Yesterday I became the first person to get kicked out of Pacha before it even opened. Thanks to the wonders of organization of Subliminal records, they'd left a load of their promotional bits and pieces at Pacha (all the stuff that hangs from the ceiling and some big illuminated posters and stuff), and they'd only told Ben about it after they all left the island. This of course meant that yours truly had to go make all the packages ready to get picked up by the couriers. Don't ask me why this duty fell on me, I'm not entirely sure. I was actually probably the worst person to send down to Pacha, since I speak about three whole entire words in the Spanish language when required. I didn't feel too bad about it though, since my partner in crime for this task was to be Donald, who most people can't understand when he speaks English, never mind Spanish.
After waking up early, after stressing that we'd never be able to get everything done that we needed to before the courier came, I waited for Donald to come round. 15 Burn energy drinks later, and I'd heard nothing from Donald. Since Pacha closes for siesta at 1pm, we had to get there pretty early, so I grabbed the huge inflatable Subliminal logo that had been lamenting in a corner of Ben's house, and ran across the road to Donald's. Donald answered the door to the sound of "What te fuck a yoo daain here ya maad bastard Fus? Oh shat! Ah forgo we got tae go tae Pacha! FACK!". Turns out it was a case of the usual "phone running out of battery when you've set an alarm to make sure you're gonna wake up the next day to do something important" deal going on there.
After a scary-ass scooter ride with the huge inflatable subliminal thing hanging off the sides of the bike, we arrived at Pacha, and used my skills of mime artistry to converse with the Spanish guys that we needed to find 3 big boxes that belonged to Erick Morillo. This actually proved harder than you might think, as the mime word for box can be easily misinterpreted. Eventually we found them, soaking wet from the previous day's downpour in the workshop area of Pacha. The ceiling hangings were fine, as they were already in their own flight bags, however, the 2 illuminated posters that needed to be sent were huge, and weighed an absolute tonne. Donald went off to the post office, whilst I looked for the address labels so that the couriers knew where the packages were going. I looked all through the office where Ben said they would be, and more deft mimery to the Spanish, I found out that Simone, who was supposed to be the guy sorting out the labels for us was of course off today. I ended up being passed from Spaniard to Spaniard around pretty much all of the day workers at Pacha, until eventually someone took me to see the only English speaking person at the place: Mr Pacha himself, Ricardo Urgell. It was a shame that my first meeting with the owner of Pacha was in an apologetic begging capacity, but desperate times and all that. Ricardo actually turned out to be really nice, and had a look through all the paperwork in the office for me, but still to no avail. Mission non-accomplished. A couple of minutes later, Donald arrived back from the post office with similar disappointing news: A box the size of the poster things we needed to send simply is not available to purchase in Ibiza. Spanish people clearly only ever have to send very small things through the postal service. As we were deciding what the plan of action should be, and trying to get in touch with Ben to see what we could do, a grumpy little Spanish guy came up to us and asked us what we were doing. We tried as best we could to explain that even though we were from Scotland and Yorkshire, respectively, we were not there to steal everything from Pacha, but were there in fact in a 'Erick Morillo's bitch's bitch's bitches' capacity. Of course our hopeless attempts at Spanish only seemed to make matters worse, and he told us in no uncertain terms to politely fuck off.
There was only so much we could do about the situation without being in Pacha, so we decided to call it a day and go home. If Morillo was that desperate for his bits of flashing polystyrene, he could fly over in his private jet himself and pick them up.
Of course as soon as soon as I got home I started getting the phone calls from Ben: "What happened? They kicked you out?? Why???!". Of course in retrospect, the whole situation seemed a bit silly to me, but I could tell Ben was shitting a brick on the other side of the world. After Ben had gone on about packing tape for about 5 years (I'm not sure why, it's not like there's a shortage), I eventually agreed that I would go back to Pacha after siesta, but only if I could find someone that spoke Spanish to go with me to explain that I wasn't here to steal everything. After printing the addresses that we needed out at Linda's, I eventually managed to wake Kiki up, and persuade her that I would probably die a really horrible death at the hands of Ben if She didn't come with me to Pacha. One Spanish explanation later, and the labels were on the packages. We decided that there was no way we could really send the poster things without a box, and the Spanish seemed reluctant to give us any more bubble wrap after I'd popped most of it. Another 50 phone calls from Ben eventually persuaded us that we had to somehow do something with those as well though. I think Kiki obviously pointed her nipples of persuasion at a couple of the Spanish though, because a few minutes later they seemed happy to give us as much bubble-wrap as we wanted. All men are powerless against Kiki's nipples of persuasion. We got about 60ft of bubble-wrap and rolled the poster things up in it, and just covered the whole ugly thing in packing tape to hold it all together. Just then we get a phone call from Ben: "Oh don't worry about all this, nobody told the courier to pick the stuff up, so they won't be coming till next week now."
And so became the longest, most rambling, most pointless blog post in history.