Read about Patrice Brady’s antics in Ibiza here on Campus.ie.

Unlike so many of my friends, a J1 was out of the question this summer. I mean sure I have wrinkles like a 30-year-old, but despite being set to enter my third year in college, I’m still 19 and a party girl. Going a whole summer without drinking? No thank you, I’ve done that – it's called being a 17 year old in Dublin without a fake ID.

I weighed out my options. I needed a holiday and an excuse for a week long session. Where do I go? Ibiza, of course.

So being the great leader I am, I round up the girls, went into a travel agent, got the name of an apartment and booked it for half the price online. I'm from Cavan – the stereotypes are true!

Ibiza... wow, shock applause?

Well definitely not from your parents, who already thought you had a drinking problem. Now they think you have a drug problem, going to the island that I’m sure party pills were invented for – although I can assure you, it was only alcohol I was consuming…at least I think so.

All set

So the training began for my Ibiza adventure – and it was vigorous. I mean drinking several nights in a row, stumbling in college the next morning with a can still in your hand. I think I’ve actually bonding with the staff of Coppers, or at least my roommate had. She and the bouncer often spoke of their lovely Laois origins.

I was set, laser card in one hand and factor 50 in the other: Ibiza here we come, lock up the good china, Jaeger and husbands!

Boarding the Ryanair flight with half of the youth population of Ireland joining me, it was immediately clear it was going to be a good flight as not many sane parents bring their bratty kids to Ibiza.

We arrived and officially got into the country – although that was dodgy. There are two different people trying to pass customs: the person on my passport and the real much more glamorous me.

We grabbed a taxi to San Antonio. We probably could have done with a second one with the amount of suitcases we brought.

The first drama of our trip descended upon us. None of us had a word of Spanish and therefore the taxi driver had not a notion where we were sending him. While we asked to be brought to The Blue Star, he could have heard: “Supercalifragilistic apartments next door to the trade union for chimney sweeps”.

We eventually arrived after our taxi driver had the great idea to drive up the strip and have us hanging out the window watching for the hotel.

Much LOLs were had at this, as he had as much of a clue where we were heading.

We took it easy the first day and took in our new surroundings. We knew that this most certainly wasn’t the same crowd that Santa Ponsa had. We were surrounded by Brits and they, unlike most people, didn’t say Ibiza -- instead they shout at random intervals “Ibeeeeeeeeffa!!!” I swear I came home with more of an English accent than anything else!

Yolo uh-oh

So being good little girls, we did the sensible thing the first night and drank bottles of wine and cocktails until we passed into that brilliant “I’ve just been on a plane” unconsciousness.

However, before this blissful sleep we saw a henna tattoo place – and I’m only happy it was a real tattoo parlour because I most definitely would have gone with the flow and tattooed myself stupid.

But it was only henna and for the craic we got tattooed. One of the girls got her ankle tattooed, but not me because I'm just a mad eejit of course: I got YOLO on the inside of my arm. And yes I know what you’re thinking I really am a Bebo stunnah at heart.

As I woke from my peaceful slumber I should have known all was not well in my Ibiza paradise.

I vaguely remember the henna tattoo man saying to let the tattoo dry before touching it, but I was so tired and as it turns out I’m a reckless sleepier.

I awoke to find the word YOLO on my pillow and of course on my face. However despite my friends laughter  I showed my true Bebo stunnah colours and  decided a faint YOLO mark on your head is cool I’m sure all the kids are doing it nowadays.