We've just burst through the August bubble which had us slammed arse-first into the swarming, crawling pits of peak season. What an absolute relief it is to flip forward the calendar, land at September and feel that the sight of August claiming its victims like a freshly defrosted Wesley Snipes out of Demolition Man is already a distant memory. No longer are we regularly sheltering agoraphobics who can't face the prospect of stepping over our doormats to enter the mass club spill zones where meltdowns are rife.
The last four weeks of the season are staring us in the face. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Excellent clubbing moments are to be smashed, however, the vast range of undesirable characters who've been decorating the dance floor and mentally punctured with harrowing violence long before September's final push are still to be found. Their presence might no longer be hyper-highlighted as it was in August, but that doesn't mean they don't risk testing our temper.
We can guarantee that you've seen, felt and smelt the existence of most of these irritating, irksome bozos, and with another week or so to go before we crack into the mad rush brought on by the closings, here's our guide on detection and deflection.
PERSONAL SPACE SQUATTERS
Oi, you with the freestyle ponytail, my pensioner cat has dry-retched more fur balls. The back of your head looks like the arse end of a horse and in this darkened chamber of rampant human expulsion, you're not smelling or tasting what I'd imagine to be much better. I'm packing more muscle from merely inhaling your protein-packed keratin hair treatment, and I'd bargained on leaving here with the frail, emaciated sack of skin that proves I've been shat out a six month Ibiza season. So, you've got hair spin Hesmina to your left and over to your right you've Doc Martin deadweight effecting the beginning of ingrown toenails. When it's peak time in 5,000 capacity clubs, misplaced feet just happen, and at this point it makes sense to give a nod to the punters at the other end of the scale, the ones who are ridiculously affronted over one minor misstep and the fanny who's asking for it in the toe exposing sandals. At the best of times, we can't be held solely accountable for our own movements, as quite often you're on those puppet strings like a narcotics special of Punch and Judy. Stumbles are cool as the length of our feet haven't been minimised under the ancient Chinese practice of foot-binding, but after the ninth time you've held residency on my trotters, it's time to blow. We'd all like to be letting loose and exploring areas out with our hip-width confines, but guess what? You can't. What begins as a warning look of sheer disdain might develop into a nudge of redirection - you've just got to spell it out and get them told.
EAR MUNCHERS
“Do you have Instagram?” Seriously, you what mate? That's an honest to god question that's left the lips of a misguided clubber confused on what constitutes as tolerable conversation in the heat of the moment. Indulge me in a match of Would You Rather but you need an insta-gram of introspection if you think I can be arsed telling you what social media platforms I'm currently available on. Identifying someone's country of birth is fine, but delving into your temporary neighbour's upbringing needn't go any further than that because really, who cares? At this point does it matter if I was home-schooled or bible-bashed in my youth? All you need to know are the details of my current state of elated mind. Redirect conversation or simply bend your head back with an impenetrable expression of euphoria and that usually acts as full stop, if not an exclamation mark to shut it and let the music talk.
BLANK FACE BERNARDS
A large majority of us would rather look at a muddle of mangled faces that look like they could hold a bagful of rice grains than those incapable of expressing any form of emotion. To clarify, in the line of fire here aren't the aggressively enthusiastic punters who spilled one too many rocks into their beverage and bypassed the ability to express anything other than “I'm deep-fried.” No, this is addressed to the listless, spiritless oxygen thieves who can't comprehend that merely looking at their languid faces is a dance floor disease. You've probably paid a healthy packet to be there, but if your brain can no longer decipher pleasure and connect your neurones so it reaches your face, it's taxi time. We've all no doubt felt it and dragged our early morning lifespan on for longer than necessary just in case one track is capable of jump starting joy. However, if the clock has struck 5.30 AM and you're now wearing a face like a smacked arse, you won't be recovering in time to see 7 AM with a smile. A captain blank face can crop up anywhere - even in front of the booth where pleasure should be deadly – and it's best to avoid eye contact as if pupil penetration is capable of dragging you down to their level. You could also try tackling them face on by matching their blankness to see if mirrored vacancy shocks them into action.
FAG SWINGING SANDRAS
Aye, that's my face. This rant isn't to don the cigarette police cap - it's public knowledge that you aren´t meant to be puffing on the smoke stick indoors - but sometimes lighting the nicotine supply just as an outrageously good tune comes on is a natural instinct for a subtle buzz. A 495-degree Fahrenheit tip isn't what I need diving in for a wound, so keep your sausage fingers in control of the fire, por favor.
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TOUCHY-FEELY FLESH FIENDS
There are various levels of extremeness on body invasion here, but the most widespread creepy bastard is the one who thinks the sensitive spot of a woman's back is a free-for-all. Get your moistened fingers away from that erogenous zone, unless the wandering eye communicates that my whispering eye is fluttering for you specifically, and that generally doesn't happen in any less than 60 seconds. Repeated lower back petting is on the tame end of the scale compared to the undisciplined hands of some brass neck clowns, although the only reciprocated contact both specimens should be getting is with the heel of your boot.
ILL-PREPARED DANCEFLOOR SCABS
The odd cigarette is all good - as is occasionally sharing water with a punter who's on the verge of severe dehydration - we're all arse-whipped by bar costs, after all. However, what's not acceptable is those under the misguided impression that your clubbing goods are also theirs. No, they're not mate. The fingers come in like a sketch out of Salad Fingers, with their creepy crawler tentacles and hopeful eyeballs trying to communicate more than once “is this cool?” And again, no, it's really not mate. We're all in this together to a certain point, but if you're badly prepared to see yourselves through from 12 AM to the crack of dawn, consider that your problem, Mr or Mrs Empty Pockets. Also, the manner in which you broach the question is vitally important. Feigning temporary bewilderment with an “aw, what's that?” will achieve a horizontal thumb pointing to the direction of beat it ya scamp. You know full well what's likely to be in here, so get yourself a new trick, Harry Houdini. You've got to be cheeky back, simple as that, because you'll be raging if your endurance is later threatened due to over-generosity.
MOBILE PHONE MUPPETS
Remember that time when people used to go out with the folks they went with, the others they found in there, and that was it? Peter, Sally, Sandra-Dee and Melinda were… well who cares, they're not here. You can't telepathically channel how good it is to someone who's standing outside the walls of the club as accurately as you're feeling it right now. Updating your social media to suck in the likes is going to matter to your audience for all of 30 seconds, and then POOF, they're onto some other wedding or baby-related update. Imagine how much better it could be if you were 100% present and detached from your mobile. Sure, let's take a second to say that sometimes there are specific moments - especially in a clubbing destination as special as Ibiza - that just can't be left to become distant matter; maybe a special song or an unbelievable remix. Ushuaïa's firework pumpage looks pretty cool, we must admit, but guess what, they've got cameramen and videographers to scoop up the audio-visual immenseness. Having your phone in front of a pair of eyes that were born with excellent HD vision is a total distraction, and your mobile gadget is a cold, heartless piece of machinery – unlike most human beings who are capable of feeling all sorts of good stuff. Green Velvet might have once said “cameras ready, prepare to flash,” but I say “cameras off, prepare to dance.” If you spot one, hug them and slobber their faces in elevated elation until they've no choice but to wholeheartedly reciprocate and forget about taking 20 videos.
BABIED WASTEMEN
Your mate's been an absolute howler all night. They've been arse over tit inebriated, and then at around 7.10 AM, they're out the coma and think the night's been a topper for all involved. Nightmare. At this point, you're wishing they could be plugged back into a temporary vegetable state so you don't implode with rage at the fact that - as their carer - it's been a mountain of mangled mince. An average crew can normally be typecast - there's always the one who's completely immune to blackouts, and then you've got blackout Bronson, who seems incapable of escaping their own dark depths. Blackout Bronson is cool because they've zero awareness of how stinkingly wasted they were, but the group´s nurse has lost a last portion of pleasure down to big Bronson. If you own one of these mates, make sure they´re well-fed, well-watered and the drinks are steadily paced – do not let them scurry off. If Blackout Bronson is also the joker of the group and slightly endearing, they'll get away with it on more than one occasion, but it's unlikely the crew is in Ibiza every weekend to make up for precious moments lost, so get a leash on them.
HECKLER HEADS
“Oi, DJ Alfredo, stick 'French Kiss' on…ALFREDO…ALFR...” Oi you, ya menace, get your face in the bin with your rude heckling or the only kiss you'll be getting is Glasgow's infamous headbutt version. Do you reckon the likes of DJ Alfredo - a DJ who's considered a genuine legend on the decks - gives a toss if you'd rather hear a different tune to the one that's currently doing the good sort of damage? Nah, GTF. There's a reason he's been sifting through his bank of records and making the selections for 30-odd years and you've been sat making YouTube playlists for you and 10 mates. Show the men and women up there some love, shout “YES” and the like, but don't wave your arms about like a conductor on crack to communicate what YOU want and shake your head like you're the most important person in there. If you've got nothing positive to shout, rewind yourself back out the club ya dafty.
THE NO DESTINATION DIVERS
Every single last one of us needs to follow the pattern of entering the club and choosing a position that suits our needs. It's completely cool that you may need the toilet, a fag or simply want to get an angle on what it's like up the top left - it's a thriving club and we are allowed to change our minds. But sometimes you get those nights when you feel like you're bang in the middle of a meteor shower - where the f$&K is everyone trying to get to? Human snakes everywhere, slithering into my pit of disdain for indecision. At times, I think to myself, I'm gonna follow that snake like king of the conga line, then I snap back and realise there's absolutely no point. As much as possible - pick a position, stand and dance. BOOM, clubbing science. Final mention goes to those humans who have zero regard for how aggressively pushing through a crowd affects everyone else. In my sweetest fantasies, I imagine that the club is a monster-sized claw machine and plucking out inconsiderate idiots is the prize, but in reality, just push them back.
WORDS | Ranting Raver PHOTOS | James Chapman