Behind the Scenes at the Drunken Club Wonderland of Ibiza
Ibiza is a place that looms large in our collective imagination. It’s the island that is smaller than even Majorca but has become not just a holiday destination for Brits in search of the usual sun, sea and STDs, but a sort of tech-house Shangri-La. A place whose no-holds-barred, no-fucks-given majesty makes it worth toiling through 50 or so weeks of spreadsheets and supermarket pizza. It’s a place that people don’t just work to visit, but that people will work in while they visit, purely to keep the party going.
The stereotype goes that it’s a paradise of pillheads and Portobello hippies, the gurning masses huddling together in the death throes of a 15-hour Roger Sanchez set on one side of the island, while personal friends of Jade Jagger and James Blunt sit on the other side smoking expensive hash in their turquoise cowboy boots and Stevie Nicks buckle hats.
In olden times, you had to wait ages for Morrissey to say that the Chinese were little yellow fungal spores splattered unevenly across the planet who should use their burgeoning space program to build a big rocketship that could cart them all off to the nuclear heart of the sun.
Honestly, under-25s, it was a whole process. First, a journalist had to be summoned. Then, the negotiations as to whether the banner headlines would over-summarize his racial opinions had to be undertaken with a publicist. A venue needed to be found. And a journalist to put his or her tapes in the tape recorder, and ask two questions: “How are you?” and “Do you think the Smiths will ever reform?” An hour later, a groaning tape recorder full of glib jokes and moans would have to be sent off for transcription. Finally, days, weeks, months later, the world would finally know what was wrong with the Chinese (they are a sub-species), and how it could be fixed (with flaming astral death). The headline-writers would then load up their headlines: “Bigmouth Strikes Again!” or something. Then the opinion writers would be summoned to put together essays about how He Really Has Gone Too Far This Time. Then a plucky freelancer would have to be dug up to rail against the backlash, and on and on, forever.
Now, all of that shit is going to be INSTANT. “Cut off the head of Dappy,” Morrissey will poke, one finger at a time, into his Samsung S5, and the three saps who write all the music news blogs will go: “Morrissey Stokes Controversy as He Urges Dappy Beheading.” “You’ll Never Guess What Morrissey Has Said Now…” Gawker will tease. “Beheading Dappy: N-Dubz Hitmaker Hits Back at Moz” the HuffPo will wail, despite its readers having no particular interest in either person.
We Got 20 Strangers Who Aren’t Models to Kiss Each Other
Earlier this week, an “arty” black and white video in which polite Americans kiss each other on the mouth made the internet squeal with excitement. The twist was, you see, that these people were all strangers, so this was footage of ten first kisses—gross saliva sounds fully audible over the sort of song that a depressed person might put on during sex.
It was really awkward and sweet, and so far it’s had over 47 million YouTube views. Many bloggers called it “beautiful,” but it was mostly beautiful because all the people that director Tatia Pilieva cast were models, actors, and musicians—that is, professional performers. Oh, and also it was a commercial for clothes, because everything that goes viral on the internet is a lie or an ad.
So our London colleagues went out into the street and found 20 strangers who aren’t models of any description to stick their stiff British upper lips together for £20 (about $33) a pop. This is how strangers really kiss.
The UK hip-hop scene is a largely maligned part of British music. It’s often mocked for its propensities for peaked beanies, bad lyrics, silly names, and the overwhelming stench of cheap skunk. Clive and the team headed down to Bristol—the spiritual home of the British B-Boy scene—to investigate if people from the UK can rap, or if they should just leave it to the Americans.
Anonymous Failed to Bring Down the British Government with Fireworks
Last night was fireworks night, which meant that members of Anonymous descended upon London once again to take part in their global Million Mask March. The event invited everyone to a “tea party,” the purpose of which was “to remind this world what it has forgotten, that fairness, justice, and freedom are more than just words.” Other Anonymous bugbears included the mainstreammediablackout and the whitewashing of world issues—legitimate, if fairly nebulous, concerns.
I didn’t know of any other tea parties where everyone wears masks and remains nameless, unless it’s the kind where you end up covered in a bunch of semen, so I decided to go and check it out.
According to the plan, Trafalgar Square was the launchpad for a march bound for Westminster, where everyone would shout at Parliament. Rather than going home when they got cold, the idea was that everyone would stay for an entire day. At least, that seemed to be the idea from the Facebook call out, which said, “NOTE: This will be a 24 hour event, please be prepared to peacefully assemble for up to 24hrs.” (Spoiler: This didn’t happen.)
Amid the throng, I was a little disappointed when I asked Jerry here what he hoped the march would achieve. “Nothing,” he replied. “It needs a lot more people. That’s why I go around with the billboard. Most people don’t understand what’s going on in the world.” His friend Mindy butted in. “We want to make a loud noise,” she said. “We want change—genuine change!”
Already it seemed clear that the marchers were operating at cross-purposes.
Thailand’s Full Moon Parties Have Been Taken Over by #YOLO Idiots
It’s an old cliché to bemoan what is compared to what used to be. But as the morning sun rises over the fluoro debris and thousands of empty plastic cups from the night before, it’s hard for me to do much else.
I’m standing on a crowded Haad Rin beach on Thailand’s idyllic Koh Phangan, home to the original and now infamous Full Moon Party. Hours before, 20,000 bodies writhed together in motion to pulsating house music, fuelled by cheap alcohol and magic mushroom milkshakes. Now, among the rapidly sobering hardcore who continue to dance, a smattering of those bodies dot the beach, their semi-conscious, half-naked torsos slowly roasting in the Thai sun. They lie surrounded by beer bottles, shattered glass, and plastic buckets.
It’s all a bit depressing, but of course there’s nothing particularly original about any of this. The descent of the Full Moon Party from fabled hippy love-in to an 18-30-club-rave-on-sea has been in motion for years. Once arcane events attended by 30 or so loved up psytrancers who, for all their faults, at least seemed to be striving for some kind of spiritual experience, now the Full Moon Parties seem to be yet another hedonistic playpen for actuarial science students whose idea of a spiritual experience is getting a henna tattoo.
As President Barack Obama faces off against sinister cipher Mitt Romney, for those of you who continue to be baffled by the simplicity of American politics, I’ve carved through the three remaining salient facts to bring you a bluffer’s guide to understanding the greatest election since Goldwater-Johnson.
This election will be decided yet again by these things that keep getting called “swing states”. These are the most unhappy places in the union because there are equal numbers of Democrats and Republicans. In these squalid misery-zones, Americans can’t even have an abortion without 50 percent of their friends tutting disapprovingly and the other 50 percent cheerleading them into the stirrups. Let’s have a look at some of those key battlegrounds.
FLORIDA Key inhabitants: Pensioners. Minor rappers. Cubans. Hanging Chads. Analysis Pensioners love Romney because he also gets confused whenever he walks into a room. Minor rappers prefer Obama because Jay-Z said they should. Cubans prefer no one knows their immigration status and so will be staying at home, apart from Pitbull. Predicted outcome: Romney wins.
OHIO Key inhabitants: Tire factory workers. People who have given up hope of ever living a normal life. Canadian refugees. Analysis Ohio is famous for being ugly and polluted. However, it’s still hard to know whether voters there will want to hurt the rest of the country as much as they’re already hurting by voting for Romney, or whether they are just going to vote for Romney because they want to ship more of their pitiful jobs overseas to relieve themselves the burden of having to commute through its wretched streets every day. Predicted outcome: Obama wins.
VIRGINIA Key inhabitants Jockeys. Tobacco farmers. Perpetrators of random killing sprees at technical colleges. Anaylsis It’s hard to know why Virginia always gets flagged up as a swing state. Just because it’s halfway between north and south, pollsters often think it has a toe in liberalism. In fact, while jockeys may want to vote for someone who has promised to “stand up for the little guy”, overall, this is a state that thinks entirely with its handguns and has consistently voted for the candidate with the largest semi-automatic weapon and the boldest vision of America visible through a telescopic sight. Predicted outcome: Romney wins.