“I went over to Ibiza back in ’88, just for the sun really, but it turned into something else. Nights in Amnesia and Pacha all kind of blurred into one, met loads of people, some of them still mates now.
The music was a big part of it. DJs like Alfredo were playing stuff I’d never really heard before, properly opened my ears.
Came home a different person to be honest. Never really lost that feeling and ended up working in music, still chasing that buzz now.“

‘‘I went to Ibiza in 1995 thinking I knew what a good night out was, but Manumission quickly proved me wrong. It wasn’t just a club, it was something else entirely. There were dancers everywhere, fire, naked people, plenty going on, and the music just hit you right through the chest.
Met a lot of people out there who didn’t really follow the usual rules, and to be fair, I wasn’t either once I’d been there a bit.
That night definitely stayed with me. Came home with a different mindset, a bit more fearless. Definitely changed the direction of my life forever!”

“I arrived in Ibiza in 1992 burnt out and searching for something quieter. One evening, I found myself at Café del Mar as the sun set into the sea. The music was different, much slower and eclectic to what I was used to. Strangers sat in silence at points, listening to the music while drinking Brandy and Chocolate! Something shifted in me. I realised life didn’t have to be loud to be meaningful. I went home and changed everything, left my job and built a new path. Many years later, I now run a wellness retreat, and I put it all down to that life changing moment at Cafe Del Mar”

“2001, first time in Ibiza. Me, the wife, couple of mates and straight into Amnesia like we owned the place.
Few drinks turned into too many extras… and I completely lost the plot. Lost them, no phones, nothing, just gone.
End up with some random lot, next thing I’m in a car heading to a villa in the hills. Turn up… and it’s a full-on swingers party. I’m thinking, “What the hell have I walked into here?”
Stayed way longer than I should’ve, no clue how to get back.
Meanwhile, the wife and the lads haven’t seen me for hours… turns into a full day… then nearly two days. They’re ringing the Guardia thinking I’m dead in a ditch somewhere.
I finally stumble back looking like death. Didn’t go down well. In the doghouse for days.
Never told her the full story about that villa…
And I’m definitely not starting now”

“I’ve been going to Ibiza for years now, and if you talk to enough locals and a few of the old hippies, the same story comes up every so often.
Back in 1988, there was this bloke, bit of a City high-flyer, went over with a group of mates just as Ibiza was really starting to take off. Acid was the thing at the time, and he somehow managed to get hold of a sheet of about a hundred hits for next to nothing before they flew out.
He thought he was being clever about it as well. Wrapped it up, taped it to his stomach, pulled his T-shirt and sweatshirt over it and got on the flight like nothing was going on.
They land, all head outside to sort the bus to San Antonio, and that’s where it all starts going wrong. The group gets split up and two of them, including the one carrying the acid, end up getting pulled aside at customs. The rest of the lads wait as long as they can, trying to hold the bus, but after ten minutes or so they’ve got no choice but to go. They just assumed the other two would get a later bus or grab a taxi and meet them at the apartment.
The two at customs end up stuck there for about three quarters of an hour because there’s a family being dealt with ahead of them. Meanwhile this bloke is getting hotter and hotter, sweating, panicking, paranoia kicking in before he’s even through the airport properly.
Eventually they get waved through and grab a taxi, but by now the heat and everything else has done its damage. The blotter paper has started breaking down and it’s basically soaking into his skin.
They turn up at the apartment about two hours later and he goes straight in, strips off, and there’s still a bit of paper stuck to his stomach. He rips it off, leaves it to dry out, but he’s already starting to come up hard on what is effectively a massive dose.
Within an hour he’s completely gone. His mates leave him in bed thinking he’ll just sleep it off, but when they check on him later he’s in a proper state, convinced he’s a glass of orange juice and sitting bolt upright because he thinks if he moves he’ll spill himself everywhere. They try to calm him down and even give him vodka to try and take the edge off, which probably didn’t help much.
They leave him again and a couple of hours later they hear shouting. They go back in and he’s badly cut on his arm. He’d been trying to peel himself, thinking his skin wasn’t his own.
After that it just gets worse. At one point he says he needs the toilet, walks out, and vanishes. They don’t see him again for nine days.
Then, right before they’re due to fly home, they bump into him at Café del Mar. He’s sitting with a group of hippies, filthy, unshaven, completely vacant. They try talking to him for hours, trying to get through to him, but it’s like there’s nothing there. Eventually he just gets up and walks off with the hippies like he’s always been part of that world.
After that there were all sorts of rumours over the years that he’d stayed on the island somewhere up north, living off-grid with them, his old life just completely gone.
I never really knew what to make of it myself. Always thought it was just one of those Ibiza stories that gets better every time it’s told. But then a few years back I was over on Formentera and I swear I bumped into the bloke myself.
Well spoken, calm enough, looked like one of those long-term hippies you see out there. He said he still gets flashbacks now and again, still has moments where he sits bolt upright thinking he’s going to “spill” again like that first trip. He said the first year after it all happened was a blur, like he was trying to piece his own head back together.
And in the end, he just never really left that world.”

“So we’re in Ibiza, 1998. Me and the lads, absolutely running on fumes, San Miguel, and a few bits and pieces we’d somehow ended up with off a very friendly Scouser we’d met in Privilege – one of those lads who seemed to know everyone on the island and just sorted people out with this calm, no-questions-asked attitude. Nods, smiles, gone back into the madness like he’d never even been there.
We’d been out for days at that point.
We end up at Space for the “Carry On” session. People are dancing with no cares in the world, music still hammering like it’s peak night-time even though it’s basically morning.
And then I see her.
Right in the middle of it all. She’s actually up on the podium near the DJ booth, completely fearless, lifting up her top and flashing her tits randomly while dancing.  Absolutely owning the place like she’s part of the furniture. Wild energy, hair everywhere, no awareness of anyone watching her. Or maybe full awareness and just not caring in the slightest!
Total chaos energy. Confident, untouchable, unforgettable.
I clock her. She clocks me clocking her. That’s it. Done. Game over without a word.
Next thing I know she’s over. Just appears in front of me like she’s always meant to be there. We start talking, shouting more like it, over the music.
One thing leads to another, and we end up leaving together just as the sun is properly up and burning hot.
I won’t go into all the details, but let’s just say the party didn’t exactly stop at Space.
Fast forward nearly 30 years. We’re married. Two kids. Normal life now, school runs, shopping lists, arguments about bins, all of it. The full domestic soundtrack. And honestly, she’s still the best thing that ever happened to me.
The kids know that we met in Ibiza, they just don’t know the bit about her flashing her tits”

“1999, when Pikes was still more of a hidden little escape than the place everyone knows now. We’d booked it because someone told us it was quiet, a bit quirky, and you could spend all day by the pool with a cold beer without anyone bothering you. It was full of proper characters though. A few famous faces wandering about, everyone just treating each other like normal. No phones in your face, no Instagram, just people enjoying themselves.
Me and my boyfriend at the time headed into Ibiza Town one night and ended up in Pacha. Standard Ibiza, one drink turned into sunrise and somehow we staggered back to Pikes as the cleaners were starting their day.
Later that morning we still had not gone to bed and had the most ridiculous row over absolutely nothing. You know those arguments where neither of you even remembers what started it? Anyway, he flounced off saying he was going to San Antonio to “watch the football” and stormed off in a mood.
So there I was, sitting at the bar feeling sorry for myself, when this bloke started chatting to me. It took me a minute to realise he was one of the big actors from EastEnders. We got talking, had a few drinks, one thing led to another, and we ended up back in my room.
A few hours later my boyfriend came back absolutely steaming. His team had lost, he was still in a mood, and I was sitting there trying to act completely normal while feeling guilty as hell. Somehow he never had the slightest clue what had happened while he’d been away.
To be honest, me and my boyfriend weren’t exactly in a great place anyway, and looking back it was probably the final nail in the coffin for us. I’m not proud of what I did, but I’d always had a bit of a thing for that EastEnders actor when he was on TV. My boyfriend never found out, and I kept that one to myself. Some Ibiza memories are probably best left on the island!”