42 steps to the end of civil liberties…..

I could say a million words or ten, but today’s been a day when the government has achieved the slightest and most humiliating of ‘victories’ to extend the detention time of a suspect without charge to 42 days. 42…. not 41, 44, 65, 33, just 42. As if plucked from nowhere, for no reason, other than it’s longer than 28, and it’s something on which they can, after bullying, exhaustive use of the whips, and the recruitment of the Ulster Unionists to prevent a calamitous defeat.

For what though? Certainly, the laws and caveats that revolve around the current 28 days are far from perfect, in fact they’re in need of an overhaul, but not one that pushes the ability of the security services to detain any individual for up to 42 days, simply on the suspicion of terrorist activity. Suspicion. It could be you and me, for downloading something about Al Qaeda, for information. That puts you in the sights.

And the flowery, pithy concessions that rescued it have made it a lame duck. The Lords will most likely reject it, barring a delay of huge proportions that takes the fire and the vitriol from the upper chamber. But it’s the symbolism, that both Brown will use to boost his non-existent credentials, but more so that we are willing to  tear up the Magna Carta, a document written in 1215, in order to supposedly further protect this country from the threat of terror, a threat which their own lies, deception and paranoia has bred, that has taken us to an unjust war, and that will further erode the rights of the individual for the rights of the state.

It’s a sad day to be British.

Euro? Finally, a tournament without the pain

While I’m sure it’d be nice to think if (yes, if) we’d qualified this time round (we didn’t deserve it, take the blinkers off) then we’d have been in Vienna, lifting the trophy, in fact, it’s actually a relief, finally realising that I can settle down, occassionally watching a match or two, safe in the knowledge there’ll be no pain, no hurt, no wailing and gnashing of teeth, while 16 other teams and their fans go through the mill for the next 3 weeks. 

I for one, won’t be missing standing in a pub in a couple of weeks with the same mates, with hopes unfairly raised, just to watch our team of plucky but useless ‘lads’ go out on penalties for the 4th tournament in a row. In fact, I’m going to enjoy watching it for once, knowing I don’t have to really have any affiliation. 

Though, of course, I’ll be supporting Spain. Vamos! 

Ibecinco Paradise

Now while I’m well aware of the sort of tired and oft-repeated views on the White Island, nestled in the Balearics, and how it’s ‘over’ (every year since about 1996) or it’s gone cheesy (probably earlier than that) or that it’s now a hangout for the rich and famous (you can blame Jade fucking Jagger for that) it’s still one of the most incredible, cosmopolitan, unique, beautiful, rich, welcoming and varied places you can ever go on this earth.

Of course, there’s still morons that believe that Ibiza Uncovered, despite being on almost a decade ago, is how things are. There’s still pissed up Brits, but there are pissed up Brits in Outer Mongolia. Hardly world news. And yes, it’s ‘over’, killed by (depending on who you listen to) the first influx of e’ed-up tourists in the late 80s (mid 40s Brit or occasional local), the superclubs (mid 90s), minimal techno (2005) or clubbers in general (the police, over the last two summers). But then if that’s what you want to believe, then so be it. Leave the place, muttering under your breath, and don’t come back. 

The truth is, it’s still just as good as it was, it’s usually the people that go that don’t change, and they want the same experience they had their first year (the drugs aren’t working anymore, are they?) and when they don’t get it, they get the hump, and they head home. Well, the beauty of the place, as I’ve discovered in the last 9 years (and yes, I’m no doubt going to be accused of being a total newbie by some of the island furniture out there, or friends that have been heading out since the early 90s) is that the attraction of the place is its enduring ability to change, subtly adjusting to the people, the music, the fashions, that hit every year in May, and depart every year in October. But you see, there’s another side to the island, and that’s the winter, when it returns to the tranquil, serene paradise that it was long before Grace Jones first got her rocks off in Amnesia in the mid 80s, or Wham hit Pikes in their pilot outfits and a mini-moke. 

For those that stagger out for 7 days every summer, holed up in a San An or Playa D’en Bossa bolthole with no air-con, stumbling from one sangria and line to nightclub and bar, you could argue they’re missing the point. But that’s then making yourselves as bad as the snobs that complain that pop music is ruining the Indie scene, when its very cash is paying for their label to stay afloat. The die-hard clubbers and 18-30ers are part of the equation, and while they are (in contradiction to a hundred lazy articles in the Uk press every year) only part of the total (the most popular location for Brits, for instance is, as it has been for long before Ku and Amnesia opened, St Eularia, from the days of the package tours in the 60s) they’re just as relevant as anyone. 

But if anything good will come of those visits, it’s the decision to get outside the twinned habitations of San Antonio and Ibiza Town. While San An is slowly transforming itself from the flea-ridden hole it was a decade ago, and Ibiza Town is much more than simply a repository for Pacha, it’s outside the towns that the island comes alive. Whether it’s the beauty of Sa Caleta, the windswept character of Portinax, St Gertrudis’ wonderful square and cafes, Cala Jondal’s shingle and the wonderful Blue Marlin, or Cala D’Hort’s sunset views, and a million other places, tucked away from the bustling bars and throng of turistas, it’s the sheer character of the island, and the inclusivity of its inhabitants, that makes you realise that the Ibecincos are part of the enigma that makes the Island harder and harder to leave every year. 

As an Englishman, and even more so, a Londoner, I should despise such quiet, such easy pace of live, even in the summer season, but the truth is, it’s the only place I feel at home apart from this wonderful capital. Even from trying to put it into words, there’s something indefinable, something that makes me simply smile from the moment I get off the plane, to the moment I depart, when a drooping frown comes across my mouth, and I struggle to force myself back onto the plane home. Don’t get me wrong, the clubs are simply incredible. The music, the atmosphere, the attitude to hedonism (and the admirable tolerance of the locals and police alike, despite how much clubbers like to complain the island is being squeezed dry) is unsurpassed in my experience, and while the music has changed (and with it my taste) and the list of places I’ll go now diminished, standing in the middle of the dancefloor when its crowd rises as one on the terrace Circo Loco at DC10 or the main room of Cocoon at Amnesia still sends tingles down my spine, it’s what brought me to the island in the first place, back in 2000. 

But year after year, the more I return, and the more I know about the place, learnt of locals, off lucky lucky friends I have living out there as home (the envy is just surpassed by being kept in touch with what happens in the never-dull daily mix of politics, music, gossip and sunshine), the more the place grows and the more I wish, in my daydreams, that I could up sticks and simply live there in a perpetual state of paradise. 

Sitting watching the rain today, it only makes the idea more appealing. Bloody credit crunch, if I’d just sol my flat last year……