This story is over 5 years old.


Apocalyptische foto's van een schuimparty op Mallorca

Bij VICE UK kregen ze vorige week een vlucht aangeboden naar Magaluf om aldaar een verslag van een van de meest ordinaire feestjes op deze planeet te maken. Dus dat deden ze. Waarom? Dat weten ze ook nog steeds niet, maar het was wel gratis.

Het moge duidelijk zijn dat Mallorca niet bepaald het wereldse epicentrum van finesse is. In tegendeel: krokantoranje huidskleur, tribal-tattoos en trance-feestjes voelen zich er heerlijk thuis. Niet echt een plek waar we voor onze lol heen zouden gaan dus, maar dan onderschat je erbarmelijk het begrip 'gratis.' Gratis overwint namelijk niet alleen in Nederland alle barrières. Bij VICE UK kregen ze vorige week een vlucht aangeboden naar Magaluf om aldaar een verslag van een van de meest ordinaire feestjes op deze planeet te maken. Dus dat deden ze. Waarom? Dat weten ze ook nog steeds niet, maar het was wel gratis. Last week, some PR company offered me a flight to Magaluf to write about Tiësto and a guy from Black Eyed Peas performing at a club called BCM. I have no idea why they asked me, or why they wanted their club in VICE, but I can’t afford to go away this summer, so heeere we goooooooo!


I arrived during the day, so decided to go for a walk around the town.

It was nice to be somewhere that had tasteful souvenir shops. Usually you go to these places and it’s impossible to find something that isn’t penis-shaped, so it was a relief to find this understated little trinket to take home to my grandparents.

Oh God. The thought that there might be a person in the world wearing this is making me want to cry. Then call my parents and tell them I love them.

It’s almost as depressing as the thought that this tattoo exists somewhere.

It took me so long to find this place I was beginning to think it didn’t exist. (Ayoooooo!)

Because of the language differences, sometimes when you go to different countries there are signs or products that say funny things. This is one of those.

I hit up the beach for a few hours and invented several people watching games to keep myself occupied. Like “black or tanned,” “northern accent or Polish language,” “concerned strangers or gang rapists,” “gay or Eurotrash,” etc.

And then it was off to the club!

The first thing we saw when we arrived was the wet t-shirt contest. It’s nice to see today’s youth cutting out the middleman and just ditching shirts altogether. Efficiency like this makes me excited to see what they might be able to achieve in years to come.

Even though I was secretly expecting to hate the place, it was probably the funnest thing I have ever been to. I mean, it’ll never be able to compete with the sheer thrill of being guilted into going to see your friend’s band at some bar in Dalston where you can’t afford to buy a drink, but it was fun nonetheless.


This guy was pretty into it, too.

This girl, not so much. Her puke is merging with the foam to make a furry vomit cocktail that people are sloshing around in just outside the frame of this shot. I went outside the club for a minute just after this was taken and found a middle-aged woman sobbing on a bench. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me that she was a 42-year-old grandmother on holiday from Leeds. She’d been in the foam party but didn’t know it was a foam party, and when the foam started coming down the crowd was so packed together that she was unable to move. “I thought I was going to drown! I was so scared!” she told me, “I didn’t even get my bag out the cloak room. I just needed to get out of there. I thought I was going to die.”

The Black Eyed Pea that performed turned out to be DJ Motiv8, a guy who left the band just before they went big. (I wonder if the current BEP lineup is aware that he’s performing under the name “Black Eyed Peas”?) I interviewed him to find out how psyched he was to have had nothing to do with the song “My Humps,” but it was too loud for him to hear me, so he started talking about aliens instead. (”If I could fly in a space pod, I would take my wife and kids with me because I’m always on tour and never get to see them.”)

I don’t have any good photos of Tiësto. Trying to get close enough to snap a picture of Tiësto at a mega-club in Magaluf is about the same difficulty level as punching Will and Kate in the face on the day of the royal wedding.


In case you can’t tell from these pictures, things got pretty fucking messy.

Also, I’d heard ecstasy was everywhere in Magaluf. But I didn’t see any evidence of that.

I started to get kinda sleepy, so I headed back to the hotel.

I decided to walk home along the beach so I could dip my toes into the ocean. Unfortunately, without the adult-supervision of the club’s security guards, the beach had turned into a really horny version of Lord of the Flies. I took a couple of pictures, then bailed because I realized I was at least ten years older than most of the people there, and that’s creepy.

So, er, thanks for the free trip BCM! I had a blast. And readers, if you’re ever in the Balearic Islands, don’t hesitate to make the trip there. It truly was a magical experience. And if any other PR companies are reading this and would like to fly me to a different country for a day, I would be TOTALLY willing to do that and can promise you coverage as good as this. JAMES GRITT Deze hele week kan je hieronder nog stemmen of je het al niet eens bent met onvertaalde Engelse stukken op Viceland. En je stem telt! Een beetje. [poll id="3"]