Why Paris Hilton Is The Queen Of Ibiza

Planning an entire holiday around Paris Hilton's Foam and Diamonds residency at Ibizan superclub Amnesia might not be your idea of a good time, but the boundaries of my taste are flimsier and more alarming than Michael Fabricant's toupée. That's why, when booking my first visit to the White Isle, I'd shirk the day-glo, ball-sweaty eye-swivelling thrills of San Antonio for an Ibiza Town hotel way beyond my means, with a flavour of bad taste provided by a trip to Paris's show. That's how I find myself in a car park at 2am waiting for Miss Hilton to join a bevy of identikit pink-bikini-clad women with giant pink Flying Saucers on their heads. This is after an hour and a half on the VIP terrace, privy to a free bar and a series of Spanish photojournalists delving at flubs of delicately sliced sashimi with pudgy paws, taking photos of the remnants for no apparent reason other than to show her PR that they're playing ball.

This is the opening night of Paris Hilton's £1.6m Amnesia residency, where she'll DJ every Wednesday for a month, in between jetting (normal people fly, Paris 'jets') to South Korea, St Tropez and Barcelona to do the exact same thing. Is there any chance that Paris Hilton could be a proper DJ? Can she actually mix on her own, select actual songs, and read the crowd? Granted, "Stars Are Blind" is a banger, but it doesn't really require much effort from her, does it? Could she hold up to the live experience of seeing a DJ play?

After twenty minutes of feeling grunty paparazzos' armhairs brush against me, Paris pops up from the VIP area. The billionaire heiress strides towards the car park, glinting and grinning like a bodyconned marzipan, taking her place amid the throng of human flamingoes to wave and blow kisses. If your formative memories of Paris—the sex tape, The Simple Life—stuck with you, then seeing her IRL makes you redress your interpretation of her faster than she spun said sex tape on its head to make herself a globally-recognised brand.

Because here, playing a perma-happy fembot, spinning, twirling, pausing for mere seconds' breath between each cheek-wide-smiled interview slot, looking absolutely beyooootiful throughout, she totally undid her reputation as a lackadaisical, uninvolved couldn't-care-less debutante. Her behaviour is far from an It Girl's desperation – if she was desperate, she'd freak out when her make-up slip, instead of casually dabbing some powder on and twirling once again to continue the picture perfect act, all to the chants of the excited Spanish gays who'd happened across their once-tragic heroine.

In the club, we hustled to see where our pink Paris Hilton-branded wristbands would let us in. Not many places, it seems, with gatekeepers coming in the form of officious, burly men doing jobsworthy throwbacks to Franco. See, the infrastructure of Amnesia is pretty feudal, just like the Globe theatre: rambunctious serfs (burly gay men) to the bottom, giving all their passion, sweat and maniacal nodding. Stoic, botulised rich twats fill the rafters, pretending not to give a shit. Our whole holiday's spend sat in giant buckets as bottles of firework-rigged Belvedere, the glass barrels sweating with condensation as polo-shirted Middle Eastern play-boys sat on Chesterfields to check stocks and buy in escorts on their Blackberries. Soulless models looked hungry for more than dinner.

One bouncer slipped up and accidentally allowed us into the spot where Paris was doing an impromptu photoshoot dressed as a music box's ballerina princess. Again, she threw poses, hairflicks and pouts with the precision of a lesbian at a pool table and an energy supply that could leave her earmarked for US invasion.

The walls chattered with bass, the smoke machine blasted so loud our ears rung. Rows of blonde dancers surrounded the stage where two men dressed up as robots played the saxophone and violin (both electric) over syrupy EDM, the sort that soundtracks Geordie Shore's pre-lash-and-fondle sessions.  Fireworks spit, lazers flip around on the big screen and most of our eyeline from our demi-VIP location is made up of the same footage we saw on the YouTube preview of the event. Paris dashes off back into whatever fairytale boudoir was her dressing room, we get asked to leave by a bouncer the size of a hay-bale.

Beneath the pens of rich pricks, you could see Amnesia's slight charms. Yes, we avoided the foam party out of a legitimate fear of trenchfoot and errant wet limbs, but people were truly ecstatic to see her. Not to downplay the strength of Balearic MDMA, but it's testament to Paris's pep that people still managed to bear it all. On top of DJing off her laptop, she blows kisses, throws out inflatable light-prongs to adoring fans and leaps up and down like a cross between Grimes, Tippi Hedren and Van Wilder.

Deadmau5, another Amnesia DJ, recently went in on Paris:

At first glance, this "mess" means the foam party section, the cannons of industrial standard squeaky bubbles ejaculating over steamy bodies. But deeper, the intimation is that Paris hasn't got her shit together, that she's still that It Girl, falling out of clubs slow-eyed and drowsy. Yeah thousands of people dancing in one direction might be a bit off, and the repeated surge of hysterically euphoric, whooshing EDM might not give you goosebumps without narcotic assistance, but if you actually want to have fun, it's worth stepping off your pedestal.

Sophie Wilkinson is News Editor of The Debrief

We highly reccomend you check out Paris Hilton's Instagram: @parishilton

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