Here’s something you might not know about me. During the Ibiza clubbing season, I moonlight from my (clearly very demanding) role as a blogger. Once or twice a week, I frock up in my finest, put on some warpaint, down a Red Bull for stamina and then take my place at the front door of some of Ibiza’s most legendary super clubs.
That’s right, dear readers. I am the guardian of the guest list. The girl with the clipboard (and in some clubs, iPad or computer) and the power to raise the ropes… or just raise your hopes!
If you’ve been a regular visitor to the white isle over the past few years, and you’ve found yourself in a guest list queue, then it’s highly likely we’ve met. Space, Pacha, Ushuaia, the now defunct El Divino, private villa parties, label parties on the beach, after parties… I’ve stood at the door for all of them.
The rules of the guest list are as simple as this: If your name’s not down, you’re not coming in.
This applies to everyone, from born-and-bred locals, long-terms residents and regular visitors to celebrities, footballers and DJs. Of course, there are exceptions to the rules (which as we all know are made to be broken anyway) and ways around this little complication if your name doesn’t happen to appear on the holy grail of clipboards. Let me give you a few pointers…
• Implore me with your desperate cries of, “I need the toilet!” Cross the road dear punter, and bother one of the bars and restaurants in the area with your bladder control problems.
• Pretend you’ll come back out to pay after you’ve located the friends who “have all my money”.
• Pretend you “know the manager”. If you did know the manager well enough, he or she would have put you on the list. If they didn’t, perhaps they don’t like you!
• Drop DJ names. “I’m traveling with Sasha and I’m friends with his wife Zoe, but I can’t call them to come and get me in because they won’t hear me.” See point above.
• Offer me money. A REAL guest list guardian doesn’t accept bribes, and cares about the calibre of people inside the club. People who throw money around don’t make the cut.
• Tell me you’re going to buy a VIP table once inside. Real VIPS know that you pay before you arrive, and you actually have your own VIP entry queue!
• Pretend you’re a journalist. Real journalists arrange press passes when booking their plane tickets to Ibiza.
• Blow cigarette smoke in my face. Ever. Even if you’re on the list, this will get your name scrubbed off in seconds.
• Pass me your phone and insist I speak to your mate, who swears they put you on the list. I don’t know you, I don’t know your mate, and I don’t really care to exchange germs via your grotty telephone mouthpiece that was probably on top of a toilet in Bora Bora just hours earlier.
• Be drunk and obnoxious. The security probably won’t even let you get to the front of the guest list queue anyway.
• Try to peer over at my list to read a name you’re then going to pass off as your own. All guest list guests need to show ID and unless your name matches your ID and that name’s on my list, you’re not coming in!
• Call me a door bitch or a door whore. Unless you never, ever, ever want to get into a club in Ibiza ever again.
• Tell me I look tired. It’s 5am and I’ve been standing outside all night while you’ve been across the road ‘pepping yourself up’.
• Come back again, and again, and again. The more times I see your face, the more time I have to grow to dislike it.
• Pretend we have something in common. If we did, I’d be standing in the queue with you, not on the other side!
• Say please.
• Be patient.
• Be honest.
• Have witty banter.
• Offer to buy me a drink once you’re inside. Don’t worry, I won’t accept (I know how expensive Ibiza drinks prices are, and besides, I get drinks tickets!) – it’s just a nice gesture.
Really. It’s that easy. I’ve seen and heard every excuse under the sun. There’s no harm in trying! It keeps me entertained and sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. If you lose, you’ve got some esteemed company to hang out with in my rejected queue – Alfie Allen (“Don’t you know who my sister is?” Alfie Allen’s mate: “Don’t you watch Game Of Thrones?”), James Blunt (JB: “I’m on the list.” Me: “OK, what’s your name?” JB: “Just check, I’m on there.” Me: “I can’t possibly know your name if you don’t tell me.”), Adrien Brody (sleazy and slimey) and Tara Reid (need I say more?).
Of course, I’ve also met some pretty amazing people via the guest list queue, who surprised me with their manners, patience and genuine gratefulness at being allowed beyond the velvet rope: Corey Feldman (complete with Rayban Wayfarers), Kylie Minogue, Lily Allen (minus her annoying brother), Sienna Miller, Harry Kewell, Sylvester Stallone and Paris Hilton (surprised? I was!).
Then there are the true V.VIPs I’ve brushed shoulders with, who bypassed the guest list queue by virtue of their rock and roll royalty status, or in some cases, true royalty: Prince William and Kate Middleton, Leonardo DiCaprio, P.Diddy, Kate Moss, Naomi Campbell and Jade Jagger (although she’s usually trying to smuggle her underage children in the back door rather than rave it out herself.)
So the next time you’re standing in an Ibiza guest list queue, please remember all of the above. Have some respect for all the staff at the door – not just the girl with the guest list, but the security, the managers, the cleaners. And above all, don’t ask me if I’m Miss W. Because OBVIOUSLY I’ll never tell…