Roxie:

Roxie’s 1989 Ibiza Return – Ku Club Chaos

Ibiza, August 1989. The island was exploding, the Second Summer of Love had crossed the Mediterranean and turned the White Isle into a 24-hour hedonistic paradise. Amnesia and Ku were the twin temples, Manumission hadn’t started yet, but the beaches were full of loved-up Brits in smileys and whistles, and the clubs stayed open until the sun was high. Roxie came back for the first time since ’88, hungry for more after the London warehouse raids had started biting.

She flew in on a cheap charter full of Essex lads, mohawk dyed acid-green, white mesh vest showing pierced nipples, baggy white shorts with the arse cheeks half out, whistle round her neck, and a bumbag full of Es and condoms. The plan was simple: fuck the island senseless again.

Ku Club (now Privilege) was the destination that night, the biggest club in the world, open-air terrace under the stars, foam parties still a novelty, Alfredo in the booth dropping a mix of house classics and early Balearic beats. The place was rammed: 5,000 bodies, sweat dripping from the ceiling, lasers painting the sky.

Roxie hit the terrace at 5 a.m., just as the sun was threatening the horizon. She was rushing hard, three Mitsubishis deep and dancing like a demon when she spotted him.

Carlos, local Ibicenco, late twenties, tanned and toned from beach life, white linen shirt open to the waist, gold chain glinting, dark eyes that had seen every tourist fantasy. He was straight on the island (shagged Swedish girls by day, partied by night), but the E he’d scored from an English dealer had him open to anything. He’d heard about the “punk inglesa with cojones” from the year before and wanted to see if the legend was true.