What I remember most was the chukker. Not the guy or girl who pushes you in the door at Lineker’s Bar or BCM Nightclub. During the season that promotes clubs and bars to Brits and mocks ham, eggs and chips in an unseasonably early season, it’s baked into lobster crisps and prepared for the seven big nights. eyelash. Their drink tokens and watered-down neon blue shots and fake jokes are indelible but hazy memories, and the freebies I cut to my navel and seductively pinned above my bikini top in the summer Like the Shagaluf promotional t-shirt, I will cherish it forever. It was in 2001.
No, I’m talking about the people making a fuss on every street corner. Hordes of British lads wander around vomiting, heat-stroked and beer-goggled in this paradise of teenage debauchery. Like navigating a first-person shooter, every inch of Magaluf’s map was punctured by someone with tactical expertise. A group of young men in sweat-soaked polo shirts sized each other up in preparation for a reckless fight, dramatically stopping each other in their tracks. A girl drops a greasy glob of doner kebab onto her going-out top and strappy sandals. This was my battlefield. This was my coming-of-age ceremony.
Yes, I know I look like a mild-mannered, ostensibly middle-class 40-something writer, but I jumped on an EasyJet flight as soon as I got my A-levels, so I wore a sparkly cowboy hat. I want to wear it and go to Magaluf for a party. A suitcase filled with Russ Ketchup’s costumes. And I couldn’t wait.
“Where is the strip?” Me and my best friend Roisin, wet behind the ears, asked a passing boy still wearing his jacket at sunset, showing his serious T-shirt burn. T—we ourselves had not yet been spared what would be a terrible week of healing future skin damage. There was no need to ask.it’s not where It’s a strip. what That’s a strip for you.
I was just there for the pool party, the bar playing the same music, and most importantly, the boys.lots of boys
If the first thing you think of when you see this scene is an overseas Brit throwing a white plastic chair at St. George’s with crossed arms, you might want to think about classism. We all went out for a night out, had a rare old time, realized we had had too much to drink, and went home singing into the night. Why do we hesitate when something like this happens even on holidays?
As someone who grew up in a working class family, the chance to get on a plane, be somewhere sunny and laugh was just what I needed after months of hard work to get my A-levels at an all-girls grammar school. It was an antidote. . I didn’t want to use my head, I just came here for a pool party, a bar playing the same music, and most importantly boys. A lot of boys.
Yes, I know you don’t want to tarnish your reputation on the continent. And yes, I did my best to go to the toilet before making a tactical blunder, but before we outlaw these hallowed temples of hedonism from well-worn resorts like Malia, Ayia Napa and Zante, please remember how many of these people will end up going to the toilet. Let’s make some beautiful but dirty memories here. Because, in the words of my signature song of this holiday, Spiller and Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s Groovejet, “If this ain’t love… why does it feel so good?”
Emily Phillips is an associate editor at ES Magazine
