suggested on the website. In retrospect it was another reason I shouldn't have trusted Littlewoods Europe.

The following day I emailed the company to ask about the missing discount and to check that it really was okay to have stuff delivered to a PO box. Many companies will only deliver to a physical address. As I live in the Ibiza countryside this often means directing van drivers with my appalling Spanish. No fun for either party.

Littlewoods Europe confirmed that it does deliver to PO boxes and said my query about the discount would be passed to the appropriate department. Of course I heard nothing more from them.

Meanwhile I checked on the order tracking page of the Littlewoods Europe website to see if the delivery was still due on November 30. I was greeted with a strange message: "Please call CORE_BUSINESS_PHONE." This was particularly difficult as there is no phone number of any sort listed on the website.

So I emailed again. A day or so later I was told that the appropriate department would be contacted on my behalf. I heard nothing.

As of today I have spent six weeks emailing Littlewoods Europe every couple of days. In response I have received polite replies and promises that somebody will do something.

The only change there has been is that the tracking page now describes the order for my wife's coat as "cancelled". I didn't cancel it and I certainly haven't received a refund of any of the money that was deducted from my credit card as soon as I made the order.

I really do feel I have more than exhausted the official channels. Now it's time to take action using all the tools available on the internet including Facebook, Twitter, price comparison sites and anywhere I can make a comment.

In the posts that follow I'll tell you what I'm doing. And please contact me if you've had similarly bad experiences the Shop Direct Group which includes Kays, Woolworths, Great Universal and Additions Direct as well as Littlewoods.

Ibiza villa for sale

2009-11-14T18:12:00.003+01:00

We're selling our gorgeous Ibiza home. Why? You might well ask.

Both Barbara and I had lived all our lives in cities until we moved to Ibiza five years ago. Now we feel ready to return to a little of the noise, rush and buzz of an urban existence. In an ideal world we would keep this house and have a little apartment in Ibiza Town if the tranquility here got too much.

Unfortunately our combined income would not be enough to support two properties in Ibiza as well as our little dog Lilly after whom the house is named. Incidentally, the name 'Casa Lilly' isn't official. It's just convenient when selling a place to call it something when there is no street number.

You may well see the property on the websites of various Ibiza estate agents. We are, of course, more than happy to sell through one of them. They are all good and reliable.

In Spain, however, there is a substantial commission to be paid. The average is 5%. Yes, it is the seller who has to fork out, but what we are interested in is the final amount of cash we receive from the sale. So if you approach us direct without going through an agent there is more room for negotiation.

That certainly does not mean you should not employ a good lawyer. Spanish property transactions are complex and you really do need an expert to lead you through the minefield. The good news is legal expenses are generally reasonable in our experience.

Anyway, enough of worrying stuff. Most of the pictures on this site were taken in November 2009. So you'll see some flowers in the garden, but not as many as you would in spring and early summer. Still, I was wondering round in shorts and a t-shirt as I took the photographs, which certainly wouldn't be the case in the UK or anywhere else in northern Europe.

Also, I shouldn't really say this, but if we don't receive a reasonable offer to buy Casa Lilly before the end of spring 2010 we may well rent the accommodation on a weekly basis for the summer months. If it isn't available we would be happy to recommend a wide variety of other properties ranging from compact apartments to luxurious mansions. Just drop us an email.

More importantly, you know you want to buy our lovely house. It won't be available for ever so get in touch now.

How to get into VIP in Ibiza's clubs

2009-02-05T16:32:00.005+01:00

At the beginning of the summer of 2008 I was commissioned to write this article about the VIP area

Image by Q-BEE via Flickr

s in Ibiza's clubs by the editor of a well-known Ibiza blog. Unfortunately she parted company with the company before the piece could be published.

Thw article was going to be so straightforward. It was planned as a basic grid with a list of prices, contact numbers and the benefits of VIP admission to Ibiza’s biggest and best discos. If only it had been that simple.

When I offered to write it I only had the vaguest idea of how VIP worked in Ibiza's clubs. I’d heard people paid 300 euros or so for a bottle of vodka which gave them access to nirvana behind the velvet rope. But that was the extent of my knowledge.

Of course I’ve been in the VIP areas of all the big clubs. But I’m a journalist. If I wanted to pay to get in anywhere I’d get a job which gave me sufficient income to buy a ticket. I do have some shame though. I’m far too polite to ask the punters sitting with their bottles of vodka how much they’d been charged.

Instead the answer, I thought, was to email the clubs and ask each of them how much it cost to get in to VIP. Only the very helpful Armando Daura from Amnesia replied to my enquiry. So I took the opportunity to go and have a chat with him and to see the new Amnesia terrace.

As we talked it quickly became clear that I was stupid to think there would be anything along the lines of a VIP price list for any club. Supply and demand is everything in Ibiza. You want a table near the DJ booth for Cocoon or Manumission in August? Of course it’s going to cost you more than a Fiesta de Agua in June.

In some ways VIP follows the flexible ticket-pricing policy that exists for ordinary club admission. Early in the season it’s easy to pick up free passes, especially if the night’s not too popular. Getting a few extra punters through the door to pay through the nose for drinks is better than nothing. And maybe they’ll encourage their pals to come the following week.

With VIP the position is more complicated because there are no published prices. Essentially you either phone the club direct or get one of the concierge services to do it for you. Explain what you’re after and they’ll quote you a price. As nothing’s fixed that means you can haggle. It’s up to you. But do call at least a day ahead.

Whether or not you accept the first offer you won’t get a ticket or be able to pay for your admission upfront unless you go through a concierge service. You reserve a table at a club in the same way as you would at a restaurant. Pay when you get there and make sure you have cash.. Credit cards have their uses in Ibiza, but those uses don’t always include paying for drinks or food.

Although the prices vary the package you get from each club is fairly similar;

One bottle of vodka, whisky or gin plus five energy drinks or ten standard mixers between two people. Alternatively you can have a bottle of champagne.
A table guaranteed for the night where you can leave those drinks while you head for the dance floor.
A special entrance free from queues. (And, of course, they’ll have your name on the list.)
Most importantly you’ll have room to breathe, no matter how rammed the rest of the club is.

Despite the similarities the actual VIP experience varies hugely from club to club. Sometimes the service is impeccable. A nod towards the attentive waiting staff brings perfectly-chilled drinks to you

Image by TheFalcon via Flickr

r table in seconds.

Equally, you can feel invisible as you try to get somebody, anybody, to bring you a bottle of over-priced, tepid liquid. Generous tipping, by the way, does wonders for your visibility. Don’t worry about staff sneering at ostentatious displays of cash. They’ll keep their contempt well hidden.

The other great variable from club to club is the celebrity count. Most people with tables in VIP have paid for them. (It’s a strange definition that makes a “Very Important Person” anybody who can spend 300 euros on a bottle of voddy.) The meaning of “celebrity” is equally loose. Perhaps if I spent more time watching reality TV shows I’d have more luck spotting them. But then I’m a VIP on occasion which shows just how lax the rules are.

Well not that lax. Before I get myself blacklisted by every club on the island I should point out that admission policies for VIP are stricter than they are on the normal door. Basically, if you turn up barely able to stand in your cut-off shorts and football shirt, you won’t get in. End of story. You won’t be on the list.

So now you know as much as I know about paying for VIP. Frankly, drinking the half bottle of spirits included in the deal would mar rather than enhance my night’s clubbing. But that’s me. On the other hand there are times when I’d pay almost anything for a little air-conditioned room to breathe.

Next time I’ll tell you about the secret uber-VIP rooms where celebrities snort lines of coke off the naked breasts of beautiful groupies. Or maybe not.

Seriously though. if you do want to get into VIP I do know all the right people and I should be able to get you as good a price as anybody. The charge will still be exorbitant, but you may feel it's worth the outlay for a special occasion.

I also have good contacts if you want to buy or rent a villa. Many of the properties here in Ibiza are beautiful, but there are more than a few sharks, cowboys and time-wasters in the estate agency business here. I can help you avoid them.

Finally, of course, I am a very experienced journalist, writer and author always on the look out for work. So if you need somebody to write about anything to do with Ibiza - from celebrities and nightlife to the spiritual and peaceful side of this beautiful island - please don't hesitate to get in touch.

Give me a buzz on 0203 039 2976. This is a UK number that should come straight through to me here in Ibiza.

Skype me by clicking on the button in the right-hand column.

Or email me at: ibizanick@nickclayton.otherinbox.com

Fired from The Scotsman for blogging

2008-09-23T23:50:00.002+02:00

This is just a brief entry because my sacking has been well-documented. If you want to read more check out these articles in The Guardian, Roy Greenslade's blog and UK Press Gazette

The original blog that led to my demise as The Scotsman's gadget columnist can be read here. Finally you can read my version of events on the ki work blog.

Danger of having a good memory for faces from Ibiza

2008-06-09T13:04:00.001+02:00

A friend and former resident was over in Ibiza recently for a few days. On his way back to the UK he spotted the neighbour of another friend and said "hello", as you do. He's very polite.

I should say that the neighbour he greeted is not exactly in the first flush of youth. In fact if you saw her using a bus pass you might think she was well-preserved, but you wouldn't be totally shocked. My friend thought nothing of the brief encounter until he arrived at his destination airport.

As soon as he got into the terminal he was marched off and thoroughly strip-searched. Apparently his nodding acquaintance from Ibiza was being followed the police as she was apparently carrying a large quantity of heroin.

I'm sure there's a moral in this story somewhere. But I'm not sure I really want to think about it.

Ibiza property clampdown

2008-05-25T14:12:00.001+02:00

While Ibiza's clubbing tourists have been worrying about the impact of the enforced daytime closure of discos and music bars, many of the island's villa and apartment owners have been getting worked up about a more serious threat to their well-being. The authorities have promised a major clampdown on unlicensed property rentals.

On the face of it property owners really don't have anything to complain about. There are plenty of people who make a nice untaxed income from renting out their villas and apartments in Ibiza for the summer season. They may live in the UK or Germany and have a holiday home in Ibiza or they may be full-time island residents who go away for July and August, using the rent to pay for a holiday or just to cover the mortgage for the rest of the year.

It's not simply that owners don't pay tax on the properties, there are also no safety checks. Without being overly protective there are all sorts of risks from things such as faulty heaters. We don't want a repeat of the tragedy where two kids were killed by fumes in Corfu.

There is some evidence of the size of the unlicensed property market in Ibiza. Each year the number of passengers arriving on the island by air and sea increases. At the same time occupancy in Ibiza's hotels keeps falling. I know that there is a belief that the consumption of drugs allows some of these tourists to spend all their time in clubs and bars without the need for a bed. But, I honestly don't believe there are that many.

The response by the authorities to the disparity is to employ more inspectors to trawl through websites and other places where villas and apartments are advertised for rent looking for people who aren't licensed. Anybody who is caught faces potentially massive fines based on the amount of rent they might have received over several years. So could be talking about penalties amounting to tens of thousands of euros. No wonder owners are nervous.

So are owners lining up to legalise their position? Not really. Getting a licence for anything in Spain is complicated, even if you speak the language fluently. There's a tradition of waiting until you get caught before you try and get the paperwork. For instance, few people seem to get their car taxed until they have to sell it when proof of payment is needed to legalise the transfer. Building work goes ahead without permission in the hope that either nobody notices you've built a swimming pool or the fine won't be too big.

Of course, if you do go along and try and get your rental property licensed and fail, what you're doing is advertising its illegality to the authorities. You definitely can't plead ignorance afterwards. But actually I believe most people would rather be legal even if it reduces their income a little. It's better than the risk of being dragged through the courts.

Conspiracy theorists believe that the government doesn't really want villa and apartment landlords to get licences. They say this is because hotel owners want to eliminate the competition. It's easy to understand why hoteliers are fed up at the moment as they watch what they see as unfair competition from people who don't pay taxes or licence fees.

Where the logic goes awry is in the assumption that holidaymakers who can't rent a villa in Ibiza will stay in one of the island's hotels instead. Many will simply find a villa somewhere else. That's the sort of holiday they're after, not one spent in a hotel.

The potential for bad publicity for the island is enormous. If the clampdown is effective, imagine what visitors are going to say if they arrive at their villa or apartment to find it has been closed by the authorities. They are not going to say: "Next time we come to Ibiza we'll stay at hotel." They'll say: "We're not going to that bloody island again."

Hopefully, the authorities are just making belligerent noises to please the hotel owners. The clampdown won't be as heavy as is suggested and it's just the start of a rational licensing system for rented properties. We'll see.

Technorati Tags nick,hotels,ibiza,clayton,villas,apartments,flights

Ibiza stag party for Rooney

2008-05-12T12:33:00.002+02:00

Here's the news we've not been waiting for, football's Mr Potato Head and his pals are coming to the island at the beginning of June. We've spent ten years trying to persuade people that the Sky television series Ibiza Uncovered only revealed the worst excesses of drunken young Brits in a couple of streets in a single resort. Can Wayne undo all that?

The signs aren't promising according to the Sunday Mirror's story. Apparently' "Roo's" do is being organised by "party-loving practical joker" Rio Ferdinand who is also "pretty well connected on the Ibiza party scene". Joining them will be Man United players Wes Brown and John O'Shea, along with Liverpool's Steven Gerrard, Peter Crouch and Jamie Carragher. Some of them aren't exactly unfamiliar with Ibiza.

I hope there aren't crowds of paparazzi now booking their easyJet flights in the hope of getting well-paid snaps of footballers behaving badly. There aren't any paps based here, thank god. An amazing number of celebs pop over to the island in the summer without being noticed, unless they want to be. I only know they've been here thanks to friends who are drivers, chefs and cleaners.

There is hope that Rooney's stag do won't attract too much unwanted attention. The guests are staying at the house that Jonathan Woodgate bought when he was playing for Real Madrid. It's not that easy to find. Roo also says he wants a quiet time and he hates dancing.

It's just as well as most of Ibizas' nightclubs aren't going to be in full swing when he arrives. He'll miss the Space opening party, so it will really have to be Pacha if somehow Ibiza's spirit of dance gets to Wayne.

With a bit of luck we'll never know as none of the tabloids will tell us. What happens in Ibiza stays in Ibiza.

Technorati Tags space,ibiza,rooney,jonathan,woodgate,rio,ferdinand,pacha

Banning Ibiza after parties

2008-05-06T19:05:00.002+02:00

It's the big topic of conversation amongst the people headed for Ibiza's clubs this summer. I'm not convinced that it's such a big deal.

The plan by the authorities is to stop clubs and 'music bars' opening before 4.30pm. It's actually not quite that straightforward as San An's mayor in particular has noticed that a blanket ban would prevent bars from showing some of the Euro 2008 games. So the impact of the ban differs according to which town council's in charge.

What all the councils agree is that they want to stop the 24-hour clubbing phenomenon. So there should be a break from 6am until 4.30pm. Or so they say. DC10 seems to be ignoring the ban and planning to open at 8am as ever. Space has a dispensation, it seems, to open at noon for its opening party. Apart from those you shouldn't find any public daytime parties this summer. We'll see.

The argument the politicians put forward is that nobody can keep going for 24 hours without drugs. They have a point. Maybe there are a few people who can go straight from Space to DC10 sustained by nothing stronger than Red Bull and electronica, but I haven't met many.

Recreational drugs are, of course, no more legal in Ibiza than they are in the rest of Spain, or most of the world for that matter. So the authorities have a duty to try and prevent their sale, possession and consumption. They argue that the lengthy enforced break will cut drug use.

"Nonsense" - or words to that effect - respond many of the clubbers and promoters I've spoken to. In the absense of an organised after-party people will just head for villas, apartments, hotel rooms or beaches to carry on. The effect will be to annoy everybody who doesn't want to share their peace and quiet with groups of caned clubbers. It's also considerably more dangerous to overdo it in private than in a well-supervised club.

There's some truth in the argument that the new law will just scatter the caners. But there's another side to the argument. Part of the point of heading to an after-party is to score more gear. There are always dealers in and around after-hours venues. Close them and people will have nowhere to go and replenish their stocks. Without anywhere to go some people who would have carried on partying will head off for a sleep.

Of course, as long as there are bars, cafes and shops open, there'll be places to score and people to sell. News travels pretty fast on the Ibiza grapevine. That doesn't mean the information will get through to every would-be drug user on the island. Many will be scared to ask around about buying drugs. And they're not stupid. Getting busted is not the ideal way to extend your holiday.

My feeling is that the authorities may be right and the new closing hours will cut drug consumption. But I don't think it'll have a huge impact. The price that will be paid for that slight reduction will be an increase in nuisance for holidaymakers and residents. Instead of being in clubs and bars the noisy caners will be on your beach, in the hotel room next to you or throwing up over the balcony of the apartment above you. (I should say I'm certainly not having a go at everybody who likes to party, but there's enough of a minority to piss off a lot of people.)

I also think the big changes in club hours have already happened without much fuss. As soon as the authorities started to enforce 6am closing at the big clubs they created a two-hour break before Space, DC10 etc opened. And most of the people who've complained most loudly to me about the ban on opening before 4.30pm never hit the terraces before then anyway.

Don't worry it'll still be a great summer. Ibiza's culture flourishes in the face of a little adversity.

Technorati Tags space,nick,drugs,ibiza,clayton,dc10,parties

Ibiza nightmare

2008-05-04T20:07:00.001+02:00

My bad dreams usually follow a pattern. Either I'm falling or I'm lost and desperately find something in some vaguely familiar place. It's not very profound, but always me feeling slightly disturbed when I wake up. They're certainly not what I'd call nightmares.

Yesterday I felt I was living through a combination of bad dreams. In fact. if I didn't have the cuts and bruises to show for it I'd think Saturday May 3 was a figment of my sleeping imagination.

It started normally. As ever I was a little late getting on with my plans, exciting stuff such as heading to the post office to pick up my mail, buying a new paint roller and food for the weekend. That meant heading into the town of Jesus and back via Sta Eulalia. I could have gone another way, but for various totally uninteresting reasons I didn't. I wish I had.

At this point I should say I came off my scooter a couple of weeks ago. It was stupid. I wasn't concentrating. It was a sort of wake-up call given that I'd had the little 125 for almost two years without the slightest bump. The accident had shaken me a little and the bike was no longer pristine. It left me shaken enough not to ride for a few days.

So I was slightly nervous when I started riding along the windy main road from Jesus to Sta Eulalia. It's filled with sharp curves, deep drops and a slightly unsettling camber in places. Actually it can be a pleasure to ride for those very reasons. But yesterday I felt stiff, not leaning into the curves properly. I braked badly on at one bend, then, well there's a blank spot in my memory.

I remember seeing a white van too close behind me in the mirror. Blank. Suddenly I was off the edge into a sheer drop. Another blank. Then I stood up, surprised that nothing hurt too seriously. I waved a thumbs up to the van driver who then headed off. Fortunately another couple of drivers stopped. I might only have had bumps, scratches and bruises, but hauling even a small motorbike up a slope is not easy. Three of us struggled on the steep, crumbling slope.

One of the guys was wearing a "Britsat" tee-shirt. I guessed - correctly - he was Chris. I'd spoken to him at Christmas when my Sky system packed up. In the end I was able to fix it myself. After yesterday let me heartily recommend his service. Next time...

Fortunately the damage to the scooter was only superficial, although I can't say I'm looking forward to gluing the cracked and split fairing together. So I rode home. Very slowly. Then I sat down and every muscle in my arms and lower back seemed to seize up and complain painfully. I'm still bloody sore.

That wasn't the end of the waking bad dream. In the evening, having as you'll remember missed out on the food shopping, Barbara and I decided to go for a cheap Chinese meal in Figueretas. I drove. Two minutes after leaving the house we see several cars scattered randomly around what we know is a dangerous junction. A guy is lying lifeless under his scooter next to a large rubbish bin. He looks in a bad way. It's almost a relief to hear him moaning. People are talking into mobile phones including the guy who seems to have hit the scooter. He's speaking French. The wing of his black Suzuki jeep is badly damaged.

Deciding there's little we can achieve by gawking we drive on. Slowly. At the "McDonalds roundabout" close to Figueretas we pull over to let an ambulance past. A minute or two later we've arrived at the scene of another accident. All I can see is the end of a woman's legs. The rest of her body is obscured by a police car. She's wearing blue flip-flops. I really don't want to see any more.

Now the evening descends more into farce than nightmare. I drop Barbara off near the restaurant and go to look for a parking space. It's never easy in Figueretas. I spot something on the other side of the road. It's tight, but every space is. I totally screw up the manoeuvre. It doesn't help that this is taking place outside a cafe and a stern-faced woman keeps looking at me and shaking her head as I struggle. I can't even use the bumpers as nature intended as there's a shinynew scooter parked in front. After two minutes of lock-to-lock my back wheel is a couple of inches up on the low curb and I can't straighten up.

In this situation my motto is: "If at first you don't succeed, give up." Trouble is I'm stuck. More struggling and I get out without hitting anything. Eventually I find a spot in the car park at the end of the road. I know Barbara will be getting fed up waiting. But I don't want to suffer the stare of the po-faced woman at the cafe. So I decide to walk back along the seafront away from the road.

I head down a ramp. It peters out into a dead end. But it's easy to step over the low wall of a hotel and what seems to be the beginning of the promenade. Unfortunately, there's no way out except through the hotel. So I decide to go that way. The problem is the hotel is built on the side of a cliff so the entrance is not on the ground floor. And I can't find a sign or even a person to ask the way to reception. I'm walking ever faster through faceless corridors and up blank staircases. Nothing. Sensors set off lights to brighten the gloom and add to my feeling that at some point I'm going to be arrested or something. My phone rings and it's Barbara wondering where I am.

Eventually I give up and retrace my steps. Hobbling as fast as I can along the road I note somebody's neatly claimed the space where I'd failed to park. Sore and sweating I make it to the restaurant.

The meal was okay and we pop into Uno y Dos for a non-alcoholic drink and to chat with Mitch. The drive back was happily uneventful. I can't say I slept well thanks to my various aches and pains. But my sleep was without dreams.

Technorati Tags nick,ibiza,clayton

Ibiza's ***** blunders

2008-05-02T13:08:00.003+02:00

Ten years ago the Sky TV series Ibiza Uncovered created the impression that the whole island was filled with obnoxious, drunken, mooning, British teenagers. Ever since there have been attempts to change Ibiza's image. It's been an uphill struggle.

"It'll be like Ibiza," is standard shorthand for British town councillors opposing licence extensions. Everybody knows what they mean. I'm no longer shocked by the ignorance. I thought my friends and relatives weren't naive enough to believe everything they see on television or read in the papers. But when they've come to visit me they've been genuinely surprised to find how beautiful, peaceful and unspoilt most of Ibiza is.

So what's needed is a slogan which captures the idea that the general perception of Ibiza is wrong. And that's what Sta Eulalia's soon-to-open five star hotel and spa Aguas de Ibiza has tried to do. So visitors to its website are greeted with the immortal words: "Think Ibiza, Think Again."

Inside the site it gets even worse. "You can check in any time you want, but you can never leave," makes it sound as if hotel guests are going to be held captive. (It doesn't help if you know that Hotel California is actually about cocaine addiction.)

On one level this is just another "ah well, that's Ibiza" type story. But five-star hotels only survive on immaculate service and attention to detail. If they can't even be bothered to get a native English-speaker to look over their marketing materials it doesn't bode well. I'm now expecting Fawlty Towers, but I hope I'm surprised. (Although if they want to employ me as a copywriter I'll change my mind I'm sure!)

Is Ibiza the new San Tropez?

2008-05-01T12:12:00.005+02:00

Is Ibiza the new San Tropez or the new Notting Hill?

It's funny but so far this year I haven't read any newspaper stories about a holiday resort which promises to be the 'new Ibiza'. Maybe their absence is a good sign. The articles were just lazy shorthand concococted by PR people and journalists.

These 'new' stories have always followed the same basic pattern. Just pick any place with sun, sea, cheap booze, Club 18-30 holidays and a disco where Judge Jules or Pete Tong have appeared. That's all a writer needs to uncover a new Ibiza. As journalism goes it's cheap and, usually, nasty. But, hey, I call myself a journalist too. And I live in Ibiza.

So I thought I'd flip the idea on its head and look at where I think Ibiza might be going, based on what's happened to other places with a few important similarities. I'm not saying they're identical. No two places have the same history or geography. But there are parallels I think. See if you agree.

San Tropez was a beautiful fishing village on the French Riviera. Actually it still is a beautiful spot with narrow winding lanes leading down to the Mediterranean. You won't find many fishermen though. Instead there are designer shops and classy restaurants lining the perfectly restored streets.

In a few years that could be Ibiza Town or even San An, although perhaps a little too much concrete needs to be removed in order to really move the latter resort upmarket. The area round the port and Dalt Vila in Ibiza though is ripe for 'improvement'. Work has already begun to turn the castle into a Parador, part of the state-run chain of upmarket hotels in historic buildings. The council has also started forcing people under the city walls in Sa Penya to upgrade their properties.

It would be hard to argue against this regeneration. Many of the old buildings are in a sorry state and will fall down if they aren't restored. The castle has been allowed to crumble into a state of disrepair for decades. There is no doubt that something needs to be done to protect the Dalt Vila and Sa Penya.

The changes will make the area more desirable. Prices will rise. Many of the existing occupants will be forced out. That won't be unpopular because this is an area with a reputation for drug addiction and crime. The gypsies who live here now aren't much loved by the authorities either.

Global economic problems might slow the regeneration of Ibiza Town, but it's only a matter of time. It'll bring money, protect the fabric of this historic area and make it a much pleasanter place to live or visit. Can that be a bad thing?

I'm not sure. Going back to San Tropez: from the 1920s through to the 1960s it was filled with artists, drunks, writers, displaced Russian aristocrats, Spanish republican exiles, whores, playboys and the idle rich. (Okay, I know this is an exaggeration. Most of the population was getting on with normal life in the same way as they always do in any place.) The point is s for a time the town had a fascinating mix of the bored rich and the poor but interesting.

San Tropez now is almost certainly safer, cleaner and in many ways a nicer place for most people to live or visit. but it isn't anywhere I'd be desperate to go. It's pretty and safe. Unfortunately those two virtues aren't the best friends of creativity.

Most painters, musicians, writers and other artists are badly paid. They need somewhere cheap to live. So why not create an artists' community with economical housing? It sounds easy until you try to define 'artist'. There really is no way to distinguish them from chancers, layabouts, junkies, alcoholics or whatever. Indeed, many artists are all of those things. Squallor and art frequently go together. And vice versa. For instance, why has Switzerland as the most consistently wealthy country in Europe with the most spectacular scenery created so little in the way of art?

The point I'm trying to make is that the regeneration of Ibizawill make the island a less exciting place. But it's very hard to argue in favour of poverty.

I intend this to be my first collection of thoughts on changing Ibiza. I'll be blogging as often as other work and pleasure allows.

Ibiza Rolex thief awaits sentence

2008-02-20T20:23:00.001+01:00

A 20-year-old man from Naples Vicenzo Tolomelli has been found guilty of stealing a 25,000 euro Rolex and the attempted violent theft of another expensive watch. His arrest in July came as police pursued a “Rolex Gang” which was terrifying wealthy tourists in Ibiza over the summer.

Police then said the gang was made up of members of the “Camorra”, the Neapolitan equivalent of the Sicilian Mafia. The gang was blamed for 27 violent robberies involving luxury watches between 31 May and the eventual arrest of six Italians in July.

Tolomelli was arrested as he tried to steal a watch from a man in the centre of Ibiza Town. The man fought back and prevented the robbery. In the course of the tussle he was injured and the watch was damaged. The victim is to receive more than 2,500 euros in compensation.

After he was arrested Tolomelli was recognised as the thief who snatched a 25,000 euro Rolex watch from a tourist in an Ibiza Town supermarket car park. Tolomelli has been held in jail since his arrest.

People attending Ibiza penal court number two said that Tolmelli did not act as if he was a “Mafiosi”. He apologised in particular to his father who he said was a Naples council employee who, despite only earning 1400 euros a month, had managed to gather together almost 28,000 euros in compensation for the victims.

The public prosecutor has asked for a sentence of three years prison while Tolomelli’s lawyer has asked that this be reduced to one-year nine months. The judge will decide whether the compensation paid to the victims is sufficient to reduce the sentence.

New law threatens another Ibiza clubbing tradition

The spectacular parades which promoters used to publicise parties at Ibiza’s nightclubs are under threat from new laws. For years the island’s councils have tried to reduce the numbers of flyers handed out as they end up littering beaches and tourist spots. San Josep council, which includes the world-famous Space, has voted to increase the maximum fine to 30,000 euros for serious infractions by promoters. That’s ten times as much as the maximum fine for clubs breaking the new laws on opening hours.

The threat to the parades comes from another part of the same law which bans advertising activity by people not meeting “basic conditions of decency and good taste”. Many of the parades feature women wearing little more than tiny swimsuits and it’s not clear whether this is now illegal. The new law also bans people from handing out flyers with prices or calling them out. They also won’t be able to publicise their activities outside rival clubs.

Coke bust in Denia

A 38-year-old Brazilian has been caught with almost three kilos of cocaine as he tried to board a ferry from Denia to Ibiza. Members of the Denia Guardia Civil and its specialist dog-handling section from Alicante the Service Cinológico became suspicious of the man. When they searched his car they found 2.78 kilos of cocaine stashed in a number of places.

This is the second significant bust on the same ferry route in recent weeks. On 13 November two Dominicans were caught with 200 grams of cocaine hidden in their underwear.

Better dead than read in Ibiza

Almost 60 (58.9%) per cent of the population of the Pitiüses islands (Ibiza and Formantera) have not read a book in the last year. That puts them behind the rest of the Balearics. For Majorca the figure is 43.6% and for Menorca 48.5%. However the annual “Barometer of Communication and Culture” shows Ibiza to be slightly above the Balearic average for internet use with over 60% using it in the week before interviews were carried out.

Porn phone call sentence

A 34-year-old man has been fined 480 euros for making a series of calls to sex phone lines for which his neighbours paid the bills. He was given a reduced sentence as the judge recognised that the suffered from bipolar disorder (what used to be called “manic depression”)

The former telecommunications worker had managed to hack into his local telephone switchboard in Sant Carles Ibiza so neighbours would pay the bill for calls to sex lines amounting to over 11,000 euros between February and June 2005. One of the calls lasted seven hours.

Fourth time unlucky

Police in Ibiza have arrested the same 34-year-old local man four times in three weeks for breaking into cars and removing the documentation. Three of the arrests happened on successive days as he tried to enter a parked vehicle. Following his last arrest he was found to be carrying items which appeared to have been removed from other vehicles showing signs of having been broken into. He apparently left a note in at least one car demanding 200 euros for the return of the documentation to the driver.

Read about my book 'The Guardian Guide to Living Abroad'

Ibiza death memorial on Facebook

2008-02-20T20:11:00.002+01:00

A 22-year-old student died in hospital in Birmingham following injuries sustained in a mysterious fall in an Ibiza apartment building. Rachel Turner had worked promoting clubs in San Antonio over the summer. On 1 October she suffered severe head injuries after she fell ten metres down a stairwell. She was flown back to England where she died a week later in Edgbaston's Priory Hospital.

A message from Rachel’s sister Sarah-Louise on the popular online networking site Facebook says: “I am really sorry but Rach has gone to heaven, she was a fighter and fought till she got home. she died with her family and is at peace with God, in heaven with our brother Ben.”

Sarah-Louise and 300 friends are finalising plans for a huge party in Rachel’s memory. “We thought about having a Pink Party for her, as those who knew Rach, knew she loved all things pink!,” says Sarah-Louise on the Facebook commemorative page entitled: “We love you Rach!”

The authorities in Ibiza are still trying to discover exactly how Rachel came to fall. It is expected they will pass on any findings to the British police. An inquest will be held in Birmingham in the New Year.

A representative of West Midlands Police said: “We are undertaking inquiries on behalf of the Birmingham Coroner. Results of the police inquiry will be presented to the Coroner in the New Year. At this stage, the investigation, which has included contact with the Spanish authorities, remains inconclusive.”

Final ban on Ibiza “after parties”

An opposition councillor warns banning 24-hour clubbing by forcing Ibiza’s discos to shut from 6am to noon will only shift problems to other places. Partido Popular representative Encarna Castro said: “When these bars are closed tourists will look for somewhere else to continue partying such as apartments, parks or beaches.”

By last summer only one council Sant Josep still licensed “after hours” clubs and bars, but those included the biggest and most famous Space and DC10. Castro was speaking just after Sant Josep had fallen into line with the other councils by introducing a law which will allow hefty fines for any club staying open between 6am and noon.

Jellyfish radar

Scientists are to use a high-tech surveillance system to track the jellyfish that bring holiday misery to thousands of Ibiza tourists every summer. The wireless network of buoys and beach antennae will not eradicate the creatures, but will enable boffins to understand what causes their proliferation.

Marine scientist Pedro Arnau of Barcelona University said: “We’ll be looking at the effect of the overfishing of species such as tuna, swordfish and turtles along with the effect of other factors such as desalination, the destruction of coastal habitats and the increase in nitrates in the water as the result of their excessive use by agriculture.”

Columbus wasn’t from Mallorca

An investigative journalist has reignited a row between Majorca and Ibiza which both claim to be the birthplace of explorer Christopher Columbus. The argument has rumbled on for years despite the fact that the majority of historians believe the first European to discover America since the Vikings was born in Genoa, Italy.

Other experts claim that Columbus’ writings are full of “catalanisms” and say the famous sculpture at the foot of the Ramblas in Barcelona shows Columbus pointing towards Ibiza. And the main landmark in the Ibiza tourist hotspot of San Antonio is a giant egg containing a model of his ship the Santa Maria.

Nito Verdera, author of “Christopher Columbus: the book of lies and the four truths”, said that if the explorer’s father was the Prince of Viana, as the Majorcans claimed, Columbus would have been only 46 when he died not 60. Verdera also claims that DNA evidence proves Columbus was Jewish.

Ibiza's low-spending British tourists

Ibiza attracts more British tourists who spend less than the other Balearic islands of Mallorca and Menorca according to a government survey. It also shows that almost two-thirds of Brits (63.3%) coming to the party island are on a package holiday compared with the average for the Balearics of just over a third (36.5%). The number of UK visitors to Ibiza was 602,058, an increase of 10.5% compared with a rise of 2.8% for Majorca and a fall of 6.2%. Only 6.3% of unhealthy Brits took part in any sporting activity while on holiday in Ibiza while a quarter sampled the island’s infamous nightlife.

Police confirm murder

Months after an anonymous tip-off to a local newspaper led police to a body in a disused military building in Ibiza Town it has been confirmed that the man had been murdered. It is believed the Romanian vagrant had received one shot to the face. His corpse, when it was found, was in an advanced state of decomposition and hidden under a pile of newspapers. No weapon has been found and police admit they are not following any specific line of enquiry.

Read about my book 'The Guardian Guide to Working Abroad'

The end of the 24-hour Ibiza party

2007-12-03T20:25:00.000+01:00

As always I started with the best intentions of regularly updating this blog. It's never happened because paid work has always taken priority. Sorry about that.

What I've decided to do for the time being is let you in on the copy I send every week to ThinkSpain Today, the only English-language paper for the whole country. What you'll find here may differ quite dramatically from what appears in the paper. That's because it's the job of the sub-editors at ThinkSpain to create a tabloid paper...

These articles were submitted on 24 September 2007.

This summer will be the last that Ibiza’s clubbers can dance through the night and the following day. From 2008 all the island’s discos will have to be closed for the morning. All the politicians have to agree is which hours the clubs will stay locked.

Island Council president Xico Tarrés said that the current system of “after-hours” parties was attracting the wrong type of tourist, the sort who would come for two days without needing to sleep in a hotel because of the pills they’d taken.

He said that the mayors of all Ibiza’s municipalities had been informed of the closure plans and were in agreement. The legal department of the Island Council is now working with Balearic Autonomous Community to draw up a framework for the new laws.

The legislation will mark the end of an era for Ibiza’s clubbers. For years discos have operated until the morning when after-hours clubs such as Space and DC10 opened their doors.

There has been a clampdown on the nightclubs in recent years which have been forced to shut at 6am on schooldays with the aim of reducing the number of accidents involving party-goers and children.

Then, at the beginning of this summer, the clubs Amnesia, DC10 and Bora-Bora were heavily fined and closed by the police as the result of drug dealing taking place in previous years. There is continuing speculation that one or more of these clubs will not re-open in 2008.

Ibiza hit by tomato plague

An outbreak of “tomato leaf-miner” moths which started on a farm in Es Canar has now spread to the whole of Ibiza threatening future crops of vegetables and fruit according to island council scientists.

Originating from South America the moth, which doesn’t just affect tomatoes, is highly resistant to insecticides. Instead government experts are using a combination of techniques including burning the affected plants and using traps baited with artificial scents that are sexually attractive to the moths.

This year’s crops have not been directly affected and farmers hope the winter will kill off any remaining caterpillars, moths and their eggs.

Ibiza bishop in gay sex row

The Bishop of Ibiza and Ibiza town council are embroiled in an increasingly heated row over a picture depicting the late Pope John Paul II in an explicit homosexual act.

The collage by Dutch artist Ivo Hendriks forms part of an exhibition in a former church now used an art gallery. In the latest move the bishop has withdrawn from an agreement dating back to 1998 and demanded the return of the keys to the building.

The local council which part-funded the exhibition said it supported freedom of expression and would not become involved in acts of censorship.

Goodbye Eivissa

There will be no return to using the name “Eivissa” to promote Ibiza to the world according to the local tourist chief.

There had been suggestions that the new council elected in May could return to using “Eivissa” which was supported by the previous Progressive Pact government. But the Balearic Government tourist chief Francesc Buils said it would cost millions of euros to make the international public aware that Ibiza was Eivissa.

He said Ibiza was a well-known brand in the same way as Coca-Cola which has been globally successful for many years without ever changing even its logo.

Ibiza shops hit by tourist spending fall

Despite a rise in the numbers of tourists visiting Ibiza, shops in the island’s resorts are reporting a poor season with income falling by as much as a third in some places compared with last summer.

The worst affected areas, according to the local retail federation, are those which rely wholly on holidaymakers for their trade. In Ibiza Town some traders said that they had so few customers that they were closing at midnight rather than 3am as they have in the past.

In contrast, the shops that cater more to locals and are open year-round have generally maintained their income.

Police blame drugs and alcohol mix for Ibiza tourist death

A 60-year-old tourist has died after, it is believed, he first swallowed a bottle of the drug known as GHB or “liquid ecstasy” then went drinking in the Ibiza resort of Platja d´en Bossa.

The man collapsed in Murphy´s Bar around 9pm. The ambulance crew was unable to revive him and he died before arriving at the hospital.

The cause of death will not be confirmed until a post-mortem and toxicology tests have been carried out. In recent years a number of tourists have died or been admitted to hospital after mixing GHB with alcohol.

Authorities clamp down on new Ibiza buildings

2007-11-12T16:13:00.000+01:00

The decision to freeze building work on coastal sites in the Balearic islands of Majorca, Minorca and Ibiza could cost some developers millions of euros.

The Balearic islands’ council is currently working on legislation that should be enacted within a few days which is intended to prevent development in remaining natural areas of beauty and interest. It’s planned that protected zones will be extended, the minimum area required for permission to build a house will be increased to 200,000 square metres.

The socialist-led coalition government also intend to abolish the so-called “Cretu Law” which was introduced by the previous Partido Popular legislation to normalise developments such as the huge mountain-top villa owned by the Enigma star.

Although the clampdown on unfettered building was welcomed by many island residents, others were concerned about the impact on the local economy and their own income.

One Ibiza developer spoke to ThinkSpain Today on condition of anonymity. “I’ve brought millions of euros to Ibiza, not just from villa sales but for the construction workers I’ve employed. People like me have helped the island become rich.

“All the profits I’ve made I’ve poured back into the island. I’ve just paid almost three million for a beautiful plot which is big enough for three spectacular villas. The people who buy them will put their money into the island’s businesses as well. If I can’t build all three houses the figures won’t add up. People like me will quit the island and the economy will suffer,” he said.

Demolition time at Elle Macpherson's old Ibiza villa

The owner of the villa where Aussie supermodel Elle Macpherson used to spend her wild summers in Ibiza is threatened with a 50,000 euro fine and demolition costs for illegally altering a jetty so that nobody else could use it.

The public prosecutor claims the owner of the spectacular seafront villa built a wall up to two-metres high around a yacht landing stage designed for public use. Now the prosecutor’s asking for a 300-euro-a-day fine covering six months of alleged illegal occupation of the jetty.

(Note Elle Macpherson used to spend all her summers in Ibiza until about three years ago when she apparently lost it completely and headed off into rehab. She also sued the Sun successfully not long ago)

Ibiza-born natives outnumbered

Most people who live in Ibiza were not born on the island according to the latest official figures from the Economic and Social Council. In 2006 55.8 per cent of the population came from outside, mostly from mainland Spain. Over 90,000 of the island’s population of almost 114,000 are of Spanish nationality. Most of the rest are European or North Africa.

The figures represent a 2.5 per cent increase over 2006 which authorities say was caused by a combination of immigration and a booming birth-rate which far outweighs the number of deaths.

Unstung heroes of Ibiza's beaches

Ibiza’s tourists may have had to contend with an oil spill, closed clubs and occasional downpours, but they were spared a threatened invasion of jellyfish. The Red Cross said life guards in the San Antonio treated less than 1500 stung swimmers, a third less than they dealt with the year before.

Other municipalities didn’t report specific figures but said their experiences were in Line with San Antonio. Experts had warned of a plague of jellyfish because rising temperatures in the Mediterranean around Ibiza meant they would no longer need to head for warmer seas to breed.

Sounds of Ibiza

Figures collected during the peak holiday months in Ibiza Town showed that over a third of noise hotspots passed the 65 decibel limit laid down by the World Health Organisation. But it wasn’t Ibiza’s famous nightlife that was to blame for the racket.

It was general traffic that caused most of the misery, followed closely by public service vehicles such as buses, taxis and bin lorries. Clubs, bars and restaurants were a long way behind in third place.

Ibiza's unlikely new five-star gallery

Ibiza’s latest five-star attraction, the Granhotel overlooking the port, is to be one of only five hotels in the world which is catalogued like an art gallery. The spectacular building which combines a casino, upmarket restaurants, a spa and 157 suites will, the owners claim, be “alive with the contemporary work of emergent artists”. So far 16 artists from across Spain, Europe and the US have been offered the opportunity to display their work.

Why Ibiza's a crap holiday island

2007-11-05T17:30:00.002+01:00

If you want an island holiday head for the freezing Faroes way off the coast of Denmark, or the Azores in the middle of the Atlantic or Scotland’s isolated Shetland Isles. Whatever you do avoid Ibiza, that was the message from a survey of experts by the prestigious National Geographic Traveler.

The magazine looked at 111 holiday islands around the world and asked 522 sustainable tourism experts to score them all. Ibiza received 37 points putting it equal bottom with St Thomas in the Virgin Islands, a former beauty spot which is now overwhelmed by millions of cruise ship tourists.

“Ibiza is not Spanish anymore. Or Balearic. It is a colony of Europe and, at times, seems more a colony of British ravers. Half the island is still 'natural.' The other half has been lost completely to the party circuit,” said one anonymous expert.

Another added: “Ibiza cannot get rid of the vicious circle it went through a few years ago. Booze, partying, and drugs are a big part of an increasingly sleazy scene.”

But they weren’t all totally negative: “Some might argue that Ibiza has been despoiled, but a closer inspection reveals much that is still appealing: centuries-old defense towers and churches; walks from beach to beach on largely unspoiled stretches with rocky outcrops; and beautiful views of Es Vedra rock off the southwest coast.”

There was also a ray of hope from the magazine’s editor Jonathan B Tourtellot who said that in resorts blessed with sun and sea development can soon get out of hands. “No surprise, then, that cloudy, beach-poor islands score well,” he said. Given the weather this autumn there’s still hope for Ibiza.

Suspended sentence for hopeless arsonist

A 21-year-old has been spared jail after a botched arson attempt in August 2006. He had bought petrol with the intention of setting fire to the car of his mother’s ex-boyfriend.

The boyfriend’s car was a Fiat Panda but the bungling burner got it mixed up with a Fiat Uno belonging to somebody else. Having set fire to the wrong car the flames spread to four other cars near the old cemetery on the outskirts of San Antonio. The heat from the blazing vehicles then set fire to 3,500 square metres of scrubland creating a spectacular show for many San Antonio tourists.

The culprit was caught after he handed himself into the police station with burnt feet. And the reason the local police were looking for him? An officer had earlier seen him buying the petrol. Asked what it was for the youth truthfully replied it was to set fire to a car. The cop thought he was joking.

Deaf whales

Whales and dolphins are being deafened by noise pollution in the seas around Ibiza. But it’s not the incessant beat of the island’s world-famous discos that’s causing the problems. It’s the increasing number of passenger ships, yachts and fishing boats that is threatening the fragile marine ecosystem.

Scientists warn that the noise around the Balearics, Canaries and in the Straits of Gibraltar could have a disastrous effect on the whale and dolphin population. The deafened mammals lose the ability to use their sonar systems and die when they are hit by boats.

Tax hike for absent home owners

Council chiefs in Ibiza’s biggest tourist resort are planning to slap a hefty tax penalty on owners of empty homes. It’s an attempt to increase the supply of properties available to let and drive down prices. Current rents are beyond the reach of many ordinary families.

“We have discovered in the municipality it is very difficult to places for less than 450 to 550 euros a month which puts a heavy load on many people, especially families of lower middle incomes,” said local housing chief Joan Pantaleoni. Where the council finds evidence through utility bills and so on that a place has been empty for a year the IBI tax may be increased by several hundred euros a year. Pantaleoni added that this was very much an experiment.

Taking the Micky in court

More than three years after the road rage incident which allegedly left Spanish TV actor and singer Micky Molina 44 permanently scarred, the British man Robert P will finally appear in court in February. The case was due to be heard in June.

The public prosecutor blames Robert P for attacking Molina with a sharp implement after a crash in the Ibiza resort of San Antonio. A sentence of three-and-a-half years is being requested although it’s possible that Molina’s lawyers will press for increase to five years for a charge of attempted murder.

Golf course row

Ibiza council chiefs have rejected another planned golf course which the developer Andria Investments claimed would be a 100 million euro investment in the island and would bring quality tourists year-round.

The course and a five-star hotel would have been built on the outskirts of San Antonio on the west of the island. A few weeks ago another planned golf development on the east at Playa d’en Bossa was rejected. The backer of that course is a leading member of the Partido Popular and the current council actions are seen by some as revenge following the PP’s loss of power in the May elections.

Hotspots using Trustive from Ibiza to Edinburgh via Barcelona

2007-11-02T19:48:00.000+01:00

Hotspots using Trustive from Ibiza to Edinburgh via Barcelona

One of the mixed blessings of writing about technology is that I get to try the latest products including at the moment an “all you can eat” wi-fi hotspot service from Trustive. Getting to play with this stuff sounds fun, but it drives my wife nuts and it’s not always too much fun for me either.

As I write this I’m on my way back to Ibiza from Edinburgh, a trip which in this case involves a four-hour stopover in Barcelona. My plan was to do some work courtesy of the Trustive wi-fi hotspot freebie from “Trustive”. The service allows you to log into thousands of hotspots worldwide. Well that’s the theory.

Trustive’s free Hotspotter software can find eight wi-fi networks from the café where I’m sitting at the moment. Unfortunately I can’t log into any of them, at least not without paying. The frustrating thing is that according to the advertisement showing on Hotspotter there is a service in Barcelona airport which I can use. Unfortunately I’ve no idea which one.

I can also look for hotspots offline using a directory on Hotspotter. If I do that it tells me there’s no service in the airport. I guess the directory must be right and the advertisement’s wrong, although both are provided by Trustive. But there’s an added frustration to this.

My plan when I was in Edinburgh was to use some of the numerous hotspots in the city to keep up with work, emails and Facebook. First problem: finding anywhere with a Trustive-linked hotspot open on a Sunday evening in Scotland’s capital city, at least anywhere conducive to working. Second problem: logging on.

I eventually found a branch of the trendy All Bar One pub chain in the business district which was both quiet and open. Logging on was rather more of a problem. Hotspotter could find the network, but I couldn’t get in, even though log-in was supposed to be automatic. Vista on my laptop could find the network and give me a log-on option. But although I’d entered the information into my Hotspotter software, I didn’t have the details available except in my Gmail account. I had to get online to retrieve them.

In the end I paid to get online to get the details. It was the only way to get my user name and password. They worked. But my success was short-lived. My log-on lasted no longer than ten minutes before I was thrown offline. Two hours in the pub was worth half an hour in an office, in terms of achievement. I even stayed sober.

The following day I made my next attempt. After half an hour I worked out that the problem was Vista and Hotpotter overlapping. Logging on and just using Vista worked fine. Trouble is the only way of finding if a network is available is using Hotspotter. And that leaves me sitting here disconnected in Barcelona. (And this was uploaded to my blog 24 hours later.)

Ibiza's DC10 is 'not a disco'

2007-10-22T16:23:00.000+02:00

One of Ibiza’s best-known clubs has been fined 18,000 for having the wrong sort of licence. DC10, one of the clubs closed by the authorities at the beginning of the summer for lax attitudes to drug dealing, was hit by the fine when it was revealed the club only has a “café concierto” licence.

Councillor Paquita Ribas said: “This does not even permit dancing inside.” Another 13 bars, restaurants and clubs were fined varying amounts mostly for breaking noise regulations and leafleting without a licence.

Drugs admissions in Ibiza

Ibiza’s main hospital Can Misses said that admissions for drugs overdoses increased last year from 679 in 2005 to 824, a rise of over 20%. Cocaine emerged as the most common cause of emergency admissions, accounting for almost a third of the cases. Next were amphetamines and designer drugs – speed and ecstasy- which were behind a quarter of the overdoses.

Alcohol was reported as the principal cause of emergencies in almost a quarter of drug-related admissions; doctors only register booze problems for these statistics if other drugs are involved as well.

Red tuna sanctuary

The Ministry of Agriculture is considering setting up a sanctuary for red tuna off the coast of Formantera. The giant fish are in danger of becoming extinct as a result of the Japanese passion for sushi.

The best specimens can fetch thousands of euros in Tokyo’s fish market. Scientists say the threat comes not from the traditional fishermen who have caught tuna in the Mediterranean for thousands of years, but from high-tech guided by spotter planes.

Disco booze cruises under threat

A judge in Ibiza has refused to rule out criminal charges against the captain of a disco boat following the death of a young Irishman in July 2006. The case came to prominence because 24-year-old Basil Bourke was the nephew of the then Irish defence minister Willie O’Dea.

Bourke and a friend jumped off the “Captain Nemo” into the sea. His friend was rescued, exhausted, 90 minutes later. A post-mortem showed Bourke had ingested a significant quantity of drugs. Judge Santiago Pinsach referred the case to the public prosecutor saying this could result in manslaughter charges.

Making the captain responsible for the actions of holidaymakers could threaten the future of these cruises which often provide unlimited booze which youngsters combine with the consumption of illegal drugs.

Fake kidnap

A man who police say faked his kidnapping has been found in Ibiza. The Huesca National Police have been seeking him since the summer when another man contacted the police to show them messages on his mobile phone.

These demanded a ransom of 15,000 euros and included a picture message showing the “victim” with a plastic bag over his head. Police became suspicious when they discovered that the man owed Social Security 15,000 euros.

Cretu mansion to be demolished

What could be the final legal attempt to prevent the demolition of the Ibiza mountain-top mansion of multimillion-selling musician Michael Cretu has failed. Courts now say the massive house with its recording studio, cascading swimming pools and hanging gardens must be knocked down and the hill restored to its natural state by November 2008.

The secretive Cretu is the man behind the phenomenally successful Enigma project which has sold well over 100 million albums worldwide with no live performances. His early success, however, came in the 1980s working as a keyboards player with massive-selling pop artists such as Boney M and Milli Vanilli. He later collaborated with Mike Oldfield.

Despite living in Ibiza for many years the Rumanian-born musician has seldom been seen in any of the island’s clubs. He prefers instead to work in his private studio, often with his wife Europop diva Sandra Cretu.

For years he has fought legal battles with the government which accuses him of building his mansion on protected land. He has been supported frequently by the local council of Sant Antoni (San Antonio in Castilian) which originally granted planning permission.

Four years ago the council was told it will have to pay for the cost of the demolition which would run into millions of euros. Not long after that the Balearics Islands Council passed a law which would provide an amnesty for some illegally-built properties. As the Partido Popular controlled both the Sant Antoni and islands councils this was widely seen as politicians of similar political persuasion helping each other out.

But last week the judge threw out the latest appeal saying that the Cretu mansion could not be legalised under the act. The current mayor of Sant Antoni responded to the judgment saying: “Our war is over. We will do what the court says.”

As always throughout this saga there was no public comment from Cretu.

Sometimes it's hard to feel sorry

2007-10-21T14:10:00.000+02:00

The torrential rain last week brought misery to many on the island last week, including parts of the Matutes Group of companies. Anybody who knows the island at all well will be familiar with the name "Matutes" through Señor Abel, the former foreign minister in the Spanish government and his company that owns a large part of the business on the island including construction companies and the Fiesta Hotels group.

Abel Matutes was seen very much as the guiding hand behind the massive and controversial road-building project on the island. The fact that his daughter Stella was head of the council committee responsible for the construction didn't do much to allay the suspicions. There was, however, never any evidence that the Matutes family would benefit financially from the road-building project.

There are other construction activities where Matutes definitely has an interest. One of those was a golf course planned for Playa d'en Bossa. Again there's been opposition on the island. The argument for golf courses is that they'll attract more high-spending tourists to the island year-round. Those against are concerned by the huge amount of water and chemicals needed to keep the courses green. They also wonder if golfers are really the sort of tourists Ibiza needs especially as there are loads of other places for them to go.

Anyway, one of the problems with Ibiza's new motorways is they can't cope with rain. All of them have had sections closed during last week's storms. The airport road has had particular problems and its construction has turned the area round the proposed Playa D'en Bossa golf course into a quagmire. And this is pouring mud into the Fiesta hotels near Space. The land for the golf course and the Fiesta hotels are owned by the Grupo Matutes...

DC10 is not a disco

A list has just been published of the various bars and nightclubs that have been prosecuted for breaches of various regulations. At the top is DC10 which has collected 18,000 euros in fines mostly because it has a "cafe concierto" licence. This sort of licence is intended to allow bars to provide musical entertainment, not including dancing. Bit of problem for a disco.

Rumours have abounded this summer from "well-informed sources" that this was definitely the last summer for DC10. I just went to see if there was a DC10 website. There isn't. But I did find the Circo Loco MySpace page. It says:

Jan 1 2008 8:00A circoloco@dc10 Ny special event! @ Ibiza (baleares)

Quick round-up of other Ibiza news

The long-running saga involving the illegal construction of Michael Cretu's hill-top mansion finally seems to be coming to an end. The high court has ruled that an amnesty on illegally-built properties doesn't apply and it's going to be demolished.

I find that I now live in the most expensive area for property prices in the Balearics. That's the municipality of Sta Eulalia, followed by Calvia in Majorca and then Ibiza Town.

The government´s published a slightly confusing set of figures showing that emergency drug admissions to Can Misses, Ibiza's main hospital, increased by 41.3% in 2006. The figures are for people who've been admitted after taking drugs not prescribed by a medical professional. It's the breakdown I don't understand - cocaine (31.7%), followed of amphetamines and designer drugs (26.2%) and alcohol (23.3%). That doesn't add up to 100% and I'd be surprised if a large proportion of the cases didn't involve multiple consumption. Still 824 people is a lot, whatever the technical reason for their admission.

Oh dear water calamity

2007-10-18T23:17:00.000+02:00

Ibiza's not designed for anything but sunny weather. The roofs are flat. Nowhere's insulated and drainage is unheard of. But, actually, the island has as much rain as some parts of England, except it comes all at once.

So now the wonderful new motorways resemble rivers, the power's going out intermittently and half the people I know have flooded homes. Still, a bit of discomfort's good practice for winter and joys such as scraping the black mold off walls.

The good thing is that we're suffering now, but it's in the knowledge that within a few days it'll be warm and dry again. The rain will bring out the flowers. Yes, even in October.

Fair fares

One of the benefits of being resident on Ibiza, or on other Spanish islands, is you get a discount on flights and ferries of about 50% for travel within Spain. There's a continuing debate about how this should be applied. One proposal that flights from the islands should be a flat 27 euros has been bombed out. Now the politicians are trying to decide how to administer the scheme so it's fair for all.

Obviously a lot of people will think it's unfair that somebody should get to live on Ibiza and enjoy cheap travel. But the island is an expensive place to live and there are real problems attracting teachers, doctors and so on to run essential services. And, of course, there can't be any real competition as residents have to travel across water somehow, so it's boat, plane or stay put.

The thing is air fares in particular are very much tied to demand. Of course it's cheap at the moment when nobody wants to fly, but come the summer even with a heavy discount the price would be too much for some. And without the subsidised tickets the airlines and ferry companies would stop services throughout the winter. As it is there are very few flights direct to anywhere outside Spain and none to the UK from November to April.

So the idea seems to be to fix the price so there's a maximum and minimum. It's got to be sorted before January 1 so what odds on a solution being announced on December 31.

Meanwhile, when the rest of the world seems to be discussing how to limit flights to reduce global warming it's a bit much that we're talking about increasing the number of passengers.

Tax and too many men in Ibiza

Anyway I haven´t got time to cover much more of the news except to say that the latest survey from La Caixa bank shows the number of foreigners increasing faster than the indigenous population, and more of them are men. The other thing is our equivalent of the council tax is going up by about 7%. For an average family that'll be about 300 euros a year extra. Work that one out.

No fare for temporary Ibiza taxi drivers

2007-10-17T11:19:00.000+02:00

Discussions between the local government and Ibiza taxi drivers continue, as they have done for years. The problem is that there are not enough taxis at the peak of the season. The government wants to hand out another 150 licences, the taxi drivers are concerned about who will get them.

This is symptomatic of the the way the island's economy is hopelessly skewed around a few weeks of hyperactivity. People and businesses have to make enough over a few weeks to survive for the rest of the year. You can understand why the taxi drivers are concerned as it's a delicate balancing act between having enough to ensure punters aren't waiting too long and having too many so the drivers can't make a living.

At the moment the balance is clearly wrong which is why there are so many pirate taxis around from July to September. The drivers of these vehicles are not insured and may be unsafe. But, at 6am outside a club on the other side of the island from your hotel, who cares?

The other part of the problem is there doesn't seem to be an equivalent to a “mini cab” or other licensed private hire service in Spain. The limos that ferry superstar deejays, models and millionaires round the island are technically as illegal as the clapped-out pirate taxis outside Pacha. The theory is that Kate Moss and co should wait for a taxi or a bus like everybody else.

What do you do with a shipwreck?

Ibiza has another problem without an obvious right solution. The Don Pedro sank in July after hitting a small island just outside the Ibiza Town harbour. It didn't turn into the ecological disaster that it threatened. A couple of beaches were closed for a few days and the oil doesn't seem to have damaged any of the environmentally fragile areas close by.

Today it's been announced that a robot is being used to find if there are any traces of oil left on the ship. The next stage is to remove solid debris including a large consignment of used car batteries. Once that's finished a decision will have to made on what to do with the wreck.

If it's raised experts reckon that it'll break in two. Leaving it would provide an attraction for tourist divers – the council actually looked at the idea of deliberately sinking a ship for just this purpose. But nobody seems sure what the long-term risks are of leaving the wreck on the seabed.

For once the decision to set up a committee of interested parties to examine the situation does seem to be a sensible course of action rather than an excuse for putting off a difficult decision.

My next post will no doubt be looking at the Ibiza weather and the damage done by the storms.

How do you revise for a drugs test?

2007-10-16T11:46:00.000+02:00

Sometimes I'll admit that it could be my lousy Spanish that's at fault, but there really does seem to be a course of evening classes entitled: “Drugs: Reality or fiction?” which includes practical work. If you want to see what I mean, check out this link:

Diario de Ibiza - Energy Control organiza el curso `Las drogas: ¿Realidad o ficción?´

More usefully the Balearic government is planning an office that will bring together all the information that immigrants require. Given that more than half of the population of Ibiza wasn't born on the island this should be valuable, if it's done properly.

I know it probably makes sense, but it somehow sounds typically Ibizan that the planned emergency practice at the airport has been cancelled because of bad weather. It would have been the first full-scale test of emergency procedures since 1998. Ah well, mañana...

This week is diving week, intended to promote underwater tourism in Ibiza and Formantera. The water's supposed to be particularly good for that here. (I must admit the longer I live here the less time I spend in the sea. Twice this summer I went in. Shame on me!)

It was sad to read that the first speaker was talking about species of shark becoming extinct in Ibiza's waters thanks to overfishing. Better news is that there's serious talk of a red tuna sanctuary off Formantera. Apparently it's the sushi craze that's threatening them.

Finally, I keep hearing about budget airline Jet2 launching a service from Blackpool to Ibiza. That'll surprise a large number of people in Britain who seem to think they're the same place.

Ibiza's new mountain

2007-10-11T13:18:00.000+02:00

It's definitely Catherine Zeta-Jones advertising the new Elizabeth Arden perfume Mediterranean, but where is she? Could that be Ibiza Town in the background? But when did that mountain appear? Is that what happened to the rubble from the motorway tunnels?

One friend's suggested that it would be an ideal place to film the remake of "The Sound of Music."

Can anybody think of anything better?

Lads cash in on lurid Ibiza diary

2007-10-08T19:07:00.000+02:00

A group of Essex students have come up with a novel way of paying for their 2008 Ibiza holiday. They're using a website to sell a no-holds-barred diary of their sex, drugs and alcohol-fuelled exploits on the island last summer (2006).

The six 22-year-old lads from Leigh-on-sea came up with the idea of keeping a diary after a seventh mate who couldn't make the trip asked them to jot down some of their exploits. “We didn’t take the suggestion seriously apart from one of us who actually bought a diary out there. We caught him making the odd scribble on the beach. After a lot of pointing and laughing we read the diary, liked what we read and before long were fighting for the diary to jot down our latest thoughts,” said “Danny”.

The diary includes descriptions of how one lad lost his shirt as he had sex in the sea with a blonde, another went with a prostitute and they all ogled the girls in the hotel room next door. “Things were going perfect, they were naked and we were perving complete with beers in hand, we had a beautiful view of some very lovely jubbleys and no one had even so much as bought them a drink!”

Unsurprisngly given the immoral and sometimes illicit nature of their exploits, the lads are all keeping their identities carefully hidden. “Nobody knows who we are. Some of us have girlfriends and all of us have parents,” joked Danny.

Copies of the diary can be downloaded price £1 from http://www.ibizadiary.com/.

Duff beer

It's a long way from The Simpsons' hometown of Springfield to Ibiza, but that's where Homer would have had to to go last week for a special glass of Duff, his favourite beer. Mexican entrepreneur Rodrigo Contreras chose Ibiza for the worldwide launch of the brew which he cheekily named after stuff served at cartoon bar Moe's.

Contrareras claims he came up with the idea after checking the registration of the name “Duff”. He says Simpsons creator Matt Groening only registered the name in the USA and Australia meaning he can use Duff as a beer brand in the rest of the world. “Doh!” as Homer would say.

Solar powered killer

A group of ecologists are asking a council to stop work on a project that's supposed to protect the environment. Councillors on the island of Formantera, next to Ibiza, want to build a solar energy farm to provide clean electricity for the population. But ecologists from the Grup d´Estudis de Naturalesa warn that construction in the cove chosen for the project will mean the disappearance of a type of flower only found on Formantera. The type of Delphinium is on the official list of plants in Spain which are danger of becoming extinct.

Dutch consul apologises to bishop

The former Dutch consul stepped into a row about art and pornography by apologising to the Bishop of Ibiza. Paul Wienen de Vries said in a letter that the exhibition which included a collage showing the late Pope John Paul II in a gay sex act was: “offensive and in bad taste”. The show of works by a number of Dutch artists was forced to close early after the bishop demanded the return of keys to the former church which was being used as a gallery.

Don Pedro captain faces prosecution

The captain and the officer who was at the wheel of the cargo ship Don Pedro which sank in July off Ibiza are to appear in court in November where they may face prosecution for crimes against the environment and criminal damage. The ship was off-course when it struck rocks threatening Ibiza with a financial and environmental catastrophe if the oil it was carrying leaked onto the beaches. Salvage specialists were able to remove the oil without too much spillage. The authorities are still deciding what to do with wreck which may break up if it's moved, but presents a long-term threat if it's left.

Ibiza to offer more for disabled people

Ibiza Town's tourist chief wants the city to attract more disabled holidaymakers. Francesc Buils says he wants the city to become famous as a destination for accessible tourism. The aim is to remove the architectural barriers which exist in the ancient walled city and to create more disabled parking. He says this is a central aim of plans to make Ibiza a cultural as well as a sun and sea destination.

Pacha Magazine

2007-09-10T11:45:00.000+02:00

Apologies to anybody who has come to this blog after reading the rather flattering description in the latest issue of Pacha Magazine. Yes I know it hasn't been updated all summer, but that's because I've been working on a book: The Guardian Guide to Living and Working Abroad. You'll be able to buy a copy in March with any luck.

A bad dream

2007-04-09T22:54:00.000+02:00

It sounded perfect. I was responding to an email sent to me by somebody who had found my name through the National Union of Journalists’ Freelance Directory. The guy wanted me to conduct a number of interviews with executives providing financial services for “high net worth individuals”.

The process was simple, he explained, as we talked on Skype for the best part of an hour. I’d bounce questions back and forth for a while until we had the basis for a structured interview. Then, at a pre-arranged time, I’d talk to the financial adviser and the interview would be recorded by “Wealth Mic” (www.wealthmic.co.uk) and edited into a downloadable format.

I’ve been doing this sort of thing for near enough 30 years, so I should be pretty proficient. But, to be honest, I wasn’t listening to Jon Cooper that carefully. He’d told me I’d be paid £500 for each interview, provided that was acceptable. I’d have been happy with half of that for a day’s work, which is what this would probably be by the time all the questions had been agreed.

After the initial conversation I rushed to tell Barbara, my wife, about the stroke of luck. It was the ideal sort of work, all done over the phone, so it didn’t matter that I was actually in Ibiza. The money was on the high side, but financial services spend considerable sums on marketing so it wasn’t totally implausible.

The following day I started work. I read out the introduction to an interview that had been completed, but where Jon wasn’t too happy with the voice of the interviewer. He stressed this wasn’t an audition. He told me I already had the work and just had to agree which people I wanted to interview. My main concern at this point was doing too many and over-using my voice so I’d be dropped for over-exposure.

Jon and I had tentatively agreed to speak the following day. We were both busy so left it fairly vague. I could see from Skype he was spending quite a lot of time in front of his computer. Anyway, we didn’t make contact although I did listen to a couple of the interviews on Wealth Mic, well, the beginning of the interviews to be honest. They seemed okay, dull, but this is personal finance.

I started to look round wealthmic.co.uk to try and see where it was based. A trip to London seemed in order and I wanted to see where I’d have to get to. There wasn’t an address, just a phone number for an exchange I didn’t recognise.

So I went to www.whois.net and searched for Wealth Mic. It was for, some reason, registered in Barcelona. Oh well, I’m in Ibiza and there’s no reason why the web developer shouldn’t be in Barcelona. It made more sense when I looked at Jon Cooper’s profile on Skype which gave his languages as both Catalan and English, although I wasn’t aware of any accent.

His Skype profile also gave a website www.iwtv.tv as his home. Unfortunately the website seemed to be unobtainable. It happens. But I still wanted to know more.
Putting the full site name into Google produced nothing. However, “iwtv” brought loads of results. That was because I’d unwittingly stumbled on one of those anorak acronyms, in this case for “Interview With The Vampire”. But if I paired iwtv with Cooper there were loads of hits on Google.

From those it was clear that Jon Cooper’s last big project was the grandly-named “Internet World Television”. His master plan was to get sports experts to video themselves. The clips would be put up on a website and pay-per-view income would be split between the sportsperson and iwtv. Most of the material seemed to have come from anglers and martial arts enthusiasts.

I’ve heard far worse ideas than this for making money. It’s a shame, perhaps, for Jon Cooper that YouTube came along.

But I still didn’t know where Wealth Mic was based. I Googled its phone number. Nothing. So I Googled it with just the first seven digits, 0207 and the exchange. It was clear from the other businesses showing up on Google that this was not a physical exchange but the number allocated to Skype to represent central London. Jon Cooper could be anywhere.

Of course, there could be plenty of innocent explanations for all of this. It’s hard to start a business and you have to talk bigger than you are. The sample interviews on Wealth Mic sounded genuine even if the picture of the interviewer looked suspiciously like David Cameron.
So I emailed Jon Cooper:

Hi Jon

Sorry we haven’t managed to link up today as I did have a few questions
to ask you.
Can you tell me who is behind Wealth Mic? It’s just I know how
expensive it is to promote as well as produce marketing materials.

Where are you based? All I’ve got is a London phone number and I think
it’s a Skype-In one.
Your Skype profile shows www.iwtv.tv as your website, but it doesn’t seem
to work. What happened?

The profile also shows your languages as Catalan and English. Is that
why wealthmic.co.uk is registered in Barcelona?

I’m obviously happy to work with you, but I need to be sure that the
business is bona fide. I do have a wife, mortgage and professional reputation to
support.

Speak soon

Nick

A little later he replied:

Nick

Out of principal I'm not going to jump though (sic) hoops to offer someone
work.

I suggest you keep on eye on what's going on with WealthMic, and when
you're are (sic) satisfied we are credible enough to work with, get in
touch.

Kind Regards

John

I did email him again, apologising for anything I might have said to upset him. He didn’t reply. So I guess I’ll probably never know why his name changed from “Jon” to “John” or what “Carrot & Stick Media” is that he referred to in his initial email.

But I will keep an eye on what happens to Wealth Mic. I know I did the right thing, but there’s always this nagging feeling that maybe I turned down the opportunity to make quite a lot of money.

Confessions of an accidental UK landlord and property speculator

2007-01-26T14:05:00.000+01:00

Moving abroad can turn expats into accidental landlords and property speculators. If you own your home, what do you do with it if you leave the country? Hanging on to our flat in Edinburgh was a mixture of maths, cowardice and indecision. Only time will tell if it was the right thing to do.

When Barbara and I moved to Ibiza we hadn't planned on a long stay. Letting our UK home was part of the deal. The rent was supposed to cover our Spanish accommodation costs -which it did. Almost.

Everything became more permanent when we decided to buy a place in the sun. The obvious thing to do was sell up in Edinburgh, but that meant stepping permanently off the UK property ladder. Instead we took out the biggest interest-only mortgage we could and put the cash towards our Ibiza house.

Read the full article on my website A Desk In The Sun

Could you live and work overseas?

2007-01-19T12:44:00.000+01:00

I put this quiz together for people who are thinking of leaving Britain to live and work abroad in countries such as: Australia, Spain, Canada, New Zealand, USA, France, Italy, Greece, Portugal, Germany, Cyprus, Ireland, South Africa, Austria and China.

What I hope is that these questions will make you think about the challenges of living and working abroad. Some of the answers aren’t obvious, but there’s no right and wrong.

So you know what to expect, here are the questions:

1. How do you generally feel at the end of a two-week holiday?

2. How concerned are you about job security?

3. How is your health?

4. How do you feel about your present job?

5. How is your relationship with your family?

6. What is your favourite restaurant?

7. Some friends invite you to meet up for a meal. What sort of restaurant would you suggest?

8. What is your ideal Christmas?

9. When did you last give somebody your home phone number?

10. What’s your favourite way of spending an evening?

11. How do you react when bureaucrats make your life difficult?

12. Where do most of your friends come from?

13. If you moved abroad what sort of friends would you hope to make?

14. Have you ever been to a social event in Britain with somebody who’d be classed as from an “ethnic minority”?

15. What would you normally find in your shopping basket?

16. When on holiday abroad do you hire a car and go off exploring?

17. What do you think of credit cards?

18. How do you and your partner get on?

19. How long have you and your partner been together?

20. As you come to the end of this quiz what do you think now?

Click here for the link to my "A Desk In The Sun" website where you can try the the quiz.

Ibiza's E-conomy

2006-08-25T12:50:00.000+02:00

Drugs are central to a large part of Ibiza’s economy. The island is wholly dependent on tourism and what sets it apart from other Mediterranean destinations are the clubs.

I know that the island is one of the most beautiful places on earth, but that’s a subjective view. Places such as Pacha, Space, Amnesia, El Divino and Privilege are what draw the holidaymakers. Not everybody comes to Ibiza to dance, but enough do to make the difference between wealth and poverty for the people who own the island.

Anything which drove the clubbers away from Ibiza would have a disastrous impact. As a result many people believe that there’s a conspiracy involving club owners and the police which leads to them turning a blind eye to drugs. I’m not so sure.

I have seen the heavy handed way the Guardia Civil - the national police set up originally by the dictator Franco – set up road blocks to search people and their cars. Outside DC10 or Space it’s not uncommon to see clubbers being searched in intimate ways that would have civil liberties groups up in arms in other countries. Both sexes are liable to find rough hands inside their underwear as they look for contraband. Those that are caught face hefty sentences. Jail in Ibiza is not paradise.

The problem is that drugs are so ingrained in the tourist culture that it would require a real police state to eradicate it. I tend to think the solution would be worse than the problem.

As far as I know there have been no deaths directly from ecstasy, cannabis or cocaine consumption on the island. Indirectly, of course, they may have been factors in the unacceptably high number of road accidents on the island. But alcohol was far more likely to have been to blame.

Equally, people who are high on drugs are much less likely to be violent than those who are drunk. Turf wars between dealers are a threat to Ibiza’s general tranquillity. There was one highly-publicised shoot-out between gangs in San Antonio earlier in the summer, but, despite hysterical warnings in the British press, this has been an isolated incident. If it turns out to be more than that I’ll revise my opinions.

I cannot see a way of removing drugs from Ibiza without doing a lot more harm than good. In theory I’d be in favour of legalisation to take the trade out of the hands of criminals. I’m just not totally sure about how well the state would manage it.

Drugs in Ibiza – a personal view

2006-08-24T22:45:00.000+02:00

To start with let me say I’m neither condemning nor condoning the taking of drugs. I’d just like to offer my take on it as somebody who lives and works in Ibiza.

First let’s look at what attracts holidaymakers to Ibiza. For many, perhaps most, it is a familiar Mediterranean destination. They stay in villas, hotels and apartments in holiday resorts such as Cala Llonga, Es Canar and Santa Eulalia which cater mostly for British and German families. There’s little sign of drugs in these quiet resorts.

But, what makes Ibiza different from anywhere else in the world is the music scene. Clubs such as Pacha, Space, DC10, Es Paradis, Eden and Amnesia attract less child-oriented crowd. Mostly they’re young, under 30, many are gay, others are straight, but the common thread is we don’t have the responsibility of children.

Being over 50, the age thing is important to me. If I was in Britain I wouldn’t be going to clubs. Here in Ibiza dance music is open to anybody. Nobody bats an eyelid about me being on the dance floor, but that certainly was not the case in the UK on the couple of occasions I went clubbing.

So, I can’t really comment on the British club scene. I can only imagine that ecstasy plays an important part. Most types of music have their related drug, whether it’s LSD with prog rock, marijuana with reggae or speed with punk. Okay, not every member of the audience partakes, but a fair number do.

Certainly clubbers here pop a lot of pills, but maybe proportionately no more than do in British clubs, it’s just that on any night in the summer perhaps 15,000 people are in Ibiza’s discos and music bars. What I’m saying is that if you drug-tested that number of people in British, German or Italian clubs I don’t know if you’d find more had taken cocaine, ecstasy or ketamine or not.
To start with let me say I’m neither condemning nor condoning the taking of drugs. I’d just like to offer my take on it as somebody who lives and works in Ibiza.

First let’s look at what attracts holidaymakers to Ibiza. For many, perhaps most, it is a familiar Mediterranean destination. They stay in villas, hotels and apartments in holiday resorts such as Cala Llonga, Es Canar and Santa Eulalia which cater mostly for British and German families. There’s little sign of drugs in these quiet resorts.

But, what makes Ibiza different from anywhere else in the world is the music scene. Clubs such as Pacha, Space, DC10, Es Paradis, Eden and Amnesia attract less child-oriented crowd. Mostly they’re young, under 30, many are gay, others are straight, but the common thread is we don’t have the responsibility of children.

Being over 50, the age thing is important to me. If I was in Britain I wouldn’t be going to clubs. Here in Ibiza dance music is open to anybody. Nobody bats an eyelid about me being on the dance floor, but that certainly was not the case in the UK on the couple of occasions I went clubbing.

So, I can’t really comment on the British club scene. I can only imagine that ecstasy plays an important part. Most types of music have their related drug, whether it’s LSD with prog rock, marijuana with reggae or speed with punk. Okay, not every member of the audience partakes, but a fair number do.

Certainly clubbers here pop a lot of pills, but maybe proportionately no more than do in British clubs, it’s just that on any night in the summer perhaps 15,000 people are in Ibiza’s discos and music bars. What I’m saying is that if you drug-tested that number of people in British, German or Italian clubs I don’t know if you’d find more had taken cocaine, ecstasy or ketamine or not.

Either way, it does mean there’s an enormous recreational drug market in Ibiza. Rumour always has it that dealing has either kept a number of businesses going or financed them in the first place. It’s very hard to prove, anyway, because so much of the tourist business runs on cash and, certainly, not every cent is declared to the Spanish tax authorities.

Drugs are definitely easy to buy on Ibiza. Ask around the pre-clubbing bars and you’ll soon find somebody to sort you out. Again, that could well be the same in UK towns and cities, but, as I said earlier, age is more of a factor there. A 51-year-old such as me just wouldn’t knowingly come into contact with dealers.

The other big difference compared with the UK is that Ibiza is a holiday destination. The tourists enjoying themselves in villas, apartments and hotels are transient. In their home towns they’d probably get to know dealers over months of going to the same pubs and clubs. There simply isn’t time to develop those relationships on this Spanish island.

In short: A lot of drugs are consumed here and their sale plays an important place in the island’s economy. Is that a problem? If so, what should be done about it?

I’ll look at that next.

Stealing for a living

2006-08-23T17:53:00.000+02:00

Okay, I know I was going to talk about drugs today, but instead another negative Guardian article about living in Spain caught my eye: Crimewave may mean the party is over for Ibiza. This time the problem is house break-ins.

This has happened to a number of friends of mine who have isolated villas. In fact one of them says he has had enough and he’s going to sell up and buy a couple of apartments instead. I should say that robbery is not the only problem he’s had, but renting out his house is the way he makes his living. It’s a beautiful place so moving on is a big step for him.
Sometimes, although you don’t condone the break-ins, you can understand why they happen. Many big houses are unoccupied for all but a few weeks each year and they’re filled with easy-to-sell bits and pieces. Their owners seek seclusion which gives the thieves plenty of time to go about their business.

Burglaries seem to peak at the beginning and end of the season. The reason is: summer jobs are allocated on a first-come, first-served basis, but people who arrive in April or May can be without any real income until the middle of June. Then the season sort of peters out in September or October, but, workers are seldom given much notice of when their jobs are going to end. So, robbery is a way to make ends meet or to provide cash to get home.

The Guardian article quotes a hotel-keeper who blames drug dealers for causing the problem. My initial thoughts were unprintable, but thinking about it he may be right. Dealers rely on holidaymakers as much as anybody else for their income. So, they also have to make a living when there aren’t tourists around.

Maybe drugs are the root problem. I will put some of my thoughts on the subject into writing tomorrow. Really.

UK media in guns and drugs frenzy

2006-08-22T16:46:00.000+02:00

Ever since I posted that last article about the shoot out in San Antonio I’ve been thinking about the impact of drugs on Ibiza. I’ve also been looking at the media coverage given to the island this summer for an article to appear in Pacha magazine, although I wasn’t able to go into detail about the drugs issue.

(Focusing on the positive coverage such as this one from the New York Times wasn’t a matter of cowardice. Articles about the drugs scene can so easily be overtaken by events that I didn’t want to write something that would be out of date by the time the magazine appears.)

Anyway, this Sunday Mirror article is typical of the ones that have appeared since the shooting. It’s not factually inaccurate, but I don’t think it’s exactly true either.

Having worked for too many years in newspapers I’m pretty sure that what happened was that the original story about the shooting was sufficiently interesting for the news editor to send a reporter over to Ibiza for a few days. That meant he had to come back with something to justify the cost of sending a journalist over.

He couldn’t say, even if he thought it was true: “It seems to have been a one-off event and it’s been dealt with by the police.” If he tried that he certainly wouldn’t be top of the list next time an expenses paid trip to the sun came up. He might even lose his job completely.

Instead he comes up with:

An insider helping police with their investigation said: "There's a lot of bad blood over what's happened. There's talk of hired hands and relatives flying in to Ibiza hell-bent on revenge."

Every story has had some variation on this unnamed source working with the police. There’s no hard evidence of any follow up and I’m inclined to think there won’t be. It is, however, in the interests of journalists and the police to suggest there is a real threat. Both want more resources and this is one way to get it.

In my next post I’ll give you my take on the Ibiza drug scene. Meanwhile even a supposedly serious newspaper has got carried away with itself...

Gang violence erupts as rave craze returns

With the rebirth of dance culture, hard drugs are openly for sale on the streets of Ibiza. Tonight, 40,000 ecstasy tablets will be bought on the island. Now the brutality that underpins the trade is boiling over, and the party paradise is turning into a nightmare world of contract killings

Shoot-out in Ibiza

2006-08-01T20:23:00.000+02:00

Everybody knows “recreational” drugs form an important part of Ibiza’s economy. Without Ecstasy the whole dance music scene would never have happened. But then neither would the hippy and prog-rock scene have occurred without cannabis and LSD.

But despite the large amounts of money being made by dealers so far there has been little real violence. So it was a shock to hear about the shoot-out in San Antonio yesterday. What seems to have happened is that one group of English gangsters opened fire on another gang in a British-registered BMW.

Hopefully this was a one-off event, the same as the fatal shooting of a Madrid “used-car dealer” last summer. Apparently nobody involved had anything to do with the island.

Here’s how Google translates the story from the local paper El Diario de Ibiza:

Three hurt in Sant Antoni in a shooting between English bands by the control of the drug trafficking

Two people were stopped by a pair of the Local Police in the place of the facts, whereas the Civil Guard has arrested other six suspects in different points from the island. The delinquents carried out between 20 and 30 firings

Three wounded, two of them of gravity, and eight stopped is the provisional balance of a shooting that happened at dawn of yesterday in the avenue Doctor Fleming de Sant Antoni.

The most reasonable hypothesis whereupon works the Civil Guard is that the incident is an adjustment of accounts between two bands of British delinquents who try to control the drug trafficking in Eivissa during the high season. The arrests took place in several municipalities of the Pitiüses and, according to official sources, it does not discard that the number of prisoners increases in the next hours.

The facts happened on the one of the dawn of yesterday. According to the Local Police, to the height of number 5 of the avenue Doctor Fleming, a vehicle that circulated in direction towards the crossing with the avenue of Portmany (a Seat white Leon) was placed in parallel to another one (a BMW X5 of black color and British matriculation).

The first vehicle they left the first firings, to which they responded from the other car. A shooting began therefore in which, at least, they took place between 20 and 30 firings.

According to police sources, the attacked vehicle presented/displayed between eight and ten impacts of bullet. In the facade of the Soft Clinic and a store of souvenirs, as opposed to which it happened everything, two and five shots could be appreciated, respectively.
To the few minutes of the shooting personaba a pair of the Local Police of countryman who was serving by the West End and who was alerted by passers-by. According to the councilman of Interior, Joan Pantaleoni explained, “the agents arrived when already he was being taken care of the wounded.

Thanks to the description of several witnesses were come to the halting of two people who could be implied, although this end must be confirmed in the investigation”. Another one of the presumed gunmen fled at least with the Seat Leon, a vehicle that was later found in the municipality of Sant Josep, in the neighborhoods of Sant Jordi.

Agents of the Civil Guard reviewed yesterday the camera of security of the Local Police located in the avenue Doctor Fleming to verify if she caught the moment of the aggression or recorded both to some of vehicles. Also members of the Meritorious one were in charge yesterday to review all the dustbins of the zone, as well as the bottom of the zone of beach nearer the place of the event.

They looked for the arms with which the firings were made, something that had not obtained to average behind schedule of yesterday, according to explained the insular director of the State, Jose Manuel Bar.

Adjustment of accounts

The most reasonable hypothesis with the one than works the Civil Guard is that “it is a litigation related to the world of the drug between two bands of British delinquents”, explained Bar. “Reason why we know, they did not have a residence rooted in Eivissa and its stay is transitory. This is important because we are not speaking in question of Mafias established in the island, something that we are not arranged to tolerate and against which we will act with the greater forcefulness”.

“Rather we would be speaking of two bands of delinquents who have come here to take advantage of that in summer there is more business with the drug trafficking and have had east confrontation by the control from the market”, added.

Bar wanted to emphasize that “although it has taken place in Sant Antoni, could have happened in any other point of the island”.

“It gave the chance of which they were there, since it could have happened in any other site”, stressed.

That the ochos practiced haltings (two at he himself moment of the aggression and other six during the following hours) have happened in different municipalities from the island would reinforce this theory, explained Bar.

Health bar that was ill-prepared for Ibiza

2006-07-13T16:13:00.000+02:00

My Guardian column for June.

Scientists often use fruit flies in experiments because of their simple structure and rapid life cycle. Small businesses in Ibiza could probably perform the same function for economists. Hundreds of new bars, shops and restaurants appear at the start of each summer, most hoping to make enough to survive from a tourist season that lasts perhaps three months. Few will survive their first winter.

Sometimes the reasons for failure are so obvious that it makes you want to scream: "Stop throwing your money away. Lie on the beach, get drunk, squander your cash, but please stop putting so much energy into wasting it."

Even people you'd think would know better make elementary mistakes. I watched one couple blow a substantial nest egg they'd accumulated from previous business ventures trying to run an up-market Indian restaurant. Unfortunately they'd located it in a strip of cheap bars, neon-lit fast-food joints and tacky souvenir shops.

Their problem was a common one. Almost every business here has to either stand out from a host of similar competitors within walking distance, or entice punters out to the sticks.

Earlier this summer I went to a bar that, despite being out of the way, seemed to have a winning proposition. Oxy, I read in a local magazine, had an oxygen bar, alcohol-free natural energy cocktails and music through until 4am.

The combination might sound a little healthy for Ibiza, but despite the island's hedonistic reputation, you can't move for yoga centres, spas and holistic health practitioners. The absence of alcohol also means there's no need for a designated driver.

Three of us arrived a little after midnight one Friday. In the late-night life of Ibiza this is generally peak-time for bars, between eating and going to a club. Of course, not every bar can be full at the same time and there's often a strange unwritten timetable that seems to ensure that crowds will appear at a particular spot at 3am for no obvious reason.

That might have been the case with Oxy, but it seemed unlikely. The only people there were us, the barman and the DJ behind the expensive-looking decks. There was no sign of recently departed customers, nor of the famous oxygen bar. Only a British sense of politeness stopped me dragging the others back to the car in search of somewhere with signs of life.

But I've seen worse places. The bar was decorated with a variety of pieces that were probably found on skips or bought second-hand - the sort of shabby chic that can work if done well or if the bar's busy. This failed on both counts.

I actually felt too embarrassed to start talking to the barman. Something had obviously gone horribly wrong with the business plan and I really didn't want to rub his nose in it. Instead, my wife, Barbara, started talking to him.

It turned out the barman was the owner. He was a French guy with definite hippy inclinations. In typical Ibiza style he'd had the idea for the oxygen bar before he'd checked the cost. Specialist units that deliver metered doses of flavoured gas cost around €7,000, he said. So he decided to test the market for the concept by using a medical oxygen cylinder. He pointed to the corner at what resembled a large bomb covered in Christmas decorations.

There were other problems. A burst of pure oxygen is very relaxing - which tends to make you a little sleepy. That doesn't go down too well in Ibiza where what people want is an energy boost.

Next, he had to contend with new legislation forcing small bars to designate themselves smoking or non-smoking. Oxy followed the vast majority in allowing people to light up. Safety laws, however, prevent smoking when pure oxygen is being used.

The bar's other advertised speciality, energy cocktails, use fresh ingredients. For these you need a rapid turnover and, therefore, plenty of customers. I don't need to explain what's missing from that equation. Finally, our owner decided you couldn't have a bar without alcohol.

So now he's left with a smoky bar in the middle of nowhere, not unlike dozens of others. I'll be interested to see if he's still there next summer.

Battling Telefonica

2006-06-05T14:20:00.000+02:00

The post below which reproduces my Guardian column should have appeared on the day of its publication. Well it would have done had Telefonica not cut off my phone and internet.

Anybody planning a move to Spain should take this series of events as a warning. It started on Friday May 26 when my internet connection died at about 10.15am. Picking up the phone I found the dial tone had been replaced by a series of rapid beeps. So I called Telefonica using my mobile. (The number's 1004 and if you say "Ingles" at the appropriate moment when the recorded message goes quiet you'll get through to an English-speaking operator.)

I was told there was an outstanding bill. That was the first problem. I've made several attempts to change name and address on the bill from the previous owner. Telefonica would only tell me how much was owed if I could provide his full name and DNI number. I dug that out and was then able to find the exact figure outstanding.

In much of the world you'd be able to use one of the various bits of plastic in my wallet or the internet to pay. Not here. Instead you have to go to a specific bank and pay cash. You can't even do it from your own bank which has the standing order. The Telefonica operator told me I'd have to go to the BBVA bank.

So, off I went. Struggling with my abysmal Spanish, I worked out that the BBVA teller was explaining to me that I could only pay the bill between the 10th and 20th of the month. Remember I was doing this on the 26th.

There was a branch of my own bank nearby and so I thought I could at least deposit sufficient cash for me to make another attempt at paying online. By then it was nearly 2pm when the Spanish banks close.

On the Sunday I went to an internet café. I checked my bank account and Telefonica appeared to have been paid.

On Monday morning I called Telefonica to see how long it would be before I was reconnected. I was told it would be within 48 hours, but the money had not showed up yet. But that could just be the speed my bank operates.

Wednesday I was still without phone or internet. This time the operator told me that the money had not been paid. “Go and ask your bank.” I went back to the internet café and checked my account. At that point I realised my mistake. The money that had left my account was for the following month’s Telefonica bill. So, one payment was still outstanding.

A couple of the Telefonica operators had told me I could pay the bill as the Banesto bank on Tuesday or Thursday. I phoned to confirm the days and time, but the operator told me she could not give me the information without the DNI and full name of the person on the account. I called again with the previous owner’s details and now I knew that if I turned up at the Banesto bank with the correct cash and all the details between 8.30 and 10am it would be sorted.

At 8.35am I was in the bank. At noon the phone rang and a recorded message welcomed me to Telefonica.

There must be an easier way…

Help! My friends want to use my office as a guest house

2006-06-05T14:15:00.000+02:00

This is my monthly column as it appeared in The Guardian on Friday May 26, 2006. (You can read it in its original form here.)

To avoid legal action many films and novels carry a disclaimer saying that any resemblance between the fictional characters and real people is purely coincidental. This column needs a similar cop-out. Everything in it is apocryphal and is not intended to upset my friends and relatives. Honest.

You see this is the time when phone calls and emails to your little piece of paradise signal the start of summer. Suddenly, forgotten aunties and vague acquaintances offer to visit. You may have noticed that I said "offer"; that's because their messages are phrased in such a way that it does sound as if it's them that's doing the favour.

They're concerned that you might feel lonely and isolated when you're all those miles away. Sometimes they're not wrong. But equally, phone calls are at least a partial substitute for their physical presence. But it's amazing how hard it is for people to break the psychological cost barrier on overseas calls. They're not expensive any more. Really. You can phone just about anywhere in the world for a few pence a minute, usually for less than the cost of a UK mobile call. In fact, thanks to internet telephony, it can cost nothing.

Equally, for better or worse, there are few products from home that you can't buy here in Ibiza. If I wanted Marmite, Heinz Salad Cream, tasteless sliced bread, Tetley's tea or just about any of the bizarre flavours that Brits seem to miss, I could buy most of them from the local supermarket. They don't need to be produced from visitors' suitcases as if they were some sort of illicit contraband.

There are, of course, certain things you can't get hold of so easily. Some of the veggies on the island, for instance, will almost forget their vows of non-violence in their desire to get hold of Quorn products. And one friend of mine tried and failed to bring a takeaway curry as hand luggage on her easyJet flight. As for me, one or preferably more packets of Stockan's thick oatcakes from Orkney is the way to my heart, but it's not a realistic alternative to paying for a hotel room.

You see in theory I've got enough space in my house to put several people up. In practice, it's not so easy. I work in the same way as probably most freelances with a spare bedroom turned into an office. Of course it is possible to return the room to its original purpose and it's probably a good discipline for me to empty, clean and tidy it once in a while. But I still have to find somewhere to rest my keyboard.

I did try working on my laptop for almost two weeks, moving round my then apartment in an attempt to find periods of tranquillity. It didn't stop me meeting my every deadline, but there were occasions when I'd have happily throttled my guests. That's partly, I'll admit, because I do work strange and erratic hours.

This may not be the most organised and rational way of getting things done, but habits die hard. Equally, I find it hard to be rude and I'm easily distracted. Actually, the latter's probably more true, but either way I find it hard to ignore guests - even ones, heaven forbid, that I don't like.

I love sharing my knowledge of Ibiza and showing people everything from my favourite unspoilt beaches to the best club nights and, sometimes, getting them in for free. Unfortunately, I can't take the whole summer off to do it.

Socially, it's great living in a place where the weekend starts at the end of June and carries on until September. But, because my work is mostly UK-based, my weekend's still Saturday and Sunday or, on rare occasions, Friday night to Monday morning. My visitors' weekend starts the moment they step off the plane.

In the end the only real solution is to offer the reply to friends and relatives perfected by my mate Paul. "Yes, we'd love to see you. There's a really nice hotel just down the road."

Not quite the idyllic notion I had in mind...

2006-05-09T19:24:00.000+02:00

This column first appeared in The Guardian on Friday April 28, 2006. You can read it in its original form here

Anybody British with a reasonable education always has a financial fallback when they travel abroad. When the money runs out, they can teach English. The demand for native speakers seems to remain insatiable. It was certainly a possibility that my wife, Barbara, had considered before we headed off for a life in Ibiza.

She was far better qualified than most ex-pats, having been a primary school teacher in Scotland before ill health forced her to quit. It was a job she loved and she'd long felt her skills and experience were being wasted.

Before we arrived on the island two years ago we had an idyllic notion of using those talents to help our Spanish-speaking neighbours with their English. We thought there would either be schoolchildren requiring additional tutoring or adults who wanted to add to their qualifications. In fact, she has found a call for her skills, but not from the sort of people we expected.

The demand has come from friends who are native English speakers and want some extra help for their primary school-age children. Barbara offers a partial solution to a dilemma that faces many adults who move abroad. It's alright for them to decide to change countries as often as they want, but is it fair for them to impose their nomadic lifestyle on their kids?

One way round their problem is to send their children to an international school where they will be taught in English. However, not only is this expensive, but it carries a built-in assumption that the family will return to the UK. That's fine for parents who have been posted overseas by an organisation, which will probably also pay the fees. It's not much use if you want to become part of the local community in a foreign country.

There are, after all, few better places to get to know your neighbours than at the school gates. Sending your kids elsewhere suggests you don't really want to be a full part of the community.

Houses and businesses can be sold. And, if the worst comes to the worst, family and friends in Britain are just a budget flight away. It may be difficult financially for adults to return to their roots, but it's surely much harder for their children to slot into an education system that uses what to them is basically a foreign language.

Their difficulty probably won't be speech. I've heard young children at play switching effortlessly between Spanish, German and English. But that doesn't mean they can write it down. Even when they study English at school the emphasis is conversational.

An added challenge in Ibiza is that a few years ago the local government decided Catalan would be the main teaching language across the curriculum. Catalan was banned under the Franco regime, so it's fairly easy for me to understand and even support this piece of cultural protectionism. But, I don't have kids.

If I did, I'd probably want them to at least have the option of British further education. It may not be superior to the Spanish system, but at least I have some understanding of how it works.

For those who do want their kids to keep up with the twists and turns of the curriculum in England or Scotland, every government document is posted on the web. Ploughing through them and making sense of the jargon is, however, another matter.

More useful are the lesson plans and teaching materials that are also available online, often for free. In fact, as so often with web-based information, the problem that Barbara has found is that there's just too much available. She's spent far more time online than actually with our friends' kids.

So for ex-pat parents with a web-literate former primary schoolteacher on tap, there is a way of avoiding the complete imposition of their lifestyle choices on their children. The rest, I suppose, will have to wait until Esperanto is universally adopted.

My new website

2006-03-31T10:11:00.000+02:00

Please check out my new website A Desk In The Sun. It's an attempt to develop an online resource for people who live in one country while working via the internet in another, in the same way as I do.

At the moment there's no book, magazine or website aimed specifically at people like us. That's despite it becoming an increasingly popular choice for anybody who can telecommute.

It would be great to turn the website into a real resource, but I cannot afford the time at the moment. I have to earn a living. If, hower, anybody reading this is interested in providing financial support I'd love to hear from them. A financial services company could, for example, find an audience with a group that has considerable spending power and use for money transfers, savings products and more.

Staying here, but still out there

2006-03-31T10:02:00.000+02:00

This is my latest column for The Guardian newspaper. You can read it on the newspaper's site here.

When I moved from Edinburgh to Ibiza two years ago I really thought it would be a case of "out of sight, out of mind". In fact, far from being forgotten, I've not only kept in touch with many of my old friends, clients and contacts, I've managed to broaden the UK circle. And, they've continued to offer me work.

I wish I could pretend this was part of some carefully planned scheme, but I'd be lying. What's happened is, almost by accident, I've found myself following a variation on the highly publicised strategy that's supposed to be shaking the music industry to its foundations.

Earlier this year the Arctic Monkeys caused a fuss by selling truckloads of their debut album, mostly through an online community called MySpace, bypassing the usual marketing channels and selling straight to their fans.

Actually, what they did wasn't all that new. Six years ago the distinctly unfashionable Marillion emailed their fans asking them to pay upfront for luxury copies of their next CD and raised enough to avoid the need for a record-company advance.

Before the internet, most of a band's contact with fans came from touring. In business, networking performs a similar function. When I first arrived in Ibiza, almost everybody who was paying for my services was somebody I'd swapped business cards with back in Scotland. Not any longer. A growing number of my clients I've never seen in my life.

Instead of conference centres and bars, I now meet most of my contacts online through various discussion forums. Some of these are sophisticated membership organisations based around a website. Others use simple mailing lists. The mechanics of how they function doesn't really matter. It's who belongs and participates that counts.

And if you can find the right networks they're a great way of finding work and, from my point of view, they have the unbeatable advantage that geography is no barrier.

I can be sitting at my desk in Spain keeping in touch with all the gossip and professional developments while subtly touting for work just as easily as in Scotland. Of course I can't press the flesh as often, but anybody returning from abroad has a little bit of celebrity, which is useful when you do make it to a meeting.

Whether networking online or face-to-face, the more you put in, the more you are likely to get out. If your only contribution is the mercenary pursuit of work you may not get much response. If, however, you join in the discussions it's far more likely to be fruitful.

As with any group, though, debate tends to be dominated by a small number of participants. So when you first join you can feel ignored. But it is worth persevering, remembering that the vast majority of forum members don't join in most of the time, but just lurk and read the postings. They are often the ones that will offer you work.

It is definitely worthwhile setting up your own website or blog. It doesn't have to be complex. But do make sure that it's mentioned in your email signature so when you post to a forum it's easy for people to find out more about your skills and can get in contact easily. The alternative is to display your email address, which may attract the unwelcome attention of spammers.

Finding the most useful forums is a real challenge. There are the large generalist networks such as Ecademy and myriad others, generally focused on a specific industry or geographical area. Ask around, as even the most active groups don't necessarily show up on Google and it does help if there are a few members you know already.

In the spirit of online networking I'd be interested to share advice and experiences with readers who are attempting to follow the same lifestyle as me, self-employed telecommuters working in one country while living in another. These responses may form the basis for future columns and articles.

Nick Clayton is a freelance writer and web content consultant. Email: deskinthesun@nickclayton.com

When living abroad fails to deliver...

2006-02-27T11:37:00.000+01:00

This column appeared in The Guardian on 24 February 2006

There's nothing more annoying than expat Brits who spend their time whinging about the way things aren't the same as at home. My response is: "If you don't like living in a foreign country, why don't you go back home?"

On the other hand, there are some Spanish bureaucracies that drive even locals to despair. Try walking into a bar miserably muttering, "Telefonica". Every drinker will join in with a horror story about the former telephone monopoly.

It often feels as if Telefonica is run by the bastard offspring of a Spanish dictator and a Russian author, a sort of "Franco Kafka". For instance, soon after I arrived in Ibiza I ordered ADSL and was told a modem would be delivered in a few days. Two weeks later I phoned to see what had happened. Apparently the courier couldn't find my address. This wasn't surprising because, according to Telefonica's computer system, I lived in the local unmanned telephone exchange.

At this point I should admit my conversations with Telefonica have not been in Spanish. One of the good things about the company is you can get straight through to an English-speaking operator. Well almost straight through. You have to know it's necessary to listen to two menus in Spanish before carefully over-pronouncing "ingles".

Mind you, that's easier than Telefonica's mobile service Movistar. After a few attempts you feel proud to have got through Catalan and Basque to get a menu option in English. Then it jumps back into Spanish for what I now know is an instruction to press the cuadradillo (hash key) to confirm.

Anyway, after several weeks, despite many calls to Telefonica, I still didn't have my equipment. Then, on one of my frequent visits to a local internet cafe, I discovered all Telefonica ADSL customers use the same log-in. All I needed to do was plug in my UK modem. I blush when I remember how excited this discovery made me.

So now I didn't care as months passed without a modem delivery. At least I didn't care until my broadband service suddenly stopped. I phoned Telefonica. The operator said I couldn't have been cut off because I'd never had ADSL. I could, however, order it. Back to square one.

Weeks passed. Eventually another operator told me I could cancel my order and go to a Telefonica shop instead. So that's what I did. After annoying the lengthy shop queue with my appalling Spanish I eventually understood it would take up to two weeks for the cancellation to get through the system.

In due course I returned to the shop, filled in the forms and waited to be handed my modem. But no, it had to be delivered to my apartment that was still, according to Telefonica's records, in the telephone exchange. In the end it was a lost courier who saved the day. He asked a local hotel for directions and the receptionist knew me. It had only taken eight months.

I was living on the outskirts of Ibiza's largest town. It can be worse if you live in the country, as a friend discovered. When his line developed a fault he was informed he must provide a number for the engineer to call. As he works from home in a place without mobile reception, this was a little problematic.

He also had broadband, at least until his service was "upgraded". Telefonica told him he was too far away from the exchange to have ever had ADSL. More in anger than expectation he requested a rebate to cover his monthly payments for a service he apparently couldn't receive. It was ignored.

Shortly after this, however, Telefonica allocated his phone number to somebody else. Calls went to whichever house got to the phone first. The situation was only resolved when the new subscriber rescinded their right to the number in writing.

Sometimes I wonder if all this is in some way related to the fact that Telefonica owns Endemol, the TV company behind Big Brother. Are we all housemates in some bizarre experiment to be televised later?

Lax tax and creative accountancy

2006-01-30T16:42:00.000+01:00

This is my most recent column for The Guardian. If you're wondering why nothing appeared in December, welcome to the world of newspapers. The size of a newspaper is determined almost entirely by the quantity of advertising. They're biggest in the run-up to the December festival of consumerism and smallest when everybody's recovering from that or in the summer when a large proportion of readers are roasting in the sun. So the Business Sense supplement which carries my column was dropped for lack of advertising and, let's face it, because nobody wants to read about the world of commerce between Christmas and New Year.

Those of us of a certain age remember the Rolling Stones heading off into tax exile on the Riviera. As a teenager I thought they had achieved the perfect combination of sun, debauchery and economy.

Now I find I've become an accidental tax exile myself, although it's unlikely my exotic-sounding status will actually save me any money. When I headed off to Ibiza early last year I assumed that I'd continue to pay tax in the same way as before. I was self-employed in the UK and my clients were all still there. All that changed was my computer was now connected to Telefonica broadband rather than Demon.

But on a trip back to Scotland I spoke to Ross Mackenzie, tax partner with international accountants Mazars. "Most countries have a 183-day rule, which defines where you are resident for tax purposes," he explained. You don't pay the tax where it's earned, but where you live or your "centre of economic interest" as the tax authorities call it.

It sounds simple. You pay your tax where you live for most of the year. Well, it might be straightforward if Pitt the Younger hadn't introduced income tax to Britain a couple of centuries ago using a variation on the medieval fiscal calendar. So, while most other countries measure liabilities ending on December 31, Britain's year runs to April 5. "Some people try to use that difference to their advantage," Mackenzie told me.

Theoretically it's possible to receive two sets of tax allowances, but it's not easy. The UK Inland Revenue requires a a lot of evidence that one of its tax payers really has departed its shores. The department does, however, provide detailed information in booklet form and from its website.

In an ideal world, a move to the sun would also be accompanied by a reduction in tax. Unfortunately for me, the UK has just about the lowest rates of income tax in Europe - at least on paper.

Anyway, it is not that simple to work out which country will deduct the smallest proportion of your income. The Stones' old stomping ground, France, for instance, seems to squeeze high earners hard. Tax there, however, is assessed by dividing the income by the number of people in the household. And France recently lowered its punitive top rate.

Although tax is subject to political vagaries, an accountant will be able to make a reasonable assessment of liabilities according to the laws of your intended country of domicile. But accountancy is an art, not a science, and legislation does not always reflect varying national attitudes to tax. Often the declaration of income is regarded effectively as "voluntary".

The common Mediterranean attitude is: "Which do you love more - the state or your family? So why should you give more than is necessary to the state?"

In many places - and for obvious reasons I'm not going to be too specific - avoidance is effectively built into the system. It is, for instance, still quite common in rural areas for property and other major purchases to involve a substantial amount of "black money". Perhaps a third of the actual price of a property may be handed over in cash and never declared to the authorities.

As a result, it was suggested the mini economic boom in the run-up to the introduction of the euro was caused by people rushing to spend their undeclared pesetas, lira and escudos before they became worthless. It also explains something that had baffled me. I couldn't understand why the hardware store near where I live has the largest selection of safes I have ever seen. Obviously some are for tourist hotels and apartments, but many look big and secure enough to store the cash and crown jewels of a small sovereign nation rather than a holidaymaker's papers and trinkets.

As for me, I'm still very British about declaring all my income, even if I'm not going to be rendering unto Gordon what is Gordon's any more. But if I had fulfilled my rock star ambitions, I'd probably now be resident in Dubai, which has a hard-to-beat zero rate of income tax.

· Nick Clayton is a freelance writer and web content consultant.

A Spanish lifestyle with British deadlines

2005-11-25T14:21:00.000+01:00

This article appeared in The Guardian newspaper on 25 November 2005. Click here to read it as published.

When I left Britain I'm sure many of the people I worked for expected me to miss deadlines as I succumbed to the attractions of party island Ibiza. I hoped for a little more in the way of sun, sea and siestas, but without the missed deadlines.

To achieve my aim I thought all I needed to do was work a little more efficiently and reduce my reliance on the almost infinite number of displacement activities offered by an internet-connected computer. There'd always be another website to be checked. What if something really important was happening in the world? Ping. There's another email. It could be vital.

But in order to earn a living in Spain I still need my broadband, so none of those distractions have disappeared. Now I feel guilty, not just about putting off work, but putting off pleasure as well.

My personal productivity is challenged in other ways. There's a totally different rhythm of life here. The US-led "live to work" mentality hasn't got the grip it has in Britain. Work here remains a means to an end. It doesn't even define who you are in the same way as it does in the UK.

At the same time working life isn't organised solely for the benefit of the customer. Most shops, including garden centres and hardware stores, don't open on Sunday. Many are closed on Saturdays as well. And forget trying to do anything during the afternoon siesta. Even after you've been here a while this lack of customer focus can catch you by surprise.

This attitude is contagious which doesn't necessarily go down too well if, like me, you do most of your work for UK businesses. Everybody's supposed to be in favour of an improved work-life balance. In theory.

In practice, most of my British paymasters seem to think I'm on holiday all the time anyway. The fact that I always meet my deadlines does nothing to diminish this belief. And that is all the more frustrating because it's actually quite difficult to take a holiday. Every time I've left the island it's been for a hectic round of business meetings interspersed with the odd family visit and wedding. I wouldn't get much sympathy if I took a break away from them and Ibiza.

An added difficulty is the distinctly two-tone nature of the Ibizan year. From November to April there are no flights at all to anywhere outside Spain. Getting back to Scotland, where many of my clients are based, is an expensive, multi-hour nightmare. It's often quicker and cheaper getting from there to the States or Australia. The advantage is that this gives you half the year free of visitors to get on with your work undisturbed. You hope.

But the winter is also the time when you see your local friends. The chances are, along with 80% of the population, they'll be directly reliant on tourism for their income and a season which peaks for a few short weeks around August. Some make enough to head for Thailand, Goa or Brazil. The rest eke out the chilly winter nights with cheap red wine and home-grown herbs. There's no work, but it's still a sociable time.

Summer or winter, though, one unexpected bonus has saved my working life on numerous occasions. There's a one-hour time difference which means that if I stagger down the hall from my bedroom to my computer at 11am it's still the mildly more respectable 10am in the UK. An extra hour on a deadline or for sleep is just enough for that little bit of depravity on the side.

A desk in the sun

2005-10-28T15:25:00.000+02:00

This is the second of my Ibiza columns for The Guardian newspaper. Its title has changed from the misleading 'Homeworker' to 'A Desk in the Sun' which sums up the column much better. Unlike the first column which was cut from 700 words to 500 words, this one appears pretty much untouched.

You can read it on the Guardian website by clicking here.

How to be in two places at the same time

Last year I had a cunning communications plan which I hoped would make it look as if I was in Britain while I was really in Ibiza. It was simple. I'd leave a phone line in Edinburgh on permanent divert to my home in the sun. After all, few people actually saw me in the course of work. I was just a disembodied voice on the phone, or words in an email.

Despite my already virtual work existence I was concerned that moving a few thousand miles away would be a psychological barrier for the people who pay for my services. Setting up a diversion wouldn't be expensive, just line rental and, at most, 4p a minute for calls transferred to Spain. Using a cheap "carrier pre select" (CPS) service meant I wouldn't even have to pay BT's international rates.

Of course, nothing's simple. For a start, BT's diversions have to be set up from the home phone, but I didn't know what my Spanish number was going to be. And, by the time I had a line set up, my Edinburgh flat was being let out in order to pay the rent in Ibiza.

Then, once the diversion was apparently working properly, I couldn't understand why the phone would ring once and stop. It turned out business contacts were fooled by the Spanish ring tone's similarity to the British engaged tone. When I did manage to grab the phone before the caller hung up, there would be complaints about a disconcerting echo on the line. I quickly gave up pretending to be in the UK, but, much to my surprise, being by the Mediterranean often worked in my favour. I was living the dream of many of my business contacts and they seemed to enjoy having somebody to moan to about the weather. Suddenly I also went from being a techie hack to being somebody vaguely exotic.

My new location was even partly responsible for getting me one job, as web editor for the August Club, an online organisation for retired and soon-to-retire professionals. There I was, a practical demonstration of how you can earn a living in the sun as a consultant, without even the cushion of the pension enjoyed by most of the club's members.

But actually, even within the space of a few months, technology has advanced to the point where nobody needs to know where in the world I am when they phone me. That's the wonder of internet telephony.

I've been a Skype enthusiast almost since it launched, a whole two years ago. Computer to computer calls over broadband are generally of a much higher quality than ordinary phone calls. They're also free. That makes Skype great for keeping in touch and the August Club runs on its conference-call facility. But, even though you can now make and receive Skype calls to or from a landline, you still have to keep a computer switched on. And a headset remains the best way to use Skype.

Now, I don't mind that call centre look. But really what I want is a substitute phone service and Vonage is the best I've found so far. It comes with a box which hooks up to your broadband router, then you plug in an ordinary phone. That's it. Because I bought it in Britain it behaves as if that's where I am. I have an Edinburgh number and a subscription which allows me to make unlimited calls to UK landlines for less than £10 a month.

To all intents and purposes I have now created a situation where I live in Ibiza and work in Scotland. Yesterday I interviewed two venture capitalists, one apparently in Edinburgh, the other in Aberdeen. In fact they were both in London. It was only after the inevitable ice-breaking conversation about the weather that we all admitted that phone diversions meant we weren't where we seemed to be. The difference was they were in city offices with the prospect of either an impersonal hotel room or hours of trains, planes and automobiles. I was already where I wanted to be.

The first of my monthly Guardian columns

2005-09-28T14:51:00.000+02:00

Here's the uncut version of my introductory column about living in Ibiza while working in the UK. In order to make an advertisement fit, it was cut from 700 words to 500 words. This often happens in newspapers and I've butchered many a journalist's copy, but it's still frustrating.

Actually I was more fed up at the headline: 'Wherever I lay my Mac, that's my home'. I'm strictly PC these days having used Apple Macs when I worked in an office.

You can read edited article as it appeared in The Guardian if you click here. Or you can read it in full below...

Many people who’ve worked from home will recognise the picture. And it isn’t pretty. I’m sitting in front of my computer in my dressing gown, unshaven. The clock shows it’s 4pm, but doesn’t reveal that I haven’t set foot outside for three days. That’s because I had no need to venture onto Edinburgh’s cold, wet November streets. My work, and most of my life, was reduced to a screen, 19 inches corner to corner, and a telephone.

It was actually a couple of days later in the chilly sunshine that something clicked. I really didn’t need to be here. If most of the human contact necessary to earn a living could be made via phone and internet, I could be anywhere.

So I started to formulate a plan. There was nothing to stop my wife Barbara and I taking off to Ibiza for a year, celebrating my 50th birthday along the way. We had a small inheritance after my father died which, as long as I continued to earn something, would tide us over. We could put most of our belongings into my “home-office” and let our flat out as a two-bedroom which would, hopefully, cover most of the rent for a place in the sun.

Barbara wasn’t totally convinced. But I persuaded her Ibiza’s climate would be good for her rheumatoid arthritis and enable her to sell the jewellery she makes. So we wiled away the winter hours looking on the internet for somewhere to rent. Eventually it became clear we weren’t going to find anything and I’d have to spend a few days actually on the island. That’s when the first flaws in my plan became apparent.

Property seemed to be divided into two types. There were places which looked idyllic in summer when indoors was just for sleeping. In the spring drizzle, however, they felt barren and isolated. Alternatively there were apartments built for locals with tiny balconies barely large enough for a coffee table and two chairs. Watching sunshine through the window wasn’t the dream.

After four hectic days I found the ideal spot. It was modern and owned by a British architect and his wife. Okay, his work designing car showrooms did show a little in the décor, but it was a spacious compromise between local and holidaymaker’s tastes. It also managed to be quiet despite being two minutes from the beach and ten minutes from the island’s capital Ibiza Town. Getting a phone line and ADSL was also supposed to be easy, but that’s another story.

Feeling extremely pleased with myself I headed back to Edinburgh. The 25 hours it took gave me ample opportunity to think about whether it was really such a good idea to try and work from a small island with no direct flights outside Spain throughout the winter.

But, over a year later we’re still here. It’s four in the afternoon, I’m still unshaven, but it’s too warm for me to wear my dressing gown. As much by accident as by design I’ve ended up as a global telecommuter earning my income in the UK, but living by the Mediterranean. I edit the August Club’s website which is aimed at people retiring from business and the professions, write regularly for a number of publications and act as a confidential consultant on website content for several large private and public-sector organisations.

It’s all work that can be done anywhere there’s access to an internet connection. Even in the year I’ve been away, advances in technology, particularly internet telephony, keep making it easier to enjoy this way of working. I’m certainly not alone.

That doesn’t make it straightforward. Dealing in a foreign language with tax, bureaucracies which appear unreconstructed since Franco’s day and a postal service that doesn’t recognise your existence can reduce you almost to tears.

But I’ve learned a lot about working abroad in the UK over the last year or so. I’m sure now Ibiza is not the rational choice, but if you can make it here you can make it anywhere. Hopefully, over the coming months through this column I’ll show you how.

Nick Clayton is a freelance writer, editor of the August Club website and a web content consultant.

Real price of a cheap flight

2005-09-16T00:18:00.000+02:00

One of the main topics of conversation amongst Brits in Ibiza is the price of flights. With so many budget airlines landing here over the summer finding out which one has the best deals can mean many frustrating hours on the internet, although there are some useful tools such as Skyscanner which searches across multiple airlines.

It’s easier for Londoners than the rest. For them, there’s direct flights into Luton, Stansted or Gatwick. And even if they land at 4am, there’s always a taxi into to town. For the rest of us, even landing in the early evening on British soil can make a cheap flight very expensive. Somehow you have to make a connection and if you miss the last onward flight, train, bus or whatever you’re stuck. A night in most airport hotels costs more than the flight.

Now, you might think from looking in travel agents windows that there would be regular cheap flights to Ibiza from Edinburgh or Glasgow. And you’d be right. Sadly for me, you can’t get the same bargains flying from Spain to Scotland. Sometimes, however, if you know you’re making several trips over the summer you can book that cheap return originating from the UK. So this summer Barbara and I flew to Doncaster, stayed in Edinburgh for three weeks, got a cheap return for two weeks from Glasgow and finally flew back to Ibiza from Doncaster. The total cost for four flights was less than £200.

But, sometimes those cheap summer flights provide more than a bargain. That was certainly the case when we flew back from Glasgow. The reason the ticket was cheap, incidentally, was because it straddled the end of the Scottish school holidays. It’s always worth checking term times to find bargains if you’re not too far from the border.

Anyway, the trip started badly. At check-in we were told there was a delay of probably two hours. But, tt least that made the game of guessing who would be on the same plane a bit easier. There weren’t any more flights that evening. Glasgow Airport was staying open just for us, at least WH Smith and a bar was. Actually, it didn’t seem too bad, even the drinkers watching Rangers playing a minor Cypriot team, and winning, seemed fairly subdued. It wasn’t until we made our way down to the departure lounge that it became clear that relieving the tedious journey with sleep was not going to be possible.

Several groups of shaven-headed lads were obviously enjoying themselves, to put it politely. As we got on the plane one group in front of us was being moved, none too politely, by a stony-faced stewardess. They were sent to the back of the plane while she confiscated their bottle of duty-free vodka. Unfortunately, although they had only got their seats wrong by one row, so they were soon back.

Meanwhile, an even rowdier group had got on. The one who couldn’t be right by his pals sat next to me. “Aw, nae luck big man,” he said. “You’ve got me for the whole flight.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it as he looked me up and down. “Hey, it’s Jerry Sadowitz,” he shouted to his pals. I’ve never been mistaken for a foul-mouthed, Jewish-Glasgow comedian before. It could have been worse. Looking at their football shirts, at least they didn’t think I was a Catholic.

Having got a laugh out of the Sadowitz comparison he then continued to repeat it for most of the trip, though fortunately a space had opened up next to his pals giving me some breathing space. That didn’t stop them offering me a swig of their Buckfast. I had a strange feeling of being back at school. Every time one of the cabin crew passed there was a clink of bottles, but I certainly wasn’t going to point the finger at who was to blame.

Also, their high spirits weren’t malicious. They were just having fun. Although, part way through the flight, it did look as if fists were about to fly. The middle-aged man who had complained originally about the two lads with the contraband vodka who were sitting in his seat suddenly turned round. “I’ve warned you three times about your language. There are children here,” he shouted.

I didn’t feel too much sympathy. The “children” were teenage boys who, I’m sure, would have heard their share of bad language at school, which was presumably where they should have been, rather than on a late-night flight to Ibiza.

Earlier in the flight I’d talked to the young woman in front. She was travelling alone, but had obviously consumed enough alcohol to join in with the lad’s banter. I’ll admit to being a little surprised when she explained she was an engineering graduate. It’s not a discipline that attracts too many females and, my prejudice shows again, she was quite attractive. Unless engineering students have changed dramatically since my day, I’ll bet she featured in more than a few of her classmate’s dreams. However, she said she now hated engineering and was completing a second degree in marketing. “With that combination I should be minted,” she said. I couldn’t argue with that.

But she also brought out my usually well-hidden puritan instincts. For much of our conversation she was massaging the upper thigh of the guy sitting next to her. No doubt his Rangers top made him irresistible, but they had only known each other for a maximum of ten minutes. It was, anyway, a short relationship as she left him for his pal and they spent most of the flight chewing each others’ faces, pausing only for the occasional swig of Buckie.

My contribution to the conversation had, anyway, come to an end. It is on occasions like these that portable music players really come into their own. With a pair of earphones and the volume turned up, you can be in a world of your own.

Strange times

2005-06-13T00:00:00.000+02:00

Something happened last week which illustrates how different from the rest of the world Ibiza is. A man died at the club DC10. Sadly, there’s nothing especially unusual about that. Deaths happen at discos all over the world as a result of fights, too much alcohol or too many drugs.

What made this death seem strange to anybody unconnected with Ibiza was the victim’s age. He was 77. I didn’t actually know him, but he was certainly a familiar figure in the island landscape. With his long grey hair and odd name Zgy Om was, as you might guess, a hippy. The universal reaction to his death was that it was a great way to go, if you have to go. Certainly nobody ever raised an eyebrow about him being in a club, other than a bowling club, at his age. It’s hard to imagine that happening in the UK or most other places.

The other thing which Augustians might find hard to understand, I certainly did until a couple of years ago, is the nature of the place where Zgy died. DC10 is what’s called a “day club”. The name’s fairly self-explanatory: It’s a nightclub which operates through the day. Until I cam here I certainly couldn’t understand why anybody would want to go to a disco when the sun’s up, but it makes a strange kind of sense.

There are seven so-called “superclubs” on the island, massive places with a capacity of up to 10,000. They are rented out to promoters who book the deejays and publicise their events in return for a share of the admission charge and bar profits. That means the clubber coming over for a week’s holiday in July or August will have at least 40 events, each with a different music policy, to choose from every week. And that doesn’t include the hundreds of smaller bars and clubs across the island.

Competition between promoters is intense, and there are inevitably winners and losers. Generally, every night there is one event that is the most popular. The rest are also-rans. Even people who aren’t big fans will even go to the most popular event because nobody wants to dance in an empty disco. And once you’re dancing you don’t want it to end, even at 7am when the club closes.

To cash in on this feeling a few clubs in the 1980s began opening in the morning. The most successful is Space which, for much of the summer, is open from 8am through until 6am the following morning. It’s a neat business trick to keep revenue generation going for 22 hours a day, albeit during a season that is less than10 weeks long.

That makes it sound as if the day club concept was a carefully planned business strategy. It wasn’t. The club started opening during the day almost as an act of desperation because not enough people wanted to come to its unfashionable location at night. Space only really became hugely successful when deejays started to move their equipment up from the subterranean bunker, which was the original disco, into the sunlight above. There’s something particularly pleasurable about dancing in the open air.

The only disadvantage was for the neighbours. Underground the sound doesn’t travel, but that changes when you move outside. In fact most of the island’s clubs used to be substantially outdoors,under the stars or the sun. Now they’re covered to meet the increasingly stringent noise pollution laws. It’s understandable, but a shame.

Those laws mean music is only allowed outdoors until midnight. Even the busy bar areas are now strangely quiet after the witching hour even though they continue serving drinks until 4am or so.

Space is trying to get round the noise restrictions, apparently, by putting a sliding roof on the outside terrace. In the past clubbers had to move inside at twelve, so many left at this point. But, in true Ibizan style, the building work at Space hasn’t finished even though the season’s begun. Perhaps half the club’s capacity is still rubble. When up to 5,000 guests are paying 40 euros or more to get in and 6 euros for the cheapest drink, a small bottle of water, (that’s over £25 and £4) it’s a substantial financial blunder.

Of course those prices put some people off including those who run DC10, the place mentioned at the beginning of this article. Now the last club to operate substantially in the open air, it embodies one part of the spirit of Ibiza. There are constant threats to close the club down because of noise, even though it takes its name from a plane thanks to its position right under the last few feet of the airport flight path. You can see the passengers’ faces from the dance floor. If Zgy had to go, it was arguably the right place.

An empty gesture

2005-05-28T00:07:00.000+02:00

Slightly nervous, Barbara and I headed for the lawyer’s yesterday. In theory the vendor could have decided he didn’t fancy the deal and pulled out. Having shaken hands on it, this was highly unlikely. But you never know. Of course, we could do the same as well. We joked that we should turn up an hour late for the meeting, just to worry them.

We couldn’t do it, though. And as we were just about to go into the lawyer’s office we spotted the vendor dawdling slowly along the street, looking in every shop window. He was in danger of being on time. When he spotted us it was all smiles, a firm handshake for me and a kiss on both cheeks for Barbara. Up the steep stairs in the lawyer’s office we had to wait a few minutes which was slightly more awkward because we simply don’t speak enough Spanish to make small talk.

After a few minutes we were called through. The reason for the delay was that our negotiator was meeting the lawyer about another deal she’s involved in, a slightly bigger one than ours, involving millions of euros. We went into the boardroom and sat in exactly the same places as before, Barbara and I next to each other facing the negotiator and vendor with the lawyer in between. There was the usual long process of photocopying documents and the lawyer taking details of things such as the number of the certified cheque for the deposit. (This counts as part of the declared price, so it didn’t need to be cash.) Meanwhile the seller was asking the negotiator about the coloured bands on her wrist and she was explaining how they represented feelings including “serenity”, which was the last word anybody would use to describe her frantic lifestyle. Then he pointed to the ordinary elastic band on his wrist which he said he wore for luck. It had been wrapped round a bundle of notes from the bank. Then he proudly showed us pictures of his young boy on his mobile phone.

We carried on signing and countersigning documents. Then the vendor gave us details of who to contact for pool maintenance and so on. Other details were exchanged until Barbara asked the question which completely stopped everybody dead in their tracks. “What’s the address?” she said. The vendor looked at the contract, then at the lawyer. The negotiator looked at the lawyer who eventually said: “It is not unusual for a house in Ibiza not to have an address. There is no postal service for this area.” It’s still hard to imagine that happening in the UK.

Eventually we went with our negotiator for a triumphant bottle of Cava in a square we always bump into friends, well nearly always, because this time there was nobody to share the moment with us. That was a shame because a big disappointment was on the way.

Although we’d discussed renting the house furnished and when we’d visited it on Monday there had been some furniture, we’d never formally agreed anything. So, although we knew it might happen, we couldn’t quite believe it when we opened the door and found there was nothing left at all. Even the curtain rails had gone. We phoned our negotiator and she said she would come up to the house the following day to help sort things out. That turned out to be the only time she forgot to meet us.

So there we were sitting on the window sill of our new house on a Friday lunchtime with no beds, bedding, chairs, tables or anything useful. Even our mobile phones wouldn’t work because of the hills around us. We did, however, have one piece of luck. In the process of moving our stuff into the warehouse for storage I’d dropped our phone and it was still under the seat in the car. And it worked.

It’s at times like these, as they say, that you find out who your friends are. A couple of calls and people rallied round. One, who was on his way back from Barcelona, offered us a bed if we could find a way to transport it, not an easy task as it’s a king-size four poster. Fortunately another friend Steve has an ex-army Land Rover and trailer so helped with that, along with providing us with an awful lot of stuff he had in storage. He and his wife Diana are, in some ways, in the opposite position to us having a rented a furnished house and having to find storage space for much of their own stuff.

By ten that evening we at least had a bed to sleep in and chairs to sit on, but we needed to eat. Zombie-like we drove to the local town and sat outside a bar eating cheese sandwiches wondering if we were completely mad. It was a question we asked ourselves repeatedly as we rushed, or attempted to rush, round shops trying to buy essentials. I always hated Ikea, but I was beginning to see the advantage of having everything in one place. In Ibiza there’s a different shop for everything, none open on a Sunday and many shut on Saturday afternoon.

There are some good things about an enforced break from shopping. Sunday was Barbara’s birthday and in the UK we’d have spent in B&Q. Instead, friends had booked a table at a restaurant by the beach for a late lunch. Eating paella and drinking Cava on a balmy afternoon began to revive our faith in our new home. Then we moved on to another beach and a club called “Bora Bora”. A few hours dancing in the open air restored our endorphins to face a week of trying to make the house habitable.

Crunch time on the property ladder

2005-05-25T00:10:00.000+02:00

Last night we had the crunch meeting in our quest to buy a house in Ibiza. As ever, nothing had gone smoothly in the run up.

We arrived back on the island at about 3am on Sunday morning. The flight was on time. But there were annoyances along the way, as there always will be, as long we divide our lives between Ibiza and Edinburgh. There are, for instance, direct flights in the summer between the two places, but you can only make the return trip if you start in Scotland, not Spain. So every trip requires hours of internet searching for the best deal. This time it was to Gatwick with First Choice Airways. (Basically it’s a way for the holiday company to flog unused package seats.) The rest of the journey was with BA which beat easyJet on both price and timing between Edinburgh and Gatwick.

The trouble, however, with using two airlines is you have to allow several hours to make the connection or risk the cost of missing the second flight. Gatwick though has an enormous shopping centre and there were a couple of tax-free things I intended to buy as presents for friends in Ibiza. Unfortunately, the terminal was eerily empty and and just about everything was shut when we arrived on Saturday evening. (If anybody’s planning a late flight on a Saturday from Gatwick, get your shopping done before 7pm.)

This will not be a problem on our next trip back to Edinburgh in June. We’ll be flying into the exciting new Robin Hood International Airport near Doncaster. Looking at its website there’s all sorts of “proposed” developments, but current facilities seem to consist of a coffee bar and a Spar. (That’s not a misspelling. I do mean the convenience store rather than a place filled with Jacuzzis, steam and relaxation treatments.)

Anyway, less of the future and back to the recent past. After arriving at the hotel at 4.30am on Sunday, knackered, it seemed only minutes before we had to drag ourselves up to see the house. We’d only spent half an hour there in total, and always accompanied by the tenants who were under the impression we were going to be renting the place when they left. Hopefully they would have gone as I’d also arranged for a friend who’s an engineer to come round with me to see if he could spot any real nasties in the construction. (There’s no such thing as surveying as a profession in Spain.)

Then my mobile rang. We couldn’t get access that day as the vendor wouldn’t answer his phone because it was Sunday (none of that American 24/7 service here) and the tenant had taken the other set of keys back to England. So we arranged another appointment the for yesterday lunchtime. That fell through too. My mate the engineer was almost as delighted as me.

That meant when we had the meeting at the lawyer’s office Barbara and I still hadn’t had chance for a proper look round the house. And while we’d been in Scotland for two weeks the vendor had been busy rearranging the goalposts. This time he wanted to double the amount of the deposit to pay an urgent bill.

As it happens, this was something of a fortuitous problem. While in Edinburgh I’d had a call from a credit card company asking if I wanted to transfer any outstanding balances from other cards. I don’t have any debts from plastic as I feel this is a very expensive way to borrow money. Telling the operator this, I was immediately offered a loan which would be interest free for the first six months. Obviously the company hopes you won’t be able to pay the cash back at the end of that period, but I will and I had a feeling that extra cash could prove useful. Of course, I didn’t tell the vendor any of this and instead explained to him that getting the extra money was expensive and difficult.

This all took place at the meeting which was scheduled for 5pm, not an unusual time in the land of the siesta. Barbara and I, however, arrived five minutes early which amused our lawyer who felt it showed how foreign we still are. A few minutes later our negotiator arrived and, some time after that, the vendor. But the wait at least gave the lawyer chance to explain the intricacies of the proposed sale contract. It was just as well because we weren’t going to be involved in any of the actual negotiations.

All along our negotiator’s main words to me were: “Don’t worry darling. It’ll be fine.” I never believed it. And, as the negotiations went on, I believed it even less. Barbara and I could make out much of the Spanish, but not quite enough to take part. The vendor was still avoiding eye contact and we knew enough to understand he was trying to change the rules yet again. Our lawyer would make one point, the negotiator would back it up in slightly pidgin Spanish and the deal seemed to be crumbling before our eyes. Then our negotiator started to speak very firmly to the vendor. Suddenly it was all sorted. We shook hands. There were lots of smiles and we agreed to go through the formalities of paying the deposit and signing on Thursday evening. But before that, we actually got to see the house again. It would have been a bit of a shame if we’d hated it on second appearances.

I must admit to feeling more dazed than exhilarated as we left the lawyer’s office with our negotiator. It was also now clear that she was rather less certain the deal would come off than she made out. As we’d guessed, the pivotal moment came as she became stern with the vendor. She was playing the maternal card. She told us she’d learned at least some of her negotiating skills while married to an Italian, the boss of a Sicilian construction company even. (Use your imagination.) She believes Mediterranean machismo is basically matriarchal, so she treated the vendor as a mother would a misbehaving child. But she admitted it didn’t always work and the vendor had threatened to pull out when she tried it before.

As we drove to the house we still couldn’t believe we’d bought it. In fact we couldn’t even find it to begin with, overshooting the narrow road leading up to it twice. On arrival we could see why the vendor was reluctant to show us the place. A few weeks in the care of an alcoholic had left the place looking rather sad and, in the kitchen, distinctly smelly. Still, we’re promised that by Friday it will be spotless thanks to the efforts of a team of cleaners, gardeners and pool maintenance people.

But underneath the grime the house looks as fabulous as we’d remembered. And we managed to drag along my friend who’s a qualified engineer and a builder. He couldn’t see any problems apart from a couple of minor damp patches. This is one of those things that’s both more prevalent and less problematic than in the UK. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.

So, Thursday afternoon we hand over a certified cheque and sign the initial papers. There’s the standard Spanish agreement that if we renege on the deal we lose the deposit. If the vendor backs out he pays us twice the deposit. Friday should be our first night there, not that we have any furniture. But that’s for the next episode of the blog.

Fast movers

2005-05-12T00:02:00.000+02:00

This time I’ve a few good excuses for being late with my blogging. As of last Thursday we’d decided that there was no way we were going to get into our new home before a trip to Scotland which we’d already booked for first thing on Sunday morning. Nothing had been resolved on the split between “black money” and the declared price for the house.

So, Thursday evening we were deciding what we’d need to take with us back to Scotland while leaving sufficient room for the new clothes we planned to buy. (Ibiza’s a great place for wealthy stick insects to get their gear or little old ladies to buy sensible clobber, but there’s not a lot in between.) In the midst of this first Barbara’s aunt phoned and, almost simultaneously, my mobile went.

Barbara saw me turn white. It was our English landlord. We were supposed to ring him the night before, but as we were no further forward with finding somewhere new to stay, I hadn’t got round to it. He’d seemed quite relaxed last time we’d spoken and I assumed he’d let us know if they were coming over. But, no. His flights were booked for a week on Saturday. We had two days to empty and clean the apartment and nowhere to put our stuff, let alone a place for us to sleep.

Fortunately our erstwhile negotiator was planning on opening a second-hand furniture shop and so had an empty warehouse. So, all we had to do was put our lives into boxes and one problem would be solved. It is, however, rather harder to pack everything than it is to spend a few days slinging stuff such as clothes in the back of the car and hanging them straight up in a new home.

But, that new home was not going to be available immediately even if we could come to an agreement on rental or purchase terms. The problem was the tenant. Yes, the one with a penchant for bad business deals and unfortunate friendships. Apparently, after his last disagreement he hadn’t stopped drinking. His wife phoned our agent saying: “Help. You’ve got to rescue me.” So they slipped a few valium into his drink and ,while he was asleep, got the wife packed and onto a plane. They also took his car keys for his own protection. Unfortunately he didn’t see things in quite that way. After countless phone calls our negotiator gave in. She does have several businesses to run along with single-handedly bringing up two primary-school-aged children. It kind of goes without saying that as soon as he got the keys back he wrote off the car.

We heard all this on Saturday when in the midst of packing we got a call from our negotiator who’d spent the morning with the seller. He wasn’t going to budge on the amount of money to be declared as the official selling price.

Getting closer? Maybe

2005-05-06T00:12:00.000+02:00

In common with just about every diarist and letter writer I start with an apology for the tardiness of my latest missive. The reason this time is that although most of Barbara and my thoughts are focused on getting the house, we can’t admit it. We have to maintain this pose that says we’re not thinking about the house so we won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t happen.

Actually, the fact that we now probably have a fallback position means we won’t be horribly disappointed if it all does fall apart this evening. We’ll just stay on where we are which, if nothing else, will be much easier than having to scrabble around for money, chase mortgages and so on. If we don’t get the house, the difficulties will arise later.

We’d already decided that we wouldn’t look for anything over the summer. People are too busy and there are people visiting the island who may be persuaded to part with silly money when in holiday mood. But in the autumn our sights will be set much higher and we’ll be disappointed by places that don’t match up to the house we’re after now.

The other reason we’ve been trying to talk as little as possible about our potential home is that the decision’s largely out of our hands. That does not, however, mean there are no silly nagging doubts. For instance, what do we wear for this evening’s meeting? In Scotland it would be easy for me. Lawyer equals suit. Here, not only do I not possess a suit, but wearing one could be counter-productive. The seller could try to push the price up on the basis that we look as if we could afford it. On the other hand, we don’t want to seem disrespectful. Barbara will tell me that these are problems women have to face all the time.

Anyway, in three hours we should know the worst, or best…

It’s good to see the world’s two biggest car-hire companies Avis and Hertz involved in a marketing competition which I hope will spread. In the United States in particular both are promoting their ability to provide cars with adaptations so that anybody can drive.

Of course, the Americans with Disabilities Act provides a strong stick to hit organisations with that discriminate against people by not making their services accessible. But there’s an equally powerful carrot in the form of the spending power of people with impairments. As the population ages this is represents a fast-growing market.

The services now offered free by Avis include:

Transfer Board: Eases the driver or passenger from their wheelchairs into the car seat.

Swivel Seat: Allows the driver or passenger to turn their bodies in the car seat with limited effort. The seat can easily be removed from underneath the person.

Spinner Knob: Enables a full turning radius of the steering wheel while using only one hand.

Panoramic Mirror: Provides a much larger field of view for any driver, and is a legal requirement in the USA for hearing-impaired drivers.

Accessible Bus Service: Offers an electrically operated ramp or lift, two ADA compliant wheelchair positions, special aisles and low luggage racks.

Additional Driver Fee Waiver: Customers with visual impairment can rent an Avis car without incurring any additional driver fees for their designated driver (All drivers must meet Avis' standard licensed driver requirements).

Obviously you should make requests for these services and adaptations as far in advance as possible. Avis and Hertz both have websites with full contact details.

Today I should have definite news about where we’re going to be living at the end of this month, but I don’t. Yesterday’s meeting with the lawyer was neither good nor bad, but it certainly didn’t go according to plan. Actually, if events so far have often made us feel as if we were living a reality television programme, yesterday was closer to a soap opera. You know the sort of thing, people turn up conveniently and unexpectedly in order for the plot to unfold.

The latest episode began at 6pm. Unusually for me, I was actually ready in time to get to the lawyers early. So after a quick once round the block, looking in estate agents’ windows to assure ourselves we were getting a bargain, we walked up the steep stairs to the lawyer’s office.

Our first surprise was to see the woman who had negotiated the property deal for us sitting in the waiting area. We hadn’t asked her to come, but assumed she’d turned up to help the deal go through. But no, she was there to see her lawyer before appearing in court the following day. She’d had a car accident last year and, she told us, assumed her ex-husband had insurance.

Her presence was pure coincidence. But she did have some gossip for us. The guy who is currently living in our intended house was involved in a deal to buy a hotel which apparently went disastrously wrong. After he’d had a few drinks, she told us, he had visited the hotel and started shouting the odds in the reception. Later that evening he had been badly beaten up. Fortunately, that had nothing to do with our house, although one could only feel sorry for the guy. It’s a full story which I probably don’t want to know.

Eventually our lawyer called us into the boardroom. There was no sign of the seller, which gave us a few minutes to ask questions and get answers in ponderous legalese. Sometimes I get the feeling that what defines a “professional” is the ability to respond to any question without giving a definitive reply. After a few of these carefully hedged answers he went to see if maybe the seller had got lost. Certainly, all I’d been able to see through a crack in the door was a youngish guy in a tee shirt going into the reception area, no old “Ibicencan” as the seller had been described.

A few minutes later we found out that the “old” guy was no more than 35. He was the chubby guy I’d seen outside wearing a “Dissident” tee shirt. (No I don’t think that had any significance.) From the moment he came into the boardroom the seller studiously avoided looking either Barbara or I in the eye, talking only to our lawyer in Spanish. Although this made it hard for us to follow it was obvious that he was unhappy with the amount of tax he would have to pay on the deal. As I’ve said in previous blogs, this was largely a problem of his own making. The tax authorities would almost certainly smell a rat if the amount he was declaring he had sold the property for was considerably less than the mortgage.

During this discussion our negotiator put her head in to see if things were going okay. She came in. Fortunately, she was able to explain the taxation problems more simply to the seller. (We learned from her later that although he had developed a number of properties, this was his first sale.) He seemed surprised that the detail of his mortgage was on display to us the public and, of course, the tax authorities. It also transpired that his plan to conclude the sale next year was pointless because he’d already sold the property to a company he’d set up for the purpose. This is a common technique in Spain to reduce liabilities, but obviously needs to be done with professional advice.

The lesson in taxation for our seller lasted about an hour while our lawyer explained the problem in detail and the negotiator simplified it. All we could do was watch. There simply wasn’t room to negotiate and anyway this wasn’t supposed to be a negotiating meeting. Everything was supposed to be agreed. Now we could see the deal ebbing away. I wasn’t totally despondent, however, because the seller had brought some of the missing papers which our lawyer had requested and he was happy to have them taken away and copied.

After the seller had left our negotiator stayed to discuss possible outcomes. She comforted us by saying that buying property is always like this in Ibiza. Our lawyer didn’t seem convinced.

But, once again, all we can do is wait.

Losing power in every sense

2005-03-24T23:48:00.000+01:00

Most of this would have appeared yesterday if I hadn’t been hit by a power cut which wiped out most of what I’d written. Electricity – another thing I can no longer take for granted living on this island.

I was railing about our local estate agents who seem to come up with ever more inventive ways of cocking things up. The day before, Barbara and I had been to see Annette, a somewhat dizzy Swede. As you may remember from my last posting, she’d phoned to say she’d got an apartment to show us which was good quality and at the right price. Unfortunately, she wasn’t in her office so couldn’t tell us any more than that.

We set off with a feeling of optimism. The sun was shining and although the flat wasn’t exactly what we were looking for, it sounded a possibility. Annette was in a colleague’s car in front, a relief to us as it meant we didn’t have to do the usual forced conversation. Mind you, it would have been even worse if we’d had to share a car with her dour colleague. There had never been any danger of a smile crossing her face.

We followed the red Volkswagen through the security gates and turned left, away from the sea. The view’s still beautiful, forested hills with a golf course at the bottom. But as we drove along the narrow road an awful realisation began to dawn on us. The reason Annette couldn’t accurately describe the apartment was because the block hadn’t actually been built yet. I’m sure the apartments will look lovely in June 2006, which is when they’re due for completion, but we’ve got to find somewhere by the end of next month. Annette knows that and even told her colleague who, for the first time, smiled when she was told. (They don’t realise how much Spanish we can understand.)

It should be said that they also offer some text book examples of how not to behave when you’re trying to sell a property. When we arrived at the show flat there were two parking spaces, using one of which meant negotiating piles of rubble, the other was simple and straight in. Guess which one our dynamic duo from the agency used? Then, when showing a property, is it really the best idea to always make sure that you enter a room first so the potential customers have to peer over your shoulder? And finally, they were really good at preventing the customers feeling self-important. They simply ignored us and talked amongst themselves. But, being British, we responded in the only way we could. We apologised.

Then we went back to what we currently call home. I was hardly cheered up by an email from my accountants telling me I’d be pleased to know that the Inland Revenue wouldn’t be asking for any more money from last year’s return. I’d asked them to apply for a rebate.

Yesterday didn’t get any better. We headed off to meet another estate agent, German this time. This time we knew the apartment was old and therefore, at least, was not a figment of the imagination. But my mobile rang and it seems the people currently renting the apartment had changed the locks or something. Anyway, we couldn’t get in. An email from the estate agent later said she didn’t like the building very much anyway.

By the way, we still haven’t heard anything from the English couple who own the flat we’re living in now. The home phone number we have for them doesn’t work and neither do the mobile numbers. Will we be homeless in five weeks?

Today, Thursday, and tomorrow are fiesta days for Easter so we won’t hear any more from estate agents. But, this is Ibiza. We’ve been invited to a party tonight for the re-opening of one of the island’s trendiest bar- restaurant-nightclubs. House hunting can wait.

Confessions of a middle-aged clubber - an unused Guardian feature

2004-12-06T23:51:00.000+01:00

What on earth was I doing, apparently respectable, and certainly middle-aged, punching the air with a crowd of shaven-headed, labelled up teenagers, most of whom were probably on drugs? At approaching 50 I was supposed to be smoking cigars in a gentleman’s club or worrying about my health at the gym, not deafening myself to a hard house beat.

Friends thought it must be me who was on drugs. It was the only sensible explanation for somebody my age suddenly developing an overwhelming passion for dance music. Okay, so I’d just come back from a holiday in Ibiza, but I was hardly the Uncovered type, prone to mooning and vomiting in the street.

Better known for my sadly encyclopaedic knowledge of seventies rock music from prog to punk, I’d barely been to see two live bands a year for the past decade. Clubs were places to fall into for one last drink at the end of a leaving do when the pubs had stopped serving.

That Ibiza holiday was supposed to be a week’s convalescence to help my wife to recover from a couple of serious operations – a peaceful hotel by the beach, a few romantic meals, nothing more energetic than that. Then on our penultimate night we were offered free passes for the superclub Amnesia.

Now, a trip to Ibiza without a visit to a club seemed a bit like going to Paris and missing out on the Louvre. Or something like that. We expected to stay for half an hour or so, long enough to be able to make a few anthropological observations about the state of dance music over dinner on our return.

From the outside the club didn’t look promising. It was slightly more attractive than a B&Q superstore, albeit with a few palm trees and a bit of neon. But inside was a different story.

Lasers and strobes flashed, dancers with beautiful honed bodies gyrated on podiums, giant cannons blasted dry ice into the huge, packed dance floor. And everybody was on their feet to the driving beat. It couldn’t have been further from my teen disco memories of girls, handbags and me trying to look cool at the bar.

Now I wanted to join in, much to my wife’s surprise. She’d struggled, and failed, at various wedding receptions to get me to do more than a drunken Mick Jagger impersonation to Brown Sugar.

But here I was giving it my all on Amnesia’s dance floor. The only time I’d ever experienced anything like it was on the football terracing, but this time a goal was being scored every few minutes. The whole crowd was ebbing and rising as the music reached one euphoric, joyful crescendo after another. Everybody was smiling. Perhaps they were all off their heads on Ecstasy. I have no idea.

I didn’t want to leave, even though dawn was breaking. But I knew I wanted to repeat the experience, even though I knew it was going to be somewhat different at home in Scotland.

For a start I knew nothing about dance music. Everybody I knew who was of an age to educate me came back with the same vehement response: “Dance music? That’s shit.” Vaguely embarrassed, I set off to teach myself. It was easier said than done.

By the end of the 1990s the whole scene was fragmenting. I could take an educated guess about most of the 57 different varieties of house music - hard, euphoric, funky and so on. But other terms were totally confusing. “Garage,” I had assumed was rough and ready. Wrong. It’s smooth and tuneful. “Trance” was even more baffling. I expected calm and hypnotic, instead I got the most basic sort of thumping dance music guaranteed, presumably, to drive clubbers into a trance.

For several months I lacked the courage to go clubbing in the UK. And, in the end,I took the soft option and decided to go and see a deejay I’d heard to on the radio. Today I know Judge Jules is not the man for the hip clubber, but I didn’t then. And neither did the small group of pals I’d persuaded to come along.

Their first question, to a man, was: “What do we wear?” I tracked down one of the promoters who would only tell me that anything smart and not in football colours was acceptable. It wasn’t a great deal of help.

So there we were, five of us in the queue, all dressed in our best casual wear. If anything had a designer label, it was carefully concealed inside the collar. Not so the crowd around us, labelled up and proud of it. And then there was the hair, or the lack of it. Not a tuft protruded from the mass of baseball caps surrounding the four of us. Only slaphead George was in his element.

Inside, we felt even more conspicuous at probably twice the age of the average participant. It seemed we were starring in “Last of the Summer Ecstasy” or “One Foot in the Rave”. Pick your sitcom. The only time we achieved invisibility was when we tried to get served at the bar. And that was where the rest of my mates stayed.

Alone, I threw myself into the sweat and rhythm of the dance floor. The club lacked the sophistication of Ibiza, but the feelings of euphoria and togetherness were the same. More than once I landed my size twelves on the designer trainers of the sort of tattooed, shaven-headed youth I’d normally cross the road to avoid. But the only response was a smile and a shrug of the shoulders.

That night was the last time I tried to drag a bunch of my contemporaries out clubbing. Instead I turned to the internet and the bulletin boards where clubbers gather. I found I was not alone. There were some like me who’d discovered dance music late. Others had been involved since the start in the mid-eighties and were now the other side of 40. A few even went with their kids. But I bottled out of actually joining any of them at a club. “We met on the internet” was just too scary a thing to say.

More recently I spoke to Paul Oakenfold, probably the biggest name at the hard, trance end of dance music. “The people who come to see me are getting younger,” he says. “There’s a new breed of clubbers coming into it for the first time. I reckon every three years there’s a complete turnaround as peoples’ tastes broaden.” So I should be about ready for a change.

But three years ago I was searching on my own, not just in Edinburgh, but in Glasgow, Newcastle and Manchester. Each night it was the same. I loved the music, but the pre and after-club experience left me like a fish out of water.

In London it might have been different. With something for every minority, middle-aged clubbers or “Macs” are probably already a demographic, subdivided into those who are happy to flash their credit cards or “Plastic Macs” and impoverished old crusties or “Dirty Macs”.

In fact Lohan Presencer the managing director of Britain’s best-known clubbing brand Ministry of Sound told me almost as much. “Our Chillout Session CDs show there is a huge older audience who have grown out of going to clubs but who still love dance music.” He says, however, that although the brand has grown beyond just house music the people coming to the club remain predominantly young.

Elsewhere, Sintillate (correct spelling) - promoter of the year at the 2004 London Club and Bar Awards - has specifically targeted a mixed age audience. Set up five years ago, when the promoters Gary Sewell and Kevin O’Shea were 29 and 49 respectively, the club has expanded from London to Marbella in Spain and soon opens in Manchester.

Revealingly, Sewell asks me: “Can you talk in the clubs you go to?” I reply: “Basically no. People come to dance and the music’s too loud.” If I want to chat I’ll go to the pub. It’s cheaper.

If there is a halfway house – and no that’s not a dance music genre, by the way – it comes from brands such as hugely successful Hed Kandi that play good-time dance music with vocals that clubbers can sing along to. Deejay and label boss Mark Doyle says: “Part of the reason we’re doing so well is because we don’t try to be challenging. We play tunes people know. And, especially outside London, that means we appeal to a wide age range.”

I was talking to Mark in Ibiza, where I now live. It’s the only place I’ve ever been to where nobody thinks I’m weird going clubbing at my age. Anyway, to hell with it, you only get time for one midlife crisis and I’m going to enjoy it.

First week as an Ibiza resident

2004-05-01T23:53:00.000+02:00

No problem is quite what you expect. Saturday’s journey was a nightmare. (Was it really just a week ago?) I was up all night bar a couple of hours shoving stuff into the spare room to clear space for potential renters in the rest of the house. Half an hour to go and it was clear I wasn’t even going to have time to shower before heading to the aiport. Ordered taxi in vain hope that it’s arrival might ensure that we’d catch our flight. Eventually got out the door knowing that it was going to be tight – but it was Saturday morning and that should have been okay.

But the fates were against us. Every set of lights was against us. Slow drivers seemed to have been organised to prevent us getting there in the private hire Skoda. Even as we got close to the airport the underpass at the end of the bypass was closed. When we got to the airport 35 minutes before the plane was due to depart (40 minutes is the closing time) I sent Babs to the check-in, hoping the extra few seconds might work. It did. We got on without paying the excess baggage due on our third world red, white and blue woven bags.

The flight was on time and we arrived at Stansted ready for a relaxing four hour wait. Got some sarnies from Boots, changed some money, posted a few letters, then headed for security realising that 3 ½ hours had somehow disappeared. My plan for a leisurely stroll round Dixons duty free evaporated as we queued at security. (This was not helped by an over-anxious Italian twentysomething behind us who wanted to push past even though her flight was due to depart 15 minutes after us.) And I had forgotten that you had to get a monorail train out to the departure gate…

It broke down. Hot and exhausted we were crushed while engineers lifted panels and flicked switches. Eventually it left without us. At these times you know that the flight won’t take off without you because your bags are already on. But you’re never entirely convinced either. A wait which seemed half an hour, but was probably three minutes and we squeezed back onto another train. Most people got off at the first stop. Two minutes later we arrived at our stop. Something between a swarm and a herd of good-looking women rushed past us and up the escalators. At the top they continued rushing round trying to find an open door to our flight without success. Eventually they resorted to standing at the window leaping up and down to attract the attention of anybody. They succeeded eventually and a walkie-talkie wielding member of the ground crew let us in, ushered us through and told us to hurry up. We arrived in Ibiza 30 minutes early.

Article for Independent newspaper on global telecommuters

2004-04-08T23:56:00.000+02:00

Escape to a sunny rural idyll used to be the preserve of a small group of people: those who had made big bucks quickly in the city or in advertising; pensioners or those who could make a living servicing holidaymakers at bars and small restaurants. But, recently a new group has appeared, the international telecommuter.

These are people who have not entirely dropped out of the rat race, but have discovered that they can continue their careers where the sun always shines. Generally self-employed knowledge workers, they can ply their trade anywhere with access to e-mail, cheap phone services and budget airlines. And that includes much of Europe.

Stephen and Jaki White moved to Ibiza from Manchester in the late 1980s with sufficient savings from his job as an accountant and hers as a business advisor to earn nothing for their first six months on the island. Stephen completed a course in teaching English as a foreign language which now provides him with a part-time income.

“What I didn’t expect,” he says, “Is that there would be a continuing demand for my skills from the UK. I get stuff sent over by e-mail and do some number crunching on it and send it back by e-mail. It’s easy.”

What makes Stephen unusual amongst the ranks of globetrotting consultants is that he has not set foot off Ibiza for four years, although he is planning a short break in Valencia. More normally people choose to base themselves close enough to an international airport to allow for face-to-face meetings.

Xavier Adam, with a UK degree in public relations and a Spanish degree in journalism, runs his agency from bases in the north and south of England, and in Spain. Asked which one he regards as home he pauses: “I’m not sure. I catch planes like buses and make sure everything I need for work is stored on the web so I can access it from anywhere I happen to be.”

And the appearance of foreign telecommuters is not always unpopular with locals. Structural engineer Andy Beeton won an innovation award from the Livradois National Park in central France for helping to stimulate business in the area. He provides technical design services mainly for UK engineering projects.

“Originally we dealt directly with clients and now we sub-contract and we don't have to deal directly with the public. We do calculations for more or less any building except bridges: commercial, domestic and light industrial. I e-mail the drawings and the calculations to customers who are often one-made bands and hard pressed to employ someone full time,” he says.

Of course at one time much was made of high earning individuals going into “tax exile”. Most notably, the Rolling Stones decamped to the south of France at the end of the 1960s to avoid paying what they saw as a punitive top rate of tax. It was not seen as very rock ‘n’ roll.

There may still be tax advantages to overseas residency even for people without a huge income. Expatriate telecommuters, however, are generally reluctant to talk about the subject. It is only discussed in private because many feel that what they are doing is somehow not quite right. Generally this is not because they are deliberately avoiding tax, but because the rules are so complex they are unsure whether they are bending, breaking or avoiding them.

Many Brits living on the Costas, for instance, choose to use British-owned banks in Gibraltar where the staff speak English. It is then easy and convenient to set up a company to handle payments from the UK. This also happens to be the most “tax efficient” way of handling financial affairs.

One expatriate who lives in the south of Spain within an hour’s drive of the Rock says: “It’s not that I’ve tried to fiddle my taxes, but obviously I don’t want to pay more than I have to and everything I’m doing I’m told is quite legal. My Spanish friends think I’m mad to worry about it, most of them seem to believe it’s their duty to avoid paying.”

For people who move between countries the challenge is to establish residency in one, or even two, countries. There are also “double taxation” agreements between virtually every country in the world. These are intended to prevent people being taxed twice on the same income. Although tax experts believe the system works well, there is at least one major catch which today would probably stop the Stones from going to France to make their “Exile on Main Street”.

The double taxation agreements prevent people having to pay tax twice on the same sum, but that does not mean the rate of taxation will be equalised. So somebody who earns money in a country such as France, which has a higher top band rate of tax than the UK, will not be able to reclaim the difference which is currently about two per cent.

Anybody contemplating making the move abroad should contact an expert in overseas taxation. The Inland Revenue’s website and IR20 booklet on taxation for residents and non-residents are useful but still seem designed to give work to accountants. The problem is that much legislation still seems to be geared to the idea that if people went to work abroad it was because they had been posted by an employer. Decisions about the self-employed are frequently at the discretion of the revenue.

An additional difficulty is self-assessment. Forms still have to be returned before the deadline. Fortunately this can be done online and there also commercial services such as Tax Checker (www.taxchecker.com) which will verify forms and submit them.

What used to be the other major concern of people working abroad, medical cover, is less of a problem than it used to be, at least within the EU. There are reciprocal arrangements with EU countries, and most of them have better rated public health services than the UK.

“Health cover for the States is extortionate,” warns Diane Thorpe, senior healthcare consultant with insurance brokers, JL Manson and Partners. “We were quoted £9,000 for a family moving to Florida where the parents were about 35.” In the end the family paid less than £3,000 which still seems expensive. Thorpe also suggests checking if your private health policy, if you have one, can be extended abroad as they often can. Another possibility for some is long-stay travel insurance.

Of course, despite all the television programmes to the contrary, a lifetime of warm weather is not for everybody. “I was sick of being a foreigner - we lived on the French side of the Pyrenees and the gloss wore off after a while - one does actually become sick of constant sunshine, or at least I do,” says internet developer Tom Craig.

“I have spent a large part of my life outside of Scotland and it was just time to rediscover what and where ‘home’ was. Now we have a young daughter and live in a fantastic village in a wonderful country - something I just didn't appreciate before. I must be getting old.”

Case Study (Sean should have pic or I can send it again)

For Anne Ritchie and her husband David swapping rural Yorkshire for rural Spain three and a half years ago was not too much of a wrench. “It has a lot of things in common, but with the added bonus of 300 days of sunshine and a very much more relaxed sort of lifestyle,” she says.

As a trend consultant she advises companies such as Wedgwood on the colours, textures and styles that are going to be popular up to two years ahead. Her clients are all based in the UK, although they are scattered from Shetland down to London. She was conveniently located in the middle although her work has always involved a fair amount of international travel.

“I am in Paris four or five times a year, Italy three or four times, in the States quite often and, of course, the UK. It’s really important, particularly living in the countryside, to be out seeing everything from sitting in a café watching the world go by, to doing market research and seeing what’s happening in the shops and trade shows,” she says.

“When we were looking for somewhere it was a very important consideration that it was less than an hour away from an international airport with regular and cheap connections to the UK. That’s partly why we chose here. It’s so easy to commute from Malaga to London. In fact the return fare is cheaper than it used to be for me to get the early morning train from Lanacaster. And, door to door, it only takes about an hour longer.”

She has to think hard before she finds a downside to the move. “I illustrate my trend books with ribbons, yarns, buttons and threads. It’s much more difficult to find that stuff in rural Spain than in Britain. But it just means I come back from my travels with my suitcases loaded.”

Her other concern was that the golden Andalucian sun in contrast with the cold grey light of England would influence her to start choosing “glorious yellows and oranges”. That did not happen although, by coincidence, her move south coincided with the millennial explosion in people’s taste for colour which followed a decade of beige, grey and black.

“I think being here has changed us. David’s health is definitely better. And sitting thinking about colours two years ahead is very much pleasanter in the sunshine,” she says.

Box

Phone home

Until fairly recently the main obstacles to working from abroad were the cost and reliability of phone calls. Thanks largely to the deregulation of telecoms throughout most of the world this is generally no longer a problem. The challenge now is to find a way through the plethora of services and pricing structures. There are some useful tips.

There are services in most countries that undercut the cost of phone calls using the dominant carrier. These either work on a subscription basis or using prepaid cards. It is worth checking out with other ex-pats just how reliable these services are. At peak times it may be impossible to get a line or call quality may be very poor, which is less than ideal if you are relying on the service for business.

Telecoms competition in the UK is more advanced than in most other countries and there are a number of handy ways to keep in contact with customers. Best-known are the so-called “follow me” numbers which can be diverted to wherever you are working.

A company such as Callsure (www.callsure07050.co.uk) offers 0871 numbers which divert straight through to a landline in the EU. The caller pays about 10p a minute for this service which is free to the recipient.

If you would rather not advertise that you are working from abroad you can get all your calls diverted, but beware of using BT for this. It will charge £58.75 to set up the service plus £24.72 a quarter plus between 26p and 36p a minute for calls. But with a little ingenuity you can get the same service for as little as 3p a minute plus £1.75 a month provided you retain a BT landline in the UK.

It works best using a “carrier pre select” service. These are being heavily promoted by companies such as Carphone Warehouse and mean that subscribers are charged for all their calls through a cheaper service while paying BT for landline. There is no need for an adapter or to dial a special code.

These services include calls diverted by BT and by shopping around it is possible to find rates as low as 3p a minute to mainland Europe. So the telecommuter pays 3p a minute to receive calls while the customer pays the UK standard rate and should not even need to know that the call is being diverted.

Of course once internet phone calls become more common the price should fall even further.

Draft first chapter of a novel

2003-08-19T23:40:00.000+02:00

Andrew Taylor felt like a complete twat. Everybody in the queue for the airport check-in seemed to be dressed entirely in pastels. In the midst of a sea of pale pinks, baby blues, yellows, beiges and whites, he alone was wearing black. Actually, to be accurate it was a combination of charcoal grey and black, but it still made him stand out like the only grown-up at a childrens’ party or a drug squad officer at a rock festival. His face glowed at the thought.

What made his embarrassment particularly annoying was that he had made a real effort to look cool. A couple of hours before he had posed in front of the mirror in his trendiest suit. Okay it was from Marks and Sparks, but obviously the mandarin collar and purple satin lining had been too much for the high street. That was why it had been such a bargain in the sale. With a collar and tie it looked businesslike, without making him look like a businessman. With the black tee-shirt he was now wearing it was part of the perfect smart, but casual, combination. It really was the suit that was right for any occasion. Well, almost any occasion.

But what do you wear to a funeral in Ibiza? Maybe everybody would be dressed in colourful holiday gear. He had a bag full of that, if necessary, but he wasn’t going to crush his best suit in there. All that mattered was that he didn’t look conspicuous. He prided himself on his ability to fit into any situation, even if the price of that was to be ignored sometimes, or a lot of the time.

Now he knew it was a mistake. Actually he had begun to have misgivings in the taxi on the way to the airport.

“Where are you off to?” the cabbie asked, in the way that hairdressers feel obliged to find out what your up to that evening.

Andrew toyed with the idea of lying and giving the name of somewhere that sounded less downmarket to him. But his mouth reacted faster than his brain and he said: “Ibiza.”

The cabbie laughed. “Well you’ll not be off clubbing every night, will you?”

He didn’t like being laughed at. Anyway, how could somebody he’d never met before make assumptions about what he might do? But Andrew had the perfect retort for the cabbie.

“I’m off to my wife’s funeral,” he said.

His cheeks glowing slightly from having said what he thought was unsayable, he waited for silence. But the cabbie did reply. Unfortunately it coincided with the cab pulling on to the M8 motorway and his story was drowned out by the rattle of the diesel engine. Not that the noise deterred the driver, he just kept on talking. So, for the next ten minutes, Andrew perched uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, leaning towards the glass partition, saying “Aye” or “No” as the story seemed to demand.

Finally the cab pulled up outside the terminal. “So you see it worked out okay for me,” said the cabbie. “Just remember, life’s not a rehearsal.” Andrew handed him £16 for the £14 journey and took his place in the queue that snaked from the only two open check-in desks.

He looked round at his fellow passengers to see if there was anybody he could hope to sit next to on the flight. There wasn’t. Harry, the Glaswegian business editor at The Standard, had been spot on. “You’re going to Ibiza at 11.30 on a Friday night on a charter flight? It’ll be like a fucking cooncil hoose wae wings. They’ll be smashing the windaes, shagging in the aisles and flogging the Big Issue as you get on.”

Now a small child was entertaining herself by rhythmically bashing a luggage trolley into the back of Andrew’s legs. He turned round and fixed her with what he believed was his most evil stare. She looked at him and smiled, then stuffed one grubby finger up her nose. As soon as he had his back to her she started again, but with renewed vigour. In retaliation he raised a heel so that the trolley banged into that and with a little flick he knocked it back so she went sprawling. He was sure nobody had seen his neat trick and he smiled to himself at this small victory as the girl bawled behind him. But he couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at the child’s discomfiture. As he turned the father showed Andrew just how evil a stare can be, when it’s done properly.

A strong believer that you are what you read, Andrew buried his face in the dance music magazine he’d lifted from the arts editor’s desk as he left the newspaper office. The cover line about the summer’s best Ibiza clubs had caught his eye along as had the free CD. A quick bit of homework and he could talk to his daughter like an expert. That’s one thing about journalism, you learn to make a little knowledge go a long way. He also hoped that his fellow travellers would notice what he was reading and realise how hip and trendy he was despite the dodgy suit.

Top ten tips for middle-aged clubbers

2003-07-19T23:18:00.000+02:00

Don’t pay full price. Pick up flyers from bars or PRs that’ll get you in free or with a discount
Never arrive before 3am. Clubs will be empty
Try to see the dawn at least once
If you can’t leave the kids at night, go to Space, preferably on a Sunday morning. Pretend you’ve been up all night
Don’t take a camera. They’re banned from most clubs
If the main dance floor seems too crowded, explore. Every big club has several rooms and terraces
Don’t wear too much. It’s hot in there
Ibiza Town’s clubs tend to attract an older more sophisticated crowd. San An’s clubbers are younger. San Rafael is in the middle and attracts both types according to who’s playing
Ask clubbers about which are the best nights or check websites such as Ibiza Spotlight (Ibiza-spotlight.com). Don’t trust the PRs – of course they’ll tell you the club they represent is the best
Don’t worry about your age, you’re providing a social service. At least half the twentysomethings are worried about being too old. You’ll give them hope

The Scotsman article that started it all

2003-07-18T19:31:00.000+02:00

I couldn’t have been much wetter if I’d been standing under a hot shower fully clothed. My hair, trousers and shirt flapped and dripped in time to the beat. I would have heard my feet squelching in my shoes if the music hadn’t been so loud.

A sound like a jet airliner roared across the dance floor, seemingly part of the tune. In fact that noise really did come from an aeroplane, its engines slamming into reverse thrust. It was 11.30 on a Sunday morning at Space and we were right under Ibiza’s main flight path.

This could be a description of torture, especially for somebody of my less than tender years. But it was something for months I’d planned, and even trained for – three times a week to the gym, watching my diet and cutting down on the bevvy.

It was my attempt to kill or cure the Ibiza dance bug I’d caught some three years before on what was supposed to be a convalescent holiday for Barbara, my wife. We went because the flight was cheap, the departure time convenient and sun was guaranteed. Clubbing never entered the equation.

We were staying in a small hotel close to Ibiza Town. For those not familiar with the island, there are two centres of population: Ibiza Town and San Antonio. The former is on the east coast, dominated by a spectacular castle, medieval streets and perfectly-preserved defensive walls. The latter has coloured fountains that dance in time to cheesy pop tunes and the West End, a tightly-packed cluster of streets filled with garish bars and cheap discos. But it does do great sunsets.

Despite their differences, both towns provide constant reminders that this is the world capital of clubbing. We never had any intention of joining in. To me, dance music was a continuation of disco, with its teenage memories of boring Saturday nights propping up the bar, trying to look cool, while girls danced around their handbags.

But curiosity about the Ibizan scene slowly got to us. We had established Bar Zuka as our regular drinking hole. This is the one straight establishment in the gay strip that translates, totally inappropriately, as: “The Street of the Virgin.” Every night parades of drop-dead gorgeous members of both sexes and outrageous transvestites, some teetering over the cobbles on stilts, promoted that night’s clubs.

Eventually, on our penultimate night I asked Mark - who continues to run Bar Zuka with the enthusiastic bonhomie of an English pub landlord - which club we should try. He scribbled a few words of Spanish on a business card. “Just hand this to the only security guy with long hair at Amnesia.” Barbara didn’t believe it would work.

We managed to find a cab, no mean feat at 3am in Ibiza Town. A few minutes later we arrived at Amnesia, a place which, from the outside, has all the charm of a B&Q superstore, even if it does have neon and palm trees.

I handed the card to the pony-tailed head of security. He looked Barbara and I up and down. Then, with a barely perceptible nod we were in, and I was hooked.

This wasn’t a disco. Dancing was a communal activity. Instead of couples mirroring each other’s moves everybody was reacting to the music together. Lights and laser beams cut the air. Perfect-bodied dancers spun and contorted on podiums round the dance floor. Everything was driven by the ebb and flow of banging dance music. The closest I’d ever felt to this experience before was on the football terracing. But here there was a goal every few minutes.

What made it even better was that we had blagged our way in, which made us almost a part of the scene. Dancers, PRs and other club workers receive lousy wages, but they do get passes. None would ever be seen to be paying full price for admission.

It must be said that blagging is not entirely alien to many journalists. So this year, at the start of a week in Ibiza, I found myself in the guest list queue outside the club El Divino waiting to get in to see the super cool Hed Kandi. Waiting allowed me to appreciate the stunning location, on the far side of the harbour overlooking Ibiza Town. That night a huge, reddish full moon cast its glow over the Old Town.

The music matched the surroundings, hitting a natural high as the deejay played a joyous house version of “Let The Sunshine In” just as dawn was breaking. I never thought dancing to a tune from the old hippy musical hair could be so blissful. It was a moment to remember.

A couple of days later I was talking to Hed Kandi boss and deejay Mark Doyle. “Ibiza is still the place where you want to be successful,” he said. “You journalists are always trying to find the new Ibiza, but there’ll never be anywhere quite like this.”

I explained that I’d never dream of going clubbing anywhere else. “You should come to see us in Newcastle. That’s the nearest we come to Edinburgh and there’s a great atmosphere there,” he said. I’m unconvinced. I still expect UK clubs to have something of the disco cattle market about them.

Our conversation was taking place by the pool of the Es Vive hotel, currently the coolest hotel on the island. A restored art deco landmark, it wouldn’t be out of place in Miami’s South Beach.

The hotel is the latest venture for Jason Bull who joined us periodically, his two mobiles and a cordless phone ringing incessantly. For years he has run the Base Bar, the most popular drinking den for Brits in Ibiza town and an intrinsic part of the scene. There’s a rigid night-out timetable: eat around 10.30pm, bar at 12.30am and club at 2.30am.

In common with everybody who has a financial interest in the island Bull was twitchy. Tourist numbers have dropped this summer and those that do come aren’t spending. Much of Europe is in recession and, for the Brits, the pound has fallen 20 per cent against the euro in the last year.

The hotel is performing well, but the bar has moved to larger premises in an area of Ibiza town’s harbour better known for restaurants than for drinking. His clientele is returning though, mostly Cockneys or thereabouts. At times it can feel a bit like Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels in the heat. All that’s missing is Vinnie Jones.

Not every night is equally busy. “People who used to come for a week or two are just coming for the weekend,” he says. “The authorities aren’t helping by making us switch off music outside just after midnight.” It does create a strange atmosphere at the harbour which last year was jumping until 3am. A similar clampdown on the clubs means they shut strictly at 7am. That’s early.

If the Es Vive hotel represents the prosperous, discerning side of Ibiza, I wanted to see something of the island’s mass-market face. That means the busiest club night in San Antonio Judge Jules’ Judgement Sunday. I was wary about all those drunken young Brits.

“Two years ago we had to have a door policy to get rid of the horrible people you used to see on Ibiza Uncovered and now we only get nice people,” Jules told me before he started his set. He reckons that the recession has kept away many of the people who weren’t really interested in the island’s clubs.

“Every deejay loves doing Ibiza. This summer I’ve done Faliraki, Kavos, Benidorm, Playa de las Americas and Majorca, but none of them compare to Ibiza. You still get that holiday atmosphere, but here it’s a magnet for people who’re really into music.”

Diplomatically, he offered me some comfort. “You can be 75 and on the dance floor and nobody will bat an eyelid.” Then he blew it, turning to his business partner and saying: “My dad’s coming again. I just hope he doesn’t get on the dance floor this time.”

In fact nobody did bat an eyelid on the dance floor, except one. A tiny teenager, the spit of Claire Grogan in Gregory’s Girl, kept pointing at me and smiling. Then she started thrusting her crutch enthusiastically at my kneecaps, until her boyfriend dragged her away. Oh well.

My clubbing odyssey continued with the extravagantly camp La Troya at Amnesia. That’s what I love about Ibiza, the tolerance. Perhaps a majority of the crowd was gay, but nobody cared if you were a white, middle-aged, middle class heterosexual. It just mattered that you were having fun.

The following night I was at the same venue for Cream. For the first time I retreated to the VIP area. The dance floor was just too crowded and it didn’t seem fair to reveal my expertise at landing my size 12s on other people’s feet. The heat too was intense, despite the clubs famous dry ice guns enveloping the crowd in a cool cloud every few minutes.

By the end of the week I should have been bored with it all. In fact I just wanted to keep going. There are more than 30 club nights that I didn’t make it to. I’m not sure whether trying to repeat the experience back home would break the spell, but I’ll certainly be back in Ibiza.

And if you decide to give it a go, do drop in and say hello to Jason or Tony at Base Bar and Mark at Bar Zuka. Tell them Nick from The Scotsman sent you. It might not do you any good, but it’ll certainly help my blagging.

nick@penpusher.com

Outline for a book about Ibiza

2003-01-26T23:32:00.000+01:00

The book was never published, partly because somebody else was working on a very similar idea...

Ibiza – where the hippy dream still lives

The initial idea for this book was to look broadly at the “New Ibizans”, the common term describing people who spend much of their time on the island, but were not born there. As I looked more carefully, however, it became clear that there is one group that has had a more profound impact than any other – the hippies (or “peluts”, hairies, as the locals call them). Certainly, beatniks had been coming since the 1950s, but it was not until the mid-1960s that Ibiza became the place in Europe to drop out.

Of course, other places attracted large numbers of draft dodgers, musicians, artists and wasters, the difference is that in Ibiza they stayed. Their impact can be seen and felt throughout Ibizan life, as I would hope to show in a book and/or television series.

It is difficult to be precise in a synopsis before I have had chance to interview even the main players. This plan has been drawn up using information gleaned from a few short visits, a very limited amount of published literature, the internet and brief conversations with acquaintances on the island. But I know enough to be sure that there is a story to tell, in fact many stories to tell. The characters and places are colourful. And I think I can show sides of Ibiza that most people are not aware of.

This synopsis is divided into six parts which could either be sections of a book, hour-long television programmes or, hopefully both. There would obviously be more flexibility in a book format, but either way it seems to provide a logical narrative structure.

1. Why did the hippies choose Ibiza?

A cheap, sunny and beautiful island in the Mediterranean has obvious attractions. But those attributes could be applied to dozens of places from Corfu to the other Balearic Islands. The more spiritually inclined believe there is something mystical about Ibiza’s place at an intersection of leylines. What is certainly true is that the island has a tradition of tolerance going back centuries to at least the time when Jews fleeing the Inquisition were protected on the island. More recently black jazz musicians came to get away from racism and, in the early 1960s, it had the first bar where “men danced with men” openly. Somehow this combination made Ibiza the centre of European hippy culture and it has remained so as it went from being the poorest area in Spain to the wealthiest.

If one place in Ibiza illustrates the changes the island has gone through it is Las Dalias. This year is the 50th anniversary of its opening as a bar built and run by Joan Mari Joan. It is still run by his son. In the 1950s it was a nightclub complete with orchestra. In the 1960s the garden was landscaped and it attracted package holiday tourists to its “chicken-a-go-go” flamenco nights. Not long after that the local town became a centre for Ibiza’s hippies and a recording studio was opened. It became a tradition for bands to celebrate the completion of an album by playing at the nightclub. In fact the list of stars who have played there reads like a litany of 1960s and 1970s rock music including members of the Stones, Led Zeppelin. Mike Oldfield and the Jam. In the late 1980s it was at the centre of the new dance music scene, where it has remained. At the same time what had started as a “swap meet” in aid of the local church became a fully fledged weekly hippy market.

Las Dalias continues to thrive as the symbol of hippy culture in Ibiza with the bar, market, restaurant and an amazing garden filled with flowers, murals and statues of Hindu deities. Many of the people who have been involved in its creation are still around, including the owner Juanito.
2. Music & Clubbing.

There are direct links between the hippies and the dance music scene which started in 1987. Hippies were behind the parties which echoed the raves in the UK. They also created several of what became the dance superclubs. These started as farmhouses which were venues for regular parties. Sound systems were added and admission was charged. Eventually roofs were added as noise laws were enforced.

Unlike Las Dalias, it is not possible to track the changes to any of the superclubs through one individual or family. There are, however, many of the original hippy rave organiser, deejays, club workers and others who, between them, can complete some of the stories. It is not an area where there is any shortage of material.

And, of course, there are the clubs, most spectacular of which is Privilege which started in the 1960s as the San Rafael Social Club. Later it became Ku and, after a change of ownership, Privilege – the biggest nightclub in the world with a capacity of 10,000.

3. Sex & Drugs

It is impossible to ignore the profound effect that illegal drugs have had on the island starting, of course, with the hippies who brought LSD and cannabis to the island. Later Ecstasy was at the heart of the dance music scene. It is not just the consumption of drugs, but the quantities of cash involved, that have had an impact. Many of the restaurants, bars, hotels and clubs were bought with drugs money. They also offer an easy means of laundering funds because they run on cash. Many of the big dealers are well known, in fact I’ve met a couple of them. I could certainly write or talk about them in what would have to be a very discreet way.

Sex is also vitally important to Ibiza, not just because of the combination of youth, sun, music, drugs and alcohol. It has one of the world’s longest established open gay scenes. The Calle de la virgin (Street of the Virgin) in Ibiza Town is the focus for an amazing night-time parade of transvestites, tanned torsos and fetish queens. The big clubs also have nights which are aimed at the gay community, but the island’s tolerance works both ways and heterosexuals are certainly not made to feel unwelcome. In fact, gays have arguably done as much as the hippies to create the modern Ibiza. There are certainly plenty around who would be happy to talk.

More surprising is the success of strip clubs in Ibiza. With all the naked flesh on show on the island’s beaches during the day, who would have thought that anybody would be willing to pay for more of the same at night? Ibiza’s top strip club, the Blue Rose, was started by the daughters of a German lawyer and his American fashion designer wife who dropped out on the island in the 1970s. The daughters went to LA and on the basis of what they saw there decided to start a strip club in Ibiza. It remains a family affair with mother designing costumes and daughter doing choreography. All should be available for interview.

4. Hotels, bars and restaurants

Some of the hippy homes gradually metamorphosed into hotels, best known of which is Pike’s. Aussie traveller Tony Pike bought a 15th century finca in the 1970s, kept adding bits until it became a five-star resort much-loved by rock stars and deejays. It was also the setting for the video of Wham’s Club Tropicana. Tony Pike still runs the place and gives great interviews.

Upmarket bar and restaurant Bambudha Grove developed in a similar way. John Moon, another travelling hippy, started a small restaurant which gradually grew into a hybrid eating place, bar and club. He’s a fascinating character who has been at the centre of the Ibizan hippy and music scene for years.

Although these are the two best known hip hospitality entrepreneurs, there are many others.

5. Art, architecture, fashion design, pottery

Ibiza’s art scene pre-dates the arrival of the hippies, but the two scenes have to some extent coalesced. Away from the concrete package holiday jungles there is a distinctive Ibicenco architecture which was a strong influence on Le Corbusier who visited the island early in his career. The island also has an enduring impact on world, but particularly Spanish, fashion through a group known as Ad Lib based in Ibiza Town. San Rafael has a street with nothing but potters, all producing work which is more art than craft. Elsewhere there are more sculptors and painters than you can shake a brush at.

6. The soul and future of Ibiza

Another link with the hippy past comes in a spiritual form. Ibiza is often described as “the yoga capital of Europe”. It is also not unusual to see Buddhist monks wondering past the quieter beaches as well as lots of New Age events round the full moon and so on. Many of these people try to live an existence which has minimal impact on the earth, recycling and minimising waste. This ecological awareness was strong enough to enable the island in 1999 to get its first left-of-centre government largely because the conservatives wanted to build a golf course in the middle of a national park. Last year, however, the conservatives were returned to power.

That division reflects the continuing debate about the future of the island. In 30 years it has gone from rags to riches. The question is: how does it keep that wealth. The conservatives want to build more golf courses and marinas while clamping down on the clubbers, hippies and anybody else who might upset the wealthy tourists they hope will come to those new marinas and golf courses. The clubbers and hippies have an uneasy alliance trying to retain the island’s hedonistic freedom. The hippies, though, are concerned about the rampant commercialism of the dance music scene and its impact on the environment.

It is a debate that will continue.

First thoughts about moving to Ibiza

2003-01-15T23:28:00.000+01:00

The idea came to me as I sat unshaven in a grubby dressing gown in front of my computer. Rain was running down the windows and it was getting dark.

Although I had not got round to getting dressed, or even cleaning my teeth for that matter, as far as my world was concerned I was sitting in an office shiny, happy and probably in a suit. I can generally make a good impression on the phone.

There is little need for face-to-face communication for the company I run. This is perhaps strange because we are supposed to be in the communications business. Essentially penpusher, the company, is a word factory providing mostly product descriptions, case studies and e-newsletters.

We started it to cash in on the internet wave, reasoning that people would want websites that were well-written to go with their flashy designs. Unfortunately the bubble burst before we could make our millions.

So we ditched the office and went virtual. What that means is that instead of phoning clients from a room with people, you call them from a back bedroom. In practice, nobody knows the difference. You could be anywhere.

So what the hell am I doing in damp, chilly, miserable Britain? A good question.

When most people reach my age – 47 if you must know, although I think I look younger – they have things to tie them down. Kids are the usual reason, or elderly parents.

Despite years of trying and a course of IVF treatment that led to an infection nearly killed my wife, I am not going to be a parent. My mother died eight years ago and my father just before the Queen Mum’s funeral just last year, not that the two events were in any way related.

For a long time it seemed likely that the flexibility of my work would allow me to help him through his last days. In the end that was not necessary thanks to his best mate. It was, perhaps, as straightforward as these things ever can be.

Depression sounds like the easy option. However, maybe I am callous, but I like to think I am being rational. I see the combination of events as an opportunity for a new start.

For children of the middle classes, of which I am one, the death of your parents means a substantial nest egg. In theory I am against inherited wealth, but in practice who would turn down a lump sum to pay off all their debts?