It’s been over 20 years since we went to Ibiza.
Himself and I, not yet a couple, and a friend of ours hopped in a plane for some summer sunshine and to release our inner ravers.
The lads kindly took me away to help me get over having my heart broken.
Not just a simple break up but the utter devastation, the complete soul destroying breakdown of the first serious love.
You can gather it wasn’t a mutual decision to split and I was wandering round like a lost wounded fawn.
The lads’ solution? To take me to the dance capital of Europe and let me drink and dance myself better.
This was my first experience of giant clubs and I don’t know if I loved or hated it because I remember very little.
My father was rather cross on our return because I didn’t have a hint of healthy glow or sun kissed skin. We’d literally spent the week like gadgie vampires, clubbing through the night and wandering back at sunrise to sleep all day.
We keep meaning to go back, not to show ourselves up revisiting the clubs, but to see the rest of what we’re told is a beautiful island. We haven’t quite managed, until tonight.
Saturday April 8 on the glamorous Balearic island of Dundee! I didn’t even have to look out my passport or board a plane. My friend had booked us all a ticket to an ABBA bingo night being held just up the road and we were all told we were going.
I set off to her house not realising what a treat we were in for. Dinner and dessert at hers before hopping in the car for the seven minute journey to our exotic destination.
We parked up, popped on our obligatory flashing flowery headbands and joined the queue.
Joined. The. Queue.
You heard me correctly. There was a QUEUE. Now, I haven’t queued to get in anywhere in years and I don’t just mean because of Covid.
My days of standing in queues are long over unless it’s for a pastry or a public loo.
But here I was, out out on a Saturday night queueing up for a venue. I didn’t even recognise myself for a hot minute.
I’m a frumpy, almost 47-year-old, exhausted mother-of-three. I don’t go places that require after-dark queues and I’m more than okay with that.
Netflix and I have an understanding and it no longer asks if I’m still watching anymore. That is the extent of my social life these days.
We took mandatory selfies of our natty headwear as we stood in the queue only to be outdone by the true ABBA fans who appeared in their droves in proper attire.
Crocheted, brightly coloured waistcoats, metallic flairs, shiny long blond wigs, psychedelic mini dresses and white knee high boots in abundance. All putting us to shame as we collected our dabbers and bingo books. Only three games apparently, the focus of the night, we were informed, was the music, dancing and up sale of booze.
As we opened the doors, I could only imagine we were walking into the same scene as those who attended Woodstock in the 1960s.
Wall to wall, giant inflatable daisies and rainbows. The bingo hall no longer focused on serious bingo gaming but more determined to transport you to a Spanish or Greek party island with unicorn inflatables and the music pumping. Who knew?! Have I been missing out on this secret scene for years?
As I took it all in, my sober eyes scrambling to adjust, my attention was drawn to the DJ on the decks in the middle of the ‘stage’. This wholly committed, enthusiastic lad obviously had a choice to make at some point. Turn right for Ibiza, fame and fortune, or turn left for a bingo hall in Dundee.
He threw on his shades and gold lame shirt and headed left for all he was worth.
Between him and the tiny lass compering the evening, they didn’t stop once and their energy levels were impressive. They promised an ABBA night on a dark rainy night in NE Scotland and they didn’t disappoint. It didn’t hurt that we won the grand prize and the winners took it all.