Alcopops and Selfies with Eastenders Actresses: Embracing the Cheesy Heart of Ibiza

I was told there might be a chance I'd be going to Ibiza when I started my new job, but I thought it could be a lure-in clause. To me, 'beefa had earned its nickname from the sloppy pronunciation of people who worship at the altar of happy hour, a place whose musical heritage had been long lost down a sinkhole of celebrity culture and alcopop-coloured puke.

That said, I'd not met one person who'd gone and come back saying they'd had a shit time. Despite the general demographic being on the wealthier end of my Facebook feed, Ibiza still looked like a good time. Though the days of whatever 'hedonism' meant twenty years ago are now over, the island's relevance remains — which is why when my fickle hands came to clutch down on a lure-in clause come good, I was quietly gassed.

Ibiza 1.0 began as I sat drowning in a sea of Huaraches in Stansted airport, mentally checking off stereotypes as we boarded. Gaggles of clucking hen parties were leered at by overbearing troupes of lads, all sizing each other up on the plane. By the time we'd landed at 9am, all parties were hammered on trolley bought champagne and at least five couples had swapped numbers. It was like Take Me Out on speed. The carnage continued in the airport, where men who had evidently spent the last six months strapped to a bench press hauled bags the size of wardrobes off the carousel. I'd never seen so much evidence of IRL botox , and as we drove across the island I wondered if the parody would ever stop.

Our work on trip one was based in San Antonio, a place that does well to prove the remaining existence of British colonialism. By day its cobbled streets -—aptly known as the West End— specialise in serving various incarnations of fake Nando's and all day breakfasts. A catwalk of hangovers and comedowns, its baby oiled models skulk out of the shadows to applaud the infamous Café Del Mar sunset, yet another part of the old, charming Ibizian way of life that has been rebranded for holiday makers.

It seemed that the only way I was going to stop being such a side-eyed cynic was to become a part of this brightly coloured British diaspora that like it or not, we were a part of. A chain of bars owned and made famous by the brother of a football pundit seemed to be the most appropriate choice of pre-lash, and lured in by the promise of two doubles for a tenner, I gingerly danced to David Zowie in the midst of a group of middle aged estate agents.

It took a few bars of Kygo and approximately three mystery shots until the game face had been replaced by a reluctant appreciation of the situation we'd landed in. After an endless winter dreading paying for rounds in London, it was an unexpected relief to drink and dance with people who neither knew nor cared about who was playing later. A dose of zero fucks went down with every 25ml blat of fluorescent liquid and it seemed the only thing left to do was absorb it.

Some badges on display at the aforementioned football pundit brother's bar.

That night I got a selfie with Janine Butcher and found myself actually cheering at a DJ who repeatedly screamed "THESE CHAIRS ARE FOR STANDING ON, NOT SITTING ON". It was bizarre and unpredictable, but then so seems all of the island's clubbing culture. Get in a 40 euro cab and you'll pay another 40 to see a DJ who played your uni town for a fiver six months ago. Throw a stone from a bar where the cocktails are watered down and you'll hit a club whose door policy is strictly oligarchs. Nothing makes sense and nobody seemed to mind.

Going to Ibiza for work meant that by day we met other workers of the semi-permanent kind, men and women all tanned the same shade of pine from their teens to their forties who all live on the island for the love. Club PRs, photographers, video editors and DJs, they're all people who'll testify that the magic of the island remains in its energy and inclusivity. For those who are young and British, the idea of leaving a country with no sun and no jobs seems like a perfectly commendable idea. Maybe that's what Ed was thinking when he booked his post defeat retreat in May.

After round one my curiosity seemed reasonably satisfied. I'd spent way more money than I'd got, been out three out of four nights and arrived home swearing to myself that if I was ever to return, it would be with at least four friends in tow. Less than a month later, I was back in Stansted, feeling like someone who can't work out whether their comedown is chemically induced or the brink of an anxiety attack.

We were posted on the edge of Playa D'En Bossa, where the restaurants lean more toward pseudo tapas and the clientele is young but European. There's a 'strip' — KFC's, fishbowls and promo girls in little clothes, but it felt more like a place where the world's greatest clubs live. It also feels less like a town that has been pounced on by people looking for a home away from home. The island's Old Town is visible from Bora Bora beach, a high development made from cobbles untouched by tourism and club branding. I felt one step closer to Miliband.

Via the guidance of workers we'd met, we were able to cliff jump with local teenagers and find the apparently impossible to reach fish restaurant that Richie Hawtin counts as one of his favourites (The Guardian told me so). Despite feeling as much of a fraud as I did on trip 1.0, I was grateful to see further than the choked streets of San Antonio, to know that Eivissa in its original form still existed past the supermarket Sangria of its tourist towns, and past the strobes that probably contribute to about 50% of the island's annual bulk of light pollution.

There were points when I thought I'd 'got' Ibiza. Partying in a crowd of a thousand who gather every week, unbeknown to the majority of the island felt like a quiet triumph, as did seeing my words on the back of a flier for one of the biggest nights on the island. I'd never come across as many people rich from the knowledge that their next two weeks were simply about pleasure. If you're willing to face up to the fact that as with anything that comes with a million brands attached, Ibiza is probably the happiest place in the world.

On our final day someone who'd been coming to Ibiza since 1999 took us to Es Vedra, a massive rock that sits in the middle of a bay of clear blue water. Apparently it's owned by eight of the oldest Ibicencan families, who've lived on the island since before the days of Pacha and Ushuaia, and who've watched their home turn from a Balearic paradise to a playground for party loving tourists. Every Christmas, they sail through the presumably yacht free water, and clamber up the rock — dressed in what I hope is traditional Spanish wear — in order to capture a goat and slaughter it. It was an oddly comforting story to hear.

After nine days every expectation I had about Ibiza had been broken and rebuilt as something that could possibly resemble affection. The amount of love for the place demands respect, from those who quit their jobs to work there season after season to those who'll happily spend a year's savings on a wild, wild week. Though it comes with a healthy serving of 21st century product placement, the only people who truly hate Ibiza are those trying to tear it down with shows like 'Ibiza Shore'- though it'll take more than a few wreckheads on the beach to demolish the reputation of what has become the world's most important holiday island.

Follow Tamara on Twitter