So it turns out that hangovers, in one’s thirties, really don’t mess around.

For me, Sábado Veinticinco began with an almighty wailing and a fairly significant gnashing of teeth, as I woke up into a pretty sizable maelstrom of pain and self-wrought agony.

That being said, at least I had slept. Others, who shall remain nameless, filled to the brim with Ushuaïa-inspired excitement, had slept not a wink, and had instead chosen to stay up all through the night listening to a great medley of ‘tunes’ and generally ‘putting the world to rights’. They were still going, albeit quite slowly, once I arrived from my pit with a great thirst in my throat.

“Waart-ahh…” I croaked.

“Nothing doing, birthday boy, we’re all out.”

“Out of…waart-ahh?”

“Fraid so – precious little mixer left, neither.”

“Boll-aaaaahcks…”

I stumbled over to the sink and addressed the taps. The taps addressed me back, in a rather Chaucerian manner: “Fuck ye off, you mewling quim,” they seemed to cry.

“Blugheg?”

Now, readers, the water available from the foulmouthed taps one finds on the island of Ibiza is truly not fit for Anglo-Saxon consumption, it being drawn directly from a well of broken dreams and thrice-damned souls. This much had been stressed to us, at some length, before we arrived. Therefore, that we had somehow managed to rinse through our entire stash of bottled H2O in a day and a half was not the news I’d hoped for.

Placing my brain in cold storage, my hands began to do their own bidding. My shaking left reached out towards the faucet; my right, vibrating similarly, held an empty, tea-stained vessel beneath its cursing mouth: “Off with ye, thou half-cocked jester; off thou witless cun-wooooooshhh….” The cool, sparkling water poured forth into my mug. I lifted it to my lips. I paused. I prayed. I drank deep.

Suddenly my phone began to ring, startlingly me significantly and sending the aforementioned mug crashing, at some pace, into the kitchen’s ceiling, showering the place with damp, cheap china.

“Ye-yes…?” I stuttered down the line.

“Hello!” cried La Veterana, fresh off her flight and, of course, dropped off by her cab a good couple of caminos away from the correct avenue. “Help, I can’t find the villa!”

A brave and loyal soul, I wandered, with nary a moment’s hesitation, out into the fearsome sunlight of the mean-spirited day. I then made my stoical way towards La Veterana’s hollering, albeit very much at the pace of an aged snail with advanced osteoporosis.

“There you are! Happy birth- why are you so wet? And why are there bits of tea-cup in your hair?”

“At sink…drinking wa-…you scared…”

“You were drinking the tap-water?! Thomas, what did I expressly tell you not to do?”

“Drink…drink the tap-wartahh…I’m sorry La Veter…”

“Hahaha, not as sorry as you’ll feel a bit later!” she chuckled, a cruel, amused expression crossing her face. “Now come on, where’s this villa and that idiot boyfriend of mine? I called him three times to ask where the place was, can you believe that? He didn’t pick up once!”

I escorted her back to our glorious orange suntrap and ushered her through its mighty gates. Once inside this seasoned Ibiza campaigner gave the joint a quick appraisal: “This place is weird – I love it! Look at all the…Yelmar, what are you doing?!”

There was a Hibernian yelp and a loud crash, as a second mug of tap-water hit the ceiling (it was proving a poor morning to be a mug, in more ways than one).

“My love…”

“Er…yes, La Veterana?”

“Why are you drinking the tap-water?”

“I…I was really thirs…”

“Wait – why are all of you drinking the tap-water?!”

I looked out into the living room and through the glass doors to the beaten-down sofas and sun-drenched poolside. At least a half-dozen further party members were guiltily tucking quarter-full glasses, mugs and flagons of suspiciously clear liquid behind their backs.

“Oh, for the love of…right, we’ll need to get some food into all of you – what food’s in the fridge, Mansfield?”

“Er…nada?”

“Damn it, Thomas! Alright, we’re going to the shops.”

Grabbing the nearby Isla del Hombre and Plata by the earlobes – and stopping only to prove love eternally blind by planting one on Yelmar – La Veterana marched her unfortunate young charges out into the street and away, gone almost as swiftly as she arrived.

I sat down with a few of my fellow water-drinkers, feeling a little like some poor Tommy in the trenches, who’d been shot at by the Hun and missed by mere inches.

“Can any of yous feel your dragon toes?” I enquired, earnestly.

“Outside tiers should only hop around the apple trees when the roe deer have passed,” posited Z-Unidad, her eyes beginning to cross and uncross as she levitated slightly above the sofa cushions.

“Ah well that’s good,” I sighed, watching the paint begin to run off the walls in neat, tidy rivulets. “Glad it’s not just me then.”

*

The birthday breakfast of La Veterana truly came at the nick of time – though her decision to take two of the most guilty water-sippers of the group had certainly delayed her: Plata, as we well know, can be a liability at el supermercado at the best of times – and these were not, by any stretch, the best of times, my friends.

Ably assisted by El Pájaro – who refuses to drink anything other than high-calorie protein shakes and who, thusly, had dodged all the morning’s water-based dangers – La Veterana put out quite the mid-morning feast, and slowly but surely we all began to feel a little bit more normal.

A few hours later, eggs and chorizo deep in our bellies, a sustained and collective postprandial nap took hold of the entire villa – one which was only brought to an end by a polite, little ‘cough’, a little after half past two.

“Um…hello? The gate was open, so…”

It was La Arquitecta, the latest arrival to our now rather somnolent group. Eager for the Ibizan craic, she had clearly not expected to be greeted by the sight of eleven exclusively unconscious revellers, strewn around various sofas, sun-loungers and large inflatable birds. Thus she was now looking at us all, if not ‘askance’, then certainly with some concern.

“La Arquitecta!” El Águila and I rejoiced, dragging ourselves from the grip of Morpheus and bundling upon our old school chum with a clumsy bonhomie. “Why don’t you have a drink yet, my dear?”

“Why don’t we all have drinks yet?” demanded El Peor Novio del Mundo (PNM), who leapt from his siesta, instantly battle-ready, much like a noble Masai warrior (albeit a noble Masai warrior moonlighting as an inebriate Australian with a non-vocational PhD).

Suddenly the impromptu slumber party was transformed into an impromptu…er…’party’ party: on went the music and out came the beers; introductions were made and games were played and fun and companionship reigned quite supreme. La Arquitecta, charm personified, swiftly stole not one but several hearts (though this may or may not have been to do with the aforementioned consumption of tap-water) before taking impressive charge of the villa’s BBQ, marshalling her newfound troops with the casual authority of one who, in a previous life, had quite literally done this shit for a living.

Food was served just as another idyllic evening swung itself into gear. Impeccably cooked, it was washed down with liberal quantities of rosé (or, when consumed by men as ruggedly masculine as El Pájaro or my good self, ‘bro-sé’). For a most pleasant hour or so, some element of civilisation descended upon our sprawling orange abode, and a little corner of a foreign land was turned forever England. The Spanish lark was on the wing, the Ibizan snail was on the Mediterranean thorn; Dios was in His cielo, and all was right with the world.

It could never last.

“How da actual fuq have I lost again?!” I wailed, as Yelmar and PNM pinned down my arms and Un Mono Ártico Gay (MAG) poured another wretched concoction from the central vessel down my sorry oesophagus.

“Sux to suck, keeeiinnnt,” suggested PNM.

“Hahaha, exactly Tommy! Plus, it’s your birthday, so of course you’re losing!” laughed La Mejor Novia del Mundo (MNM).

It was at that moment that I knew I was toast – when MNM is in agreement with her beloved PNM (a rare enough occurrence, truth be told) then there really is no arguing.

“But…but I’m old…” I spluttered.

“Another round!” demanded La Arquitecta, looking for all the world like a lass making up for lost time.

“Yeah…yes, yes…another…another round…” agreed Z-Unidad, stroking La Arquitecta’s hair, her face rapt with concentration. “You know, you really do have the most wonderful…um…hair…”

“Thank you!”

“Er…my hair’s pretty great too, eh Z?” noted MAG, a Welsh eyebrow now raised sky-high.

“Quiet now, Mono – deal out another round, would you?”

“What have we here, then?” bellowed a rich, Scottish brogue, prompting happy cheers from the Essex contingent: La Gata & El Escocés, our final party members, had arrived.

At this point it was imperative that two things occurred: Firstly, that La Gata, friend of my youth, and El Escocés, pride of posh Glasgow, at least attempted to catch up with the drinking peloton; secondly that I thanked each and every one of my good pals for making the trip out and for coming so far to celebrate the birthday of a Mansfield so wretched.

I therefore passed a full bottle of gin to the newcomers and leapt up upon a nearby chair, missing it comfortably and crashing down onto the unyielding ground. Getting up gingerly, I attempted to mount the chair a second time and, with some kind assistance from La Gata, made it up unsteadily.

Now, I cannot actually remember what I said during my birthday speech, but witnesses have described it as some kind of twenty-first century Gettysburg Address, only with a few more gags and a good deal more belching. It was, in short, hot stuff.

Faced with such peerless oratory, heartfelt and true, was it a surprise that there was hardly a dry eye in the villa by the final time I raised my glass and dedicated the whole voyage to the memory of Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou? No, dear readers, no it was not. My friends are all human, after all – even Yelmar, despite him having the torso of a malnourished elephant seal – and no human soul could hear such sweetness without the lower lip giving the occasional wobble.

As I stepped down to rapturous applause, the clock struck 1am. Final, high-proof drinks were downed and ridiculous, colourful outfits were donned. It was finally time for our night to begin in earnest. A night, my friends, named ‘Elrow’.

*

I should preface my forthcoming description of Saturday night at Amnesia with the following simple statement: Elrow is, bar none, the single greatest club night I have ever been to in my life.

While the following account focuses more on somewhat juvenile subject matter, such as vomit in bags, enormous erections and semi-fictional hallucinations, let it be known, on the record and for posterity, that it is an absolute banger from soup to nuts: practically flawless music, and a decor and attention to detail which has to be seen to be believed. It is, for my money, the one indispensable Ibiza experience, should you ever be lucky enough to weekend there.

Fabulous, now that that has been made quite clear, back to the usual Mansfield nonsense.

“Mate, look what the water’s done!”

We were deep in the throng of Amnesia’s most psychedelic room, a high-ceilinged, bustling affair covered all over in wonderful, swirling and luminous painted shapes. Huge streamer and glitter cannons exploded all around us, and the music boomed out loud and wonderful. The tap-water, dormant until now, had seemingly been reactivated by the sensory overload, and all of us who had partaken that morning were starting to see it ‘quite exceptionally big’.

Also ‘quite exceptionally big’ was the absolutely raging panhandle that the fellow was rocking beneath his shorts. To lend further credence to his claim, he grabbed my hand and planted it upon it.

“See?! It’s been like this for hours!”

“Bloody hell, old mate – you could poke holes in a cheap door with that!”

“I tell yer, it’s that tap-water from the villa, it must be!”

“Hmm, not so sure – I drunk a good mug-full earlier and the Mansfield piece has vanished like an insect in December. Er…any chance I could have my hand back, laddie?”

Fortunately, this biological reaction was not shared by all of us who had oh-so-foolishly drunk from the Ibizan well. Other reactions were at play: Z-Unidad – sporting one of my Primani monstrosities and looking far, far better in it than I did in my own lemon-strewn ensemble – was wandering around in something of a waterborne daze, reading people’s minds with uncanny accuracy; MAG and PNM were summoning beat-drops and streamer explosions at will, conjuring forth the glitter with the power of their spirit; and El Águila…well, El Águila…

“Did you know, Tommy, did you know that me and El Águila got up to the VIP area? It’s crazy up there, mate, and we were there for aaages – you wouldn’t believe what it’s like there!”

“I thought you didn’t drink the tap-water, El Pájaro?”

“Nah, just a protein shake or two in the morning, then vodka and rosé-”

“Bro-sé.”

“…then vodka and bro-sé all day.”

“Then why, bud, have you told me on seventeen separate occasions that you and El Águila went to the sodding VIP area?”

“Ah mate, but you wouldn’t believe what they’ve got up there in VIP…”

“Say VIP one more time and I will slay you.”

“…”

“So help me, my avian friend, I will murder you where you stan…”

“The thing that’s so great about the Vee Eye Pee section is…”

I lunged at the lad, missed him by at least two yards (I blame the tap-water) and suddenly apparated out into the club courtyard – a place to which, to my knowledge, I had never before been. “Where on earth… Hey, Yelmar! La Veterana, over here!”

I stumbled over to a large, knotted tree, beneath which sat this pair of fine friends – neither of whom looked particularly healthy.

“Yelmar would you please button up that crazy-ass shirt of yours?”

“Look Tom, the shorts match the shirt, do you see?!”

“Indeed they do. What’s wrong with you, La Veterana?”

“Blurg.”

“She’s been sick in my bag.”

“Because you won’t do up your shirt?”

“No…‘cause she tried the tap-water.”

La Veterana burst out laughing and started to float towards the lowermost branches of the tree, only to be hauled back in by her partner in crime.

“I thought it was a gin and tonic!” she explained, giggling happily. “Can’t even practice…can’t even practice what I preeeeach!”

“We should go dance again,” proclaimed Yelmar, leaping up to his full and not inconsiderable height. “Dancing, dancing, dancing! It’s time to dance.”

“Er…you gonna bring in that big ol’ bag of sick with you, old sport?”

“Yup, it’s my bag and it’s her sick. Can’t stay out here.”

“But that’s passing vile, pal.”

“Not to me – I love her, so I love her sick!”

And in the face of loved-up logic like that, my friends, what can any man say? ‘Sling your sicky hooks and fuck off’, perhaps? No…no, my friends, not this time, not there, in that place – I was far, far too touched by it all.

Gradually, but with a bittersweet inevitability, as the music built itself up to a fevered crescendo, this wonderful, magical night began to wind itself down: One by one the couples and the lovers left us, with full hearts and fuller bags of vomit. Then the single folk begun to break away, wandering the half-mile or so back to the villa and towards some well-earned rest. Morning broke, as it often does, but suffice to say that those of us who remained deep inside that luminous room scarcely noticed – dancing and swaying and smiling into the new day as we were. Come seven-thirty or so, when the Elrow staff came around with platters of morning melon and polite eviction notices, it was only a brave quartet – MAG, Z-Unidad, El Águila & myself – who still stood tall, eager to eke out every last iota of Amnesia from an ironically unforgettable night.

“Well that was just great!” announced El Águila, pointing out the pleasantly obvious like only the truly eagle-eyed could. “What should we do now?”

“Back home, I guess,” offered MAG, throwing his arms over our shoulders and steering us in the approximate direction of the villa. “I could use a bite to eat.”

“Yeah, and I’m thirsty,” added Z-Unidad. “I’m glad we decided that the water’s fine to drink here, I’m going to have a barrel-full!”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “It just goes to show, that when it comes to Ibiza and its tap-water, you really can’t believe a word you read…”

Arm in arm, the four of us strode past the snaking, infinite taxi queue and down along the deserted highway, the sun rising proud behind us, our feet scarcely touching the ground.