No shopping or eating for me, no trekking on the well-worn, hard-worked- for tourist path. I can sacrifice my body and mind at Amnesia in Ibiza, get into trance in Goa and moon-graze in Thailand.
For the ultimate in an oops-my-eardrum-has-split experience, Nineties Ibiza is the clubland legend. By virtue of having the hippy and just so happening Seventies "playboy vibe" (man), conscious clubbers can pretend not to have spent two weeks dragging their carcasses along fag-strewn beaches and lager-sloppy dancefloors. It's expensive, so get used to blagging. Your travel agent certainly has. Suffice to say, accommodation has a genuine Ibizan feel (if you're not doing a resort package). It's right above a club. Where you choose to dump your body is irrelevant. Just tie all your belongings to you.
And if your ears haven't split, put them to the ground and hear this: men with long hair can find the place where an exotic plant grows; boys from Essex will be responsible for any falling off balconies (podiums good, balconies bad); and follow the sequins for a wild week, the day- glo if you just want a quiet, alien experience.
Let's face it, after two nights of deep bass in a room with a low ceiling, it's not as if anyone can hear holiday anecdotes on your return - deafening volumes are de rigueur. Then there's the weakened ankles from podium dancing, in addition to drinking enough lager to intoxicate an army base (you'll find one next door to the club), stripping burnt skin off backs and not forgetting lost knowledge of mother tongue.
It's a case of coming home with your paradise described thus: you bigged it up, got sorted, and were proved wrong in thinking you were hard enough. Your liver will tell more of a story.
And always, always remember one seasoned clubber tip: alcohol is a cheap anaesthetic. Jennifer Rodger
For a range of clubbing holidays in Ibiza try Club 18-30 (part of Flying Colours, 01204 701 000), or Club Freestyle (part of Thomson, 0990 502 580).