Some years ago I was in Ibiza for two weeks. That’s about 13 days too many.
Anyway, one night I woke up to the Brits downstairs coming come and at least one of them fell asleep on the terrace. But not before turning on the radio and playing My Heart Will Go On by Celine Dion first.
I somehow managed to fall asleep before the song finished, but woke up to the final notes, about two hours later. “How is this possible?” I thought to myself, as the song died out with the last of the Irish flutes, simultaneously bringing to mind rolling green hills, icy waves and violently spewing vomit. And before I could think of an answer, those same flutes started again, bringing the rolling, vomiting, icy wave of realisation flowing over me as I lay sweating in my hung over, sun-burnt stupor: the bastards had left it on repeat.
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No real point or moral to the story, but somehow I thought of it now after noticing my unattended tumblr account flooded with broken last.fm messages over the last few weeks, and unlike those Brits downstairs, I’m sorry.
