It began with a pill. Pacha is the mecca for Ibiza clubbers, and that night master blaster DJ David Guetta was the caliph. The setting for Pacha is unlikely, even tacky.
The neighbourhood has the feel of a decrepit US suburban strip mall, complete with a sprawling parking lot across the street. The building itself is a cavernous warehouse. A Costco logo might seem in character, but what you get instead is an entrance flanked by faux palm trees, with a giant neon sign flashing Guetta’s message of universal love.
f*** me, i’m famous. Once inside, more dazzling signage, T-shirts worn by a few, and pink psychedelic phallic objects wielded by many combine to drill the slogan into your brain. A message as loud as the techno beats, as ludicrous as it was ubiquitous.
FMIF . It was a few days after Nikesh’s wedding. Maya and I, along with a small group of friends from London, had joined Nikesh and Ayesha (his wife) in Ibiza.
Our day had been long, starting with a boat in the blazing sun out to Formentera for lunch on the beach at the retro shack Juan y Andrea, where we washed down seafood paella with rosé before dipping into the turquoise water. The evening began with dinner at the voyeuristic Cipriani, where Paris Hilton and her entourage of beautiful people eyed each other with carnal fascination. And then the dénouement at Pacha, where the action begins after midnight.
At 1 am there was still no sign of our famous and eager-to-copulate headline act. My friend Jonty, a bur.