It’s been a while since I saw Le Sexy Beast, and Saturday found me on a flight to Ibiza determined to ‘make his acquaintance’ once more that night at Pacha. Did Bob still have it, I wondered, and more importantly – how was his hair these days?
Successfully boarding my Ryanair flight without recourse to unpacking my luggage or being charged extra for anything, I was delighted, once airbourne to be given a chance to read their new magazine. Very slick – without losing any of that quintessential Ryanairness; the streetwise attitude, the smattering of typos and the friendly ‘I’m your best mate’ chat crossed with a knack of being written like the authors have just learnt English and are still learning..
It’s a heady mixture. But a seedling of fondness for that most ubiquitous of airlines was planted as I flicked through, for on practically every other page there was an advert for some Irish business or other: Just when the Emerald Isle needs it most, Mr O’Leary puts his money where his heart is.
At 2.30am I found myself in Pacha, pinned up against a wall amongst the thousands of people who had come to hear Dimitri from Paris and Mr Sinclar ply their trade. Dancing was tough given the limited space but a gold sequinned top will always convey you mean business.
Dimitri, with a Brains from Thunderbirds look, was on the decks. His name indicates his nationality – and the playlist did too with a not insignificant smattering of some French tracks including Daft Punk. The recession seems to be doing strangely patriotic things to people, I thought.
A sudden flury on the balcony behind him caused a ripple of excitement through the already buoyant crowd. I looked up. All I could see was the back of someone with long locks, the supplest leather jacket known to man and flashbulbs popping aplenty.
At exactly 4am, Bob Sinclar turned around to face the crowd from on high and descended the small flight of stairs to the DJ booth, kissed Dimitri four times, shrugged off his jacket and literally rolled up his sleeves.
He went heavy on the tunes to satisfy a young audience with a need to worship rather than dance, his face bent towards the decks intent on the job in hand.
Something had changed – was it me, or Bob? Even now, from my birds eye view and unlimited VIP dance space at 5am, something failed to ignite. Was I the only one who wanted/craved a delicacy of touch, some genuine love and feeling through the music? I danced on regardless.
At precisely 7am, Bob threw his hands up in the air, put on his luxe leather jacket and ascended the steps. A few people called for more… but I knew it was time to go home.