The Olympic spirit may be dead in Ibiza, but at least the hookers are world-class

Ibiza

This island is the Spanish equivalent of  the Greek sex rock of Mykonos, except its waters are murkier, its nightclubs and restaurants far more expensive. But its hookers are first-class and not to be compared to anything selling itself in Greece. Why that is so, I don’t know, but Greece gets the dregs where the world’s oldest profession is concerned, whereas Ibiza and Spain reign supreme. No, I did not indulge, but I invited a few girls to come on board for a drink very late at night and once they were done with their libations they offered sex.

Now sex is a hard subject to deal with in print. I haven’t ever gone into detail about it — it’s simply not my way — and I plan to keep it that way. Perhaps if I had the comic talent of Jeremy Clarke, who recently wrote 900 words about how he held back a mob of Spaniards trying to burst into a public lavatory where his girl was chopping up coke while he was servicing her, then maybe. But my style is more suited to fulminating against social wrongs and crap such as PC, so sex remains unmentionable. Which doesn’t mean that a young Spanish hooker who stripped to the waist and offered me a condom to help me make up my mind wasn’t a real beauty. The trouble was that day was just breaking, both Michael Mailer and I were dead drunk, the crew was casting anxious glances as the girls were freely circulating in and out of cabins, and the big race was about to start. So sex took a back seat for once, and off we went with high hopes for victory as during the practices my boat had been the fastest by far.

Well, you’re not going to read about the race, at least not from this scribe, the reason being that the ancient Olympic spirit is somehow absent — dead in the water, in fact.