Back in the day, when I only had 6 (Yes I counted them, I bet you did/will too) grey hairs and before I made the now obligatory grunt as I clamber out of bed/ a chair/ the car, I was a Rep in Ibiza.
There is a popular misconception that "Holiday Rep" is short for "Holiday Reprobate" and in some cases, from my own experiences, this is very true.
However, I feel I have earned the right as someone who has "been there, done that" as well as seen every "Essex Boyz On Tour" 'Comedy T-shirt' to shine the torch of explanation into the murky darkness of wonderment.
I can honestly say that before I started life as a holiday representative, I thought I knew what hard work was. Silly me. Let me furnish your good selves with an example.
On Friday at 9am, I would start work, and on Sunday at 8pm I would finish. Now obviously I didn't work every waking hour of Friday, Saturday and Sunday. That'd be both foolish and illegal.
Out of the first 24 hours (The day I used to call 'Friday' before days and nights became a mush of irrelevance), I was working for 21hours. Out of the next 24 hours that holidaymakers call "Saturday", I was working for 18 hours. And to top off my weekend, I'd finish with an 'easy' 12 hour stint.
Adopting my best Lloyd Grossman accent, "Let's look at the Evidence.."
From a total of 60 Earth hours, by which we all abide, I was working for 51 hours. And that was just from 3 days. Reps only get 1 day a week off, and although the other 3 days of my week were mere 10 hour days, that still adds up to an average of around an 80 hour week. Assuming there were no flight delays. And as we all know, there are ALWAYS delays.
Some workaholics reading this might scoff at me complaining about a mere 80-hour week, but then the coup-de-grasse is the wage. Appropriately named 'basic wage' of a hefty £70 per week, or 88p an hour, are not exactly footballers wages.
If you multiply the average working week over a 7 month long Summer Season, I was probably working for a total of about 6 1/2 months. I slept every other Monday.

And it is in spite of this that I still have great fondness for the Island that still has areas that even I haven't seen yet, notwithstanding the fact that since leaving the island in November 2003, I've been back on 5 separate occasions. If all the White Isle had to offer was San Antonio and 24 Hour parties, I probably would have left after my first week.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of partying - I can party with the best of them.
(There was, on more occasions than I dare remember, times when I would go out on a Tuesday and wake up on a Thursday. Sometimes I'd still have both my own shoes in the morning. Sometimes I'd have a combination of other people's footwear. On one instance I woke up on a boat that was making its way to Formentera).
It's just that when I'm abroad, I like to try and integrate as much as possible with the locals. This doesn't involve wearing union jack shorts cleverly teamed with a checked Ben Sherman shirt and ankle-boots. Whilst I'm on this subject, can I ask who wears shorts with shoes? And WHY?! It always seems to be people who shouldn't have been allowed to leave school until they'd learnt how to tie their laces properly. Instead they improvise by tucking the loose bits down the side of the shoes, allowing the swagger between British Pub and British All Day Breakfast Café to be punctuated by an annoying scrape of heel on pavement. What is the point in going to the trouble of booking a foreign holiday if you're not going to do anything foreign whilst you are there?

In Ibiza, on a Sunday afternoon, there is only one place to go. That place is Space. (The club, not the outer atmosphere) Space is a club that is open during the daytime, because partying at night is just, like, *So* passé darling.
Whilst we used contacts from previous visits to secure ourselves a place on the guest-list, others have to pay the princely sum of €30 to enter, and then the drinks will set you back a small fortune - I paid €12 for a Vodka and redbull, and even when I went all tight-fisted and switched to water, I was still robbed blind by €8 for a 300ml plastic bottle, the same bottle that costs 35cents in the shops opposite the club. It's little wonder Space bosses can afford to pay their resident DJ's anything up to €10,000 for a 4 hour set!
Opening at 8am and staying open until 6am Monday morning, Space has often been voted "worlds Best nightclub" although in my opinion, there are better venues and better DJ's elsewhere in Ibiza. The reason Space is revered by so many is because of the Terrace. The Space Terrace is the stuff of legend, giving an outdoors feel to what is ordinarily an indoor experience. Add to the mix the aircraft that fly low overhead on their final descent to the nearby Eivissa Airport, and you've got a recipe for a guaranteed great night.
However, I've said already that I'm not going to go on and on about the clubbing, because all I'd be doing then is adding fuel to the argument that Ibiza is full of Binge-drinking, drug taking drop-outs.

Monday morning arrived in the blink of a bloodshot eye, and after clearing up the mess left by the visiting beer monkeys (those pesky creatures who steal all your money, take a crap in your mouth and ruffle your hair whilst your sleeping) we headed to the beach for some well-deserved rest and recuperation. More recuperating needed by some of our party than others. Not mentioning my name anywhere. At all.
Beaches in Ibiza are plentiful. There are officially 55 public beaches to choose from, from the 3km long beach in Playa D'en Bossa on the south coast, through to the plethora of tiny Cala's that stretch round from the rocky north west coast to the salt flats in the south.

The sun sets spectacularly on our Tuesday with the sky melting from deep blue into deep ochre, oranges, and reds as we are sitting at Café Mambo drinking 'Café Con Leche en Basso' on the famous "sunset Strip" in San Antonio listening to the 10th edition of a chillout CD that has all the same songs on as the first, fourth, sixth and eighth editions, only in a different order, after a day spent catching up with old friends and acquaintances. The colour of the sky contrasts nicely with the red hue emanating from my chest after too long at the beach on Monday.

No dear. Of course you can't. Is there really a 'D' in Louis Vuitton?

Thursday, our last day, and I've saved the best until last.
We head into Ibiza Town, known locally as Eivissa.
Ibiza in olden days was a very important island, being one of the last known locations for the Phoenicians and more recently, the Carthaginians.
A quick history lesson, to save some of you from Googling 'Carthage'; The Carthaginians were the race of people from whom Hannibal built his army that fought the Romans and who Hannibal then set off across the Alps with his Elephants.
Ibiza Town was founded by these ambitious Carthage folk in the year 654BC, and although most of the original features of the town are constantly updated and modernised, the D'alt Villa (old town) part of the city is a world heritage site, and is simply incredible.
From the top of the hill that dominates the skyline, not only is there a fabulous looking Cathedral (which I have yet to get inside, mainly because it's only open until midday, and I don't do mornings)
but there are a maze of narrow and winding cobbled back-streets with a mix of independent and well-known shops that cater for absolutely everything a shopaholic could ask for and more. The More being the ironically named "Calle de Virgen" or "Virgin Street". Ironic because if you were to walk up this street after midnight, you get to have a glimpse into the life of glittery and glamorous gay folk who bring their own unique sense of fun and style to their little quarter of town. Just be careful not to accidentally stumble into any "dark rooms", as these are not places for people who are feint of heart, or unsure of sexuality!