Is 50 too old for a trip to Ibiza?

If you’re reading this, I’m in Ibiza.

Namaste, folks.

Am I getting down with Guetta? Am I hanging with my homies, Kate, Sadie and Jade? Am I pumping feel-good chemicals into my body?

No. I am doing none of the above. For I am 50, and unless you count lager as a feel-good chemical (which you probably should), I am done with that sort of thing. HRT is now looking more attractive than MDMA, IMHO.

I’m not an Ibiza virgin, though. Oh no. Two years ago, aged 48½, I popped my Ibiza cherry. (Fans of the fruity logo of superclub Pacha will get that one.)

Hitting the check-in desk at Dublin Airport, an embarrassed young chap told us – the oldest people on the flight by several decades – that although we probably wouldn’t need it, he was required to give us a discreet slip of paper. The note instructed us not to crack open the duty-free and neck it on the flight. We duly desisted – although, when the trolley cart ran dry after 30 minutes of serious consumption, the temptation did arise.

The noise levels on that flight were high. People danced to club music in the aisles. The craic was mighty. The air stewards were patient. The middle-aged (us) were parasitically thrilled by ligging off the smell of teen spirit. Ibiza was rocking everyone’s world before anyone had even left the Dublin tarmac. Namaste, indeed.

It was after midnight when we landed in Ibiza town.

The party capital of Europe was waking up just as a nap was looking quite appealing. Girls and boys wearing minimal clothing crossed people’s sweaty palms with colourful flyers. They glanced at us kindly before deciding that their offerings would be better-placed elsewhere.

Big mistake, kids.

The one thing about middle-aged, middle-incomed, middle-class punters is that they will likely have the moolah necessary to attend one of your more depraved, but less deprived dance hostelries. They have also had years of practice at handling any contaminant the world can chuck at them, and are therefore old hands at keeping it together no matter what.

Oh well, your loss.

You might not want our bodies and teeth, for they have definitely seen better days, but you might be missing out on our creditworthiness. A VIP table at Pacha costs €250. Kerching! You might be able to offset your €325 bottle of bubbly against it, but that is still €75 in anyone’s language.

You can expect to pay €10-€15 for a drink in a club, or €15 if you want to splash out on a cocktail. And did we mention a bottle of water costs €6-€10? The toilets have never looked more attractive.

As for dress codes, the Ibiza Spotlight guide recommends that “often a bikini and shorts are enough”. Anyone over the age of 50 will probably have already decided that a bikini and shorts are definitely not enough.

The guide also says that “clubs like Pacha advise men not to wear shorts, and the bouncers in Space will tell you to put your T-shirt back on if you’re caught swinging it above your head”. You have been warned. And wait until they clock that middle-aged spread. Try to neck the €325 champagne before you are ejected.

As for drugs, unless you need to tranquillise a pony, holiday-makers are advised to steer clear of ketamine. Cocaine, MDMA and the like are as illegal on Ibiza as they are in Innishannon. If you are over 50, though, you know that. Heck, you’ve probably even bought the T-shirt. (Just don’t wave it over your heads, gentlemen.)

Ibiza town is sweaty fun, but is probably best left to the young.

I have no idea where “young people today” get the money from. I spent my bikini years pushing a buggy around Crumlin and have spawned a generation who can’t afford the prices in Ibiza either.

Perhaps this is just as well. No one wants to turn over and find their 50-year-old mother on the sun lounger next to them.