Up before dawn to watch the sunrise over the sea. We hit the beach, where I impressed the old biddies with my planking and press-up exercises.
This guy was STEAMING and had a huge audience. After I'd finished filming, a rectangular light glowed from his shorts pocket. A collective cringe crept out of the crowd as he fumbled at his phone, panicked, the tide still pushing at the back of his knees. He seemed to fix it, though, and held his phone up like a trophy, happy as anything.
I still think he was in for a facepalm when he sobered up, though.
Met a group of skinny dippers from Cleveland Ohio, who were pretty gutted to find out that their home town was now synonymous with Ariel Castro no matter where they went in the world. They were also pretty sure that Castro himself was murdered and his suicide faked.
This girl told me I looked like Jake Gyllenhaal. No complaints!
Met a couple of blokes from Preston who were dragging an incredibly drunk Spanish girl around with them.
They'd apparently found her after noticing a taxi pull up on the street. The other passengers, another group of British lads, had flung her out and the Yorkshire contingent had picked her up. They were trying to palm her off to me, but- standards aside- I had to ditch her with them. We had plans to get to the bay to rent a pedalo. Besides, it was only me and a couple of the girls in our group who'd got our asses out of bed in time. I couldn't exactly leave them.
AN texted me while I was out there. “Enjoy sharing a pedalo with two women mate- it's practically a threesome!”
“It is mate,” I replied. “One's lying on her back and I'm doing all the hard work!”
We took a stroll through Ibiza town, first stopping off at the shamelessly titled “Hippy market”.
We walked up to the castle at the top of the hill, through the old streets to the battlements. On the way up a vicious rabid Doberman attacked me.
After sundown- and after a few drinks and a line of coke- we hit San Antonio. I had a date with some elastic.
One of the things I particularly wanted to do in Ibiza was to be launched 72 metres into the air at 160km/ph. Here's me on the slingshot.
My heart nearly burst out of my fucking chest. But I loved it.
Later that night half the group went to see The Foals, an indie band that I'd never heard of. I stayed in but when they returned it seems their night had been more than a concert- that there'd been a range of music played afterwards. Part of me wished I'd gone and given it a shot.
Three of us had been up 22 hours by this point. As far as I was concerned, my bed was calling.