Toni, Lola and the amazing hula-girl…

Mrs B and I have been in Ibiza for around six and a half weeks and we’ve settled in really well.  The cafe we frequent the most is a great place run by a lovely Spanish couple – Toni and Lola.  The pair of them work incredibly hard – they are up at 6am and their cafe is open until midnight most nights.  Usually the pair of them are smiling and in a good mood but as midnight approaches the smiles fade and are replaced by a look that indicates that the beer you’ve just ordered is your bleedin’ last and after that you can bugger off.  Well that was until they met the amazing hula-girl…

Hula-Girl is a hula-hoop artiste who has landed in Ibiza looking for summer work and who is going to be helping us out doing some tropical hula at Los Fabulosos.  The things she can do with a hoop need to be seen to be believed – especially to some heavy afro-latin music at Los Fabulosos (getting the hint?).

Anyway we had a few glasses of vino last night and decided to decamp to T&L’s for a couple of late beers.  Hula-Girl took her hoop with her and put on an impromptu show.  A hula-show isn’t something you see every day, especially in Toni & Lola’s but it’s guaranteed to put a smile on even the most tired face.  Within a couple of minutes Toni was trying his hand at it while Lola laughed and took pictures – the regulars were even more suprised at that than someone swinging a hula-hoop round her neck at about 100mph I think.  T&L even let us order a couple of late beers and we rolled out of there at 1am.  As I said to hula-girl – if doing the hula can get someone almost 16 hours into their shift smiling then anything is possible. World domination awaits…

 

Doing the rounds…

Walking around for six hours every day asking owners of cafes, bars and shops to put our posters and flyers up in their establishments is pretty tiring – not least on the face muscles as you need to have a huge rictus grin painted on as you do it.  

The people we do talk to however are usually astonished to find that we are the actual promoters of the night in question and are actually asking their permission (most people just do it without so much as an hello) and as a result nearly always find a decent little spot alongside all the huge club nights taking place this summer.  A couple of bars have even given us the optimum position all for ourselves – the fabled toilet doors.  There’s usually only a couple of cubicles in bars over here so more often than not there’s a queue of people with nothing better to do than read a poster or flyer and as a result people fight like mad to get their posters there.  The look on the face of the guy who does the posters for Pacha as me and Mrs B sellotaped our poster to the bog door of the Rock Bar will stay with me forever.  He was as gutted as we were delighted…

We’ve got a good system too – Mrs B does clothes shops and cafes as she’s good at bonding with the sales girls and waitresses, we do the straight bars together while I’ve been put in charge of gay bars (of which there are an astonishing amount in Ibiza Town).  Fortunately the gay fellas seem to like a bit of northern rough trade with a wedding ring on his finger so I’m doing all right so far.  Mrs B is treating our marketing blitz like a military operation though and I reckon she’d have me walking around in chaps, a white vest and one of those leather policeman’s hats if I’d let her. I told her – if I’m going to dress like any member of the Village People it’s going to be the Red Indian – or maybe the sailor…

Mr B

Poster wars

The opening night of Los Fabulosos is now less than two weeks away and we’ve started putting our posters up around the island.  The whole process is rather like painting the Forth Bridge.  You put one in a shop window and about two hours later you walk past and it’s been ripped down by some See You N T and replaced with some rubbish night in an even worse venue.  This means war –  for every one of our posters that is ripped down I’m ripping ten of theirs. I won’t name and shame the place in question.  

If I catch any poster monkeys ripping our posters down though I’ll put my boot up their backsides – if they’re smaller than me that is.  If it’s a girl then Mrs B is going to have a schoolgirl-style hair pulling session with her.  

I’m secretly hoping it’s a girl – fight fight fight!!!

 

 

 

 

Road rage

The Russians, who aren’t known for their liberal views, have a proverb about women drivers – a woman in a car is like a monkey with a hand grenade.  I think this is particularly unfair to the monkeys.  I’m sure with the proper training they’ll be fine when handling small arms and munitions of any kind. 

Anyway not wanting to be bogged down in any feminist nest of vipers I think the Russian proverb would be better aimed at Ibizan drivers.  It’s funny how an island famed for chill-out is such a hazard to navigate in a car.  Drivers here are about as chilled out as a rabid dog in a butcher’s shop.  They overtake round blind corners, tail-gate you and flash their lights if you aren’t doing 120kph round a tiny winding road out in the mountains at night and have no qualms about cutting across you on roundabouts or anywhere else. The standard of driving here is reflected in the amount of road deaths they have each year – shedloads of people die on the roads here.  I think that’s the official figure… 

– I’d like to send a message out to a very very lucky lady today too.  Yes it’s a year to the day since Mrs B hit the jackpot.  Happy anniversary sweetheart xx

Mr B

The Mutant Mr Whippy

Is it not the most horrible child-scaring piece of work you’ve ever seen? The bovver boots and freaky hands holding what looks like a multi-coloured club is bad enough. But the face is even more disturbing – not least the Douglas Hurd haircut and the huge tongue lolling out. And this remember is supposed to entice people into buying an ice-cream. Can you imagine anyone seeing that and saying “Hmm look at that delicious looking plastic ice-cream bovver boy freak. I really fancy a 99 now. Come on kids let’s go in there and get one.”

You can’t help wondering who the most disturbed person is – the nutter who made it or the lunatic who paid for it…

Los Fab is good to go…

It’s been a busy week for Mrs B and I…

The lighting rig finally turned up at the venue so Los Fabulosos got it’s official opening fiesta night set in stone which is great news.  We are good to go on the 19th of June.  Gulp…

The flyers & posters are done and at the printers and we are busy making the arrangements for getting the DJ’s over.  Everyone seems to be excited and now all we have to do is make sure everyone knows about it and we get the punters through the door. The club is still a complete building site mind you so my butt cheeks are quivering a tiny bit still.  The owner has assured us that whips will be cracked however and the plan will come together.  I hope he’s right.

The Ibicencans do seem to have a natural air of optimism about them at the moment that is proving pretty infectious for everyone else too.  Maybe it’s the sight of the tourists finally starting to arrive on the island in a significant number again and the prospect of all those lovely euros they’ll be bringing with them.  Or maybe it’s just the fact that they are busy again after an austere winter.  Who am I trying to kid here?  It’s the wonga…

We’ve also been commissioned to write a piece on Ibiza for Times Online so we’ve been driving here there and everywhere doing our research and meeting loads of Ibiza’s finest movers and shakers in the process.  We were a little worried that everyone would be so busy they wouldn’t have time but every single person has been charm personified and bent over backwards to help.  There’s a couple who are, I suppose, the people who we are trying to emulate that deserve a special mention.  They were really helpful with the article and even though they are ultra busy at the minute hung around for a drink and asked us all about Los Fab and what were we doing.  A class act in all respects.

I’m still being a real gym rat too and am trying to get there 5-6 times a week.  The thing is I go through these periods and usually drive Mrs B mad in the process.  I’m such a bore though – I can’t help looking at other people shaking my head and saying “Aww look at them – they need to get to the gym and stop eating carbohydrates.”  as well as asking Mrs B if she has noticed me getting thinner – every two hours or so is about the norm. Mrs B has raised her eyebrows so much these past few weeks that she’s starting to resemble Ann Robinson after one of her face-lifts.  Saying that, it is working.  The buttons on my shirt are no longer lethal weapons and I took my top off on the beach the other day and no-one shouted “Thar she blows!” – although if someone did say that I’d shake my fist at them and call them a bounder.  Well I’d head-butt them probably, but calling them a bounder doesn’t make me sound like a nutter…

The Los Fabulosos flyer

I can’t wait any longer. Here is the Los Fabulosos flyer. It was designed by our close friend ‘The Guapa’ (which means good-looking in Spanish) and her talented boyfriend. I’m sure you’ll agree, it is bloody fantastic…

The disappearing blue arrows

Coming soon… THE LOS FABULOSOS FLYER AND POSTER.

Mr B and I took the afternoon off yesterday – difficulties with myspace were beginning to take their toll – and went for a coastal hike in Santa Agnes. The weather has been a bit overcast and so perfect walking weather. The hike took us really close to the cliff edge with some beautiful scenery.

There are quite a few hikes that you can do in Ibiza and they are marked out by blue arrows, which point the way, and this one was no different. However, sometimes there were too many blue arrows, especially when you were relying on just one because the path had split.

There were some hairy moments. At one point, after we’d followed the wrong blue arrow, I thought we were going to have to be rescued. We walked down a narrow, rocky path towards the shore that got increasingly more overgrown and then totally blocked off. Its quite worrying to look back up the cliff, see only rocks and pine trees and not have a clue how to get back up. I could picture the rescuers faces and knew exactly what they would say: “Daft English , not following the blue arrows”.

We survived and actually had a great time. Half-way round the hike there is a long-abandoned farmhouse (pictured here). The domed structure was once a bread oven. It was well and truly in the middle of nowhere and impressive at how it was built in the firstplace.

Then we had to walk through some giant reeds. I would have chickened out, but Mr B said he saw a blue arrow so we went for it. After this, on a clearly defined path, there were more blue arrows than you could count, but these soon dwindled to nowt and we took another wrong turn.

The last leg was the hardest because it was all uphill. But we made it back to the road, rather sweaty and looking forward to a canas (small beer). Well deserved, me thinks.

The Gremlin

We’ve only been in Santa Eulalia a fortnight and I’ve already made an enemy – The Gremlin. Yeah, he may look cute, but I had to take this photo from inside the safety of the car because this dog has got more bite than Freddie Mercury and Esther Ranson put together. Mr B said it was like being at Knowsley Safari Park.

The first time we came across The Gremlin we’d just left the gym and he was hanging around outside (obviously waiting for his next victim). Now, I’ve been quite taken by all the cute doggies in Ibiza and am always cooing over and stroking little pooches in the street. So, I suppose it was my fault for trying to treat this grumpy old git like the others. He took one look at my hand, which was about to give him a tickle, his eyes went wild and he tried to savage me. It was just like in the film when the Gremlins go bad after midnight.

Well, I leapt so high in the air a woman who was watching what was happening from across the road nearly fell off her chair because she was laughing so hard. It was funny, but we’ve been sworn enemies since. Actually, I’m pretty scared of him – I even saw a little puppy version and my heart started pounding.

I’m not the only one he tries to bite. It’s basically anyone who goes near him. Just before these photos were taken we pulled up in the car just in time to see him attack a woman who was walking past him. The worst thing is that I’ve seen him roaming around other parts of Santa Eulalia – he obviously rules the roost in this town and it aint big enough for both of us. Although, I wouldn’t put your money on me getting the better of him.

Party people

This is our new car! I don’t know how Mr B did it, but he managed to talk me into buying this mean machine. I’m not sure about the colour and I think it might be tricky to park, but any scratches I create will be covered up by the go-faster stripes.

Did I fool you? I’m not sorry, but Mr B is, to say that this isn’t our new car. I’m pleased to say that this one is…

That’s more like it. I don’t think it was what Mr B had in mind when he said he wanted a car that had a “huge lump of pig iron under the bonnet”, but it’s perfect for Ibiza Town’s tiny parking spaces.

Sadly this isn’t our new car either. We’ve still got the trusty Saxo.

These beauties are from the Santa Eulalia fiesta, where there were collections of classic cars and motorbikes for the gente mayor (old folks) and suped up cars that would have graced the pages of the boy racer bible Max Power, for the youngsters.

Talking about the gente mayor, they are a funny bunch and just as grumpy as their English counterparts. They are a tough crowd to please, as we witnessed when watching the local band “rocking” the fiesta. I don’t think any of them even cracked a smile.

Here’s the proof…

Apologies for the bad photography. I had to take these on the sly – you can even see one man giving me the evil eye.

The fiesta was pretty good, except we missed the dancing horses and a massive firework display that was to end the celebrations just didn’t happen – arguably the two most exciting bits. However, we did see a 1664 (a woman who looks 16 from behind, but 64 from the front) dancing to the band, totally monged out. I suppose some things in Ibiza don’t change. We were praying she wasn’t English.