Chapter 53: A party, a wedding, and a honeymoon

Many of you know I'm in Barcelona. So, this is something of a catch-up blog. You'll have to wait a couple more days for the definitive Worthington Report on Catalunya.

The cruelty of some people knows no bounds
After attending Ian Temple’s 47th birthday in London, I have to remark that the cruelty of some people knows no bounds. Two unnamed friends (perhaps now ex-friends) gave him a zimmer frame. The entire crowd of attendees nearly peed their pants laughing when Ian opened this thoughtful gift. But of course, this mean joke has horribly exacerbated Ian’s extant complex about his rapidly approaching 50th. But I suspect that the truth is that we gays in particular find the approach of the 50th to be the psychic equivalent of a dirty bomb; when it goes off, for all intents and purposes, you are mentally radioactive for the rest of your gay life. As I remarked to Ian, “Save the zimmer frame. One of us will need it before too long.”

My first gay wedding
Another high point of my time in London was the garden wedding of Ian and Agu’s, my first gay wedding. I laughed, I cried, I wanted to get hitched myself the very next day. But I have to confess, I also suffered more than a little at the wedding, for I was horribly hung over, having celebrated my birthday the night before with an excess of wine. And it was a very hot day, and as you can see in the picture I was in all black, having no other respectable clothes in my suitcase. (Is anyone else finding it just impossible to live within the airlines’ sadistically restrictive 20kg weight limit? My moisturizing potions alone consume a quarter of my weight allowance. I’m finding that I’m often paying more in excess baggage charges than the price of the flight itself.)

Honeymoon on Ibiza
The day after the wedding, a number of us went to Ibiza to help Ian and Agu celebrate their honeymoon. Sigfried got us the same fantastic villa as last year, with a beautiful view over a valley and the saltpans towards the beach and sea. (Gotta love those Germans for being so uber-organized!) After my hugely enjoyable debut on Ibiza last year (See Chapter 46: Schmangled!) I just had to go back. Now, despite what you may have heard, Ibiza is not all about partying. True, uber-fantastic nightclubs operate around-the-clock most days of the week, but the island has much more to its credit than hot sweaty dancefloors. It has a serene natural beauty and a quality of light that I've only ever experienced elsewhere in Capetown. And even my soul-friend Lance, who sometimes lets me sit on his lap and who made his debut on the island despite being utterly anti-party, fell in love with the place and vowed to return next year.

As an example of the magic, on my last day in Ibiza my completely crazy friend Paulie, wretch that he is, dragged me kicking and screaming to DC10. Ok, I ended up having quite a lot of fun. And at 5pm we left the club and went for a drive along a dirt road that skirts the edge of one of the salt pans and we came across a magic pebbly beach with a beautiful little bar, all white sails and wooden tables looking out onto the setting sun. At dusk, two acrobats attired in full of black and white harlequin body suits appeared from nowhere and gave a stunning performance that was the equal of Cirque du Soleil. High up on the cliff above the sea a beautiful woman was dancing by herself to the mellow music played by the bar. There are too many magic moments like this to report. Supposedly lots of ley lines cross over Ibiza and that is what gives the island it’s unique energy. Now, I don't know about ley lines, but I do know that I like it. Very much indeed.