She’s a Cavan girl, let loose in Ibiza. Read Patrice Brady’s holiday antics here on!

Important thing about Ibiza is it has one complete street that branches into other streets known as The Strip.

The Strip is where literally hundreds of promo people tell you how that their bar is the place to be – but honestly, most bars are packed out anyway.

We designated one night to a pub crawl on The Strip, floating from bar to bar and hitting all the Irish pubs. Typical Irish tourists – as soon as we leave our Emerald Isle we want to hang out with fellow Irish explorers.

However, our numbers were already depleted as one of the girls finally caved and needed a night to recover from extreme liver damage. Taking into consideration the mess I was the next day, maybe I should have followed her example. (I should also point out that we had received a little too much vitamin D from sitting in a boat all that day.)

Silent disco

The first bar we hit promised half-price drinks and free shots – always a good way to start off and it also eased the pain of my blistering sunburn. And we rolled on to the next pub/ nightclub which stayed opened till six. It was jammed in there, with plenty of vodka and a DJ who, let’s just say, was definitely not Calvin Harris: every time he switched tracks, we had to endure an awkward “I'm in a nightclub and there is no music” silence.

Of course, worrying about not having enough to drink, we packed our hip flasks full of strong spirits and found that our sneaky supply had mysteriously vanished in the second pub/club. Also we got our faces painted around the same time our supply ran dry, suspiciously enough.

As I previously stated, there seemed to be very little (if any) Irish in Ibiza, and our worst fears were confirmed as we entered an Irish pub. The pub was full of and run by English people. Apparently we had been the first Irish souls about the place in a while, and I'm afraid we didn't help the stereotype of loud, drunked Irish people begging for ‘I'll Tell Me Ma’ to be play so we could showcase our Irish dancing skills.


Several Donegal Icebergs later – and I am not joking we were downing Donegal icebergs like there was no tomorrow – and an altercation with a bathroom lady (cough, cough aggressive drunk) we carried on in search of our own natives Irish people. Luckily enough we practically fell across one as soon as we the pub with the worst promoter line ever: “Jesus, you’re even more sunburnt than I am.”

To tell the truth, he was just as badly scalded as I was so there was no need for that, but we followed him to another bar and had to settle for a more traditional drink of Jager as no Donegal Icebergs were available.

What hour of the morning this was I'm not sure, but off we stumbled deciding we had to quicken our pace if we were to hit the rest of the clubs and pubs and saw an Irish bar. At last could we be cured of our homesickness?

Jack the lad

No, this particular Irish bar was run by a republican Scottish man who argued with us Ireland and Scotland was one of the same and this was a traditional Scottish-Irish pub. Have you ever heard the like?

So we drank and drank and bought a slave. Oh yeah we bought a slave after running across a group of English snobs, who were on their first night. We noticed they were drinking with their friend passed out cold on the table. Jack, the lad passed out looked easily about 14 and had drank so much that he looked dead. Being charitable ladies we decided to buy Jack as it would be handy to have a cheap slave and the English snobs glad gave him to us free of charge!

Unfortunately the barmaid didn't agree that slavery was right (killjoy) and told the lads to take young Jack home before she rang the police.

After the sad farewell to our loyal, however brief our time with him may have been, servant Jack and as the sun began to rise we decided to head home looking like lobsters that fell into aluminous paint.