When I unexpectedly run into one of my partners in crime late on Thursday morning while boarding my flight out of Barcelona (coincidentally we’d both booked the same Ryanair flight), things are already off to a good start. There’s a noticeably jubilant energy on the plane, not surprising since nearly every last person is on their way to party their motherfuckin’ asses off, and once we collect our bags we’re greeted in the terminal by two promo girls handing out Club Amnesia promo bags. If you hadn’t realised it already, clubbing is big business on this island and this is emphasised by the scores of billboards peppering the roadsides emblazoned with familiar faces like Armin van Buuren, Pete Tong and Sven Vath. Welcome to Ibiza.

Our hotel is situated right on Playa d’en Bossa beach, with the lobby opening up into a swimming pool and then down a few steps to the sand. I’ve been assured is the “good” side of the island as far as clubbing culture goes, but nonetheless there’s a wonderful sense of tacky everywhere you look. Loudmouthed geezers strut their stuff, and looking out our window down to the pool we see a camera crew emerge from the lobby, followed shortly by a posse of swimsuit clad travelers bouncing around and whooping it up for the camera. It’s too surreal to even be real, and I’m expecting David Guetta to pop out at any moment, brandishing a shit-eating grin and a member of the Black Eyed Peas.

After squeezing in some beach time, it’s all about the Cream Opening Party at Amnesia. After a quick cab ride everyone is quickly swept into the club with a minimum of fuss and attitude, and once we’re through the alcove it opens up into the most spectacular examples of superclub architecture I’ve ever seen. Venues like Sydney’s Home can be used as a point of reference, but Amnesia is far larger and grander than anything we’ve ever enjoyed in Australia. Sparsely populated at this stage, the aesthetics remind me somewhat of the rooftop of a gothic cathedral – a lot like where Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson duked it out in the finale of Tim Burton’s Batman – in terms of the grand open spaces, and wooden slats used to build the floors, the walls and the bars. This is classy, and it’s big.

Looking out over the sprawling open dancefloor that’s circled by several VIP mezzanine platforms, there’s several podiums scattered on the outskirts, countless lights and strobes dotted across the ceiling, and at the front a DJ booth suspended above the crowd and emblazoned with visual screens. To the left of the dancefloor the ceiling drops, and there’s another secondary dancefloor that’s nearly just as big. It’s still just a club at the end of the day, but one that’s been given maximum consideration in terms of ergonomics, space to dance and giving it that “grand” clubbing energy. At the bar at the back of the dancefloor we’re served by possibly the most absurdly beautiful Spanish woman to ever walk the earth, and after ordering two Vodka Red Bulls, two bottles of water and a beer, we’re handed a bill for 87 euros. They do nothing by halves here in Ibiza.