Fight for the right to rave

I flew to Ibiza this week. I’m a regular rave house basement first floor DJ there, I do it once every 40 years, but this time was different. It was the first time I’d been out of the UK since the Referendum.

That things had changed was obvious on arrival at the airport.

After walking up and down five hundred times, backwards and forwards through the empty, newly installed maze – just for UK passport holders – I finally got to immigration.

The officer gave me a sympathetic look. “United Kingdom? OK, just this last time, you can come in.”

At the foreign-exchange desk, I exchanged some money. I got 110 euros for my £100.

Why did you do this to yourselves? Why? Why?

“What? A hundred and ten? Is that really correct,” I asked the lady behind the counter.

“Yes that’s right. It was 130 a few weeks ago,” she said. “But that was before your catastrophe. Why, why did you vote to destroy yourselves?

“Why? Why? Don’t you love paella?”

I arrived at the hotel, and tried to watch the news in my hotel room. But I couldn’t find the right channel.

I called the receptionist, Paola: “Where’s the BBC news on my television?”

“I come over and show you now,” she said.

Twenty minutes later she was still clicking like crazy through the 125 channels.

“It was here always here – I don’t know what’s happened to it,” she said. “It’s gone!”

“You can stop trying, Paola, I understand what’s happened here.” I said.

“This is just the beginning of the catastrophe. The BBC is gone, it’s finished, it’s no more Paola. Yes, this is only the beginning.”

“Why did you do this to yourselves? Why? Why,” she asked. “Have you all gone mad?”

“Paola, it’s the old people! They have only a few years left to live so they’ve deliberately destroyed the lives of the young people and future generations. Why? It’s envy, jealousy. They can’t stand us coming here to your rave clubs …Amnesia …Privilege …and dancing, getting drunk out of our skulls, running naked through your streets, vomiting in your litter bins, fighting and doing ecstasy, just having good British fun.

“But fear not, Paola, this cannot and will not stand. There are 48 per cent of us who will fight for the right to rave! And it begins here and now!”

I called home.

“Where are you calling,” a Scottish voice asked.

“London,” I said. “Why? Wait a minute, who are you?”

“The international operator,” she said.

“The international operator? I don’t need an operator. I’m calling direct to London.”

“Would that be London in England,” she asked. “Och, I’m sorry, the direct service is finished now for all English citizens. You’ve only yourselves to blame you know. Hold on, I will try and connect you. It might take a wee bit of time as there’s only the two of us here.”

“What?” I screamed. Then I woke up. It was 3.30am.

The next day, after breakfast, sitting by the pool, I rang my friend Bernard Shapero.

“Bernard, I’m calling to say I’m mounting a coup, it’s going to start in Hampstead. I want you to be my Minister of Defence, are you in?”

“Come over for dinner on Friday night and we’ll talk about it.”

“I can’t! I’ve left the country. I’m in Ibiza.”

“Like Napoleon in exile in Elba you mean?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“But didn’t he conquer most of the world before going into exile,” he asked.

“That’s just detail, Bernard. I’m here; I’m plotting. I’ll come up with a plan tonight, then we’ll invade Sunderland.”

“We’ve got chicken soup… chopped liver… salt beef”.

“I’ll see you on Friday”.

“Good, but you’d better hurry up and come back quickly just in case Nigel Farage is waiting at Heathrow to greet you wearing an immigration official’s uniform and doesn’t let you in. ‘Rosengard? It’s not a very English name is it? Sounds a tiny bit foreign to me?'”

“Well, Shapero’s not exactly a Master of Foxhounds from Shropshire either, is it mate?”