Going to Ibiza 31st July...

This will be me on my way to the airport (Minus the stetson hat):




Two summers ago, I went to Ibiza for my first time. Although some good times were had, some of the residual memories I have are not the best. In hindsight, it's obvious the experience merely accentuated some some underlying mental delicacies. These first world problem "issues" duly came under the microscope, brought on by the sudden on-rush of drugs, alcohol, partying, superficial hedonism, lack of sleep, and various episodes of accompanying friends behaving like dicks. It all took its toll, eventually.

Ibiza is a weird mixture of beautiful scenery and drunken debauchery. By the eighth night of my being there, I had been punched in the face by some gypsy from Belfast at seven o'clock in the morning by the beach; I'd been scammed by the "lookie-lookie" outfit who sold me some 'ecstacy pills' for 20 euro which in actual fact was just food colouring; and I visited several massive dance clubs listening to the likes of Carl Cox, Paul Kalkbrenner, Eddie Halliwell and other big DJ groups like Swedish House Mafia. At all of these events I had a great time, some more blurred than others. I made passing friendships with various English people, talking a lot of shite in the process. I also fell out with friends whose miserable and petty behaviour was bringing me down. In between the flippant moments of euphoria and great enjoyment from the music, I had pangs of inexplicable sadness, scathing self-loathing, paranoia and the like.

By the eighth night I had a break-down of sorts, walking along the streets of Ibiza crying my eyes out for absolutely no reason at all. It's ridiculous now even mentioning that. During these stupid couple of hours when I went full potato, I met two random people who noticed me crying. Me, completely off my head on drink, said that I didn't give a fuck any more and didn't care whether I died or not. (I was very serious about this at the time.) I invited to take them to an ATM machine where I said I'd clear out every penny I had and give it to them because, after all, I intended to die and wasn't going to need the money. I remember them being somewhat perplexed at first, and there was a certain sinister side to them which said "okay" and off we went to the ATM machine. I was so drunk I couldn't remember my pin which held all my money on a travel card. After this, they were trying to take me down some alley away from the crowds for God knows what, when we came across a group of girls who stopped and took me away from those people. I was sobbing a lot like a ridiculous, blubbering drunk. Thankfully those group of girls put me in a taxi straight to my hotel. Looking back now, I probably dodged a bullet there.

I haven't the faintest idea regarding the underlying factors of my psychology which brought all this crap out from the woodwork. I know it wasn't helped in any way shape or form by the over-indulgence of drink and alcohol, where it's safe to say I went a tad overboard over the course of ten days.

What I do know is the majority of all that nonsense is behind me now. Now I'm in a much better frame of mind, comfortable within myself, content in a way. I feel as if I've learned from the mistakes of the last holiday, in two years finishing my degree, devoting myself to football and channelling my energies into more positive things. I've tried to grow a certain contentment and happiness within myself by doing the best I can to change the things I have the power to change, and to ignore all the other irrelevancies. This includes superficial comparisons with other people, recognising negative attitudes and nipping them in the bud, and in the broadest, most general sense trying to find a balance in my life between mental stability and fun.

Roll on the 31st July