Am I too old for nightlife of wild Ibiza? Apparently I’m not...

Maybe it’s lockdown fever, but Jim Duffy and his other half are set on a trip to the island of music and dance this year

There’s nothing worse than an old rocker never retiring and going on and on. They don’t know when to hang up the microphone and guitar and take up bird watching. It can be torture to watch and while they may indeed feel energised, it can leave us feeling a bit sad for them.

Some have done it well. Bono from U2 seems to be handing his old age well. Bruce Springsteen is another who is cracking the “grow old gracefully” nut with some style. But, as I look at these guys, I have to look at myself too.

So, when my partner this week told me she wanted a “decent bloody holiday” this year, she didn’t miss me and hit the wall. Ibiza or bust was the demand.

Recently, we have been watching the Netflix mini series Whitelines. It is pretty good. A 16+ rating so as you would expect, some nudity, sex, violence and adult-rated content. Perfect! But, set in Ibiza it has obviously got my partner hankering for a trip to the sun-drenched island of music and dance.

This brings me to my point. I’m an old rocker who at 53-ish worries about hitting the clubs in Ibiza. And it gets worse.

Normally, we would go to an Airbnb experience where we would relax, chill out and be away from as many human beings as possible. As “introverts” that is what we do best.

Occasionally on holiday we would break cover and hit a restaurant for a steak or some Italian. A wee treat away from home cooking. But something is in the wind. Something has changed. And I fear watching Whitelines has been a catalyst for change in my partner’s expectations from a holiday. This time she wants a hotel and some nightlife! Crikey...

As the loving husband, I duly began my research on Ibiza. While no expert, I had already watched four episodes of Whitelines, so I knew that clubbing was part of this gig. But I had no idea what was in store.

I used the usual suspects for my holiday planning – booking.com, Google and a host of other engines to generate that knock-em-deadcheap-but-cheerful escape to the Med. And here is where my first unpleasant surprise slapped me around the kisser. Ibiza ain’t cheap.

It seems it has a loyal market who are willing to pay to be there for the clubbing season. What one might deem a decent hotel for four nights was a grand for a basic double room. If I wanted to spoil my princess and burst the credit card, I could upgrade to a mini or junior suite and this would cost me two grand. All of a sudden, the tight-fisted holiday planner of old was beginning to sweat. Five hundred quid a night?

During her request for a decent holiday in Ibiza, my darling also mentioned that she might not mind a spot of clubbing. And here is where this old rocker really began to feel his age. It seems that discotheques as I would know them or even clubs of old are not what ibiza is all about. Heading out around 9pm for a few drinks, then hitting a club for a boogie ain’t what Ibiza is all about. My research was beginning to stress me out a little.

Firstly, clubs in Ibiza can start mid-afternoon. Of course, I should’ve known this as Whitelines has many scenes where the crew are bouncing away at a pool party in the afternoons. If I opted to go to a well-known club like Ushuaia, then the party starts at the pool at 3pm and goes on till 11pm. There will be DJS, a phenomenal stage with scantily clad, well-toned dancers, a