How to survive a summer working in Ibiza

The Dungeon, as my apartment soon becomes known, turns out to be a thoroughfare for all kinds of brilliant freaks and weirdos, randoms from clubs and strangers off the street, cross-dressing bodybuilders and celebrity dwarves. And, a little too often, the Guardia Civil.

Days are spent combing the beaches of San Antonio, armed with flyers, free CDs and wristbands, hotfooting it from the Guardia while illegally coaxing holidaymakers to a fledgling night at an Ibiza Town club. Nights are for cobbling together enough money for this week's unmissable event, chasing whispers of secret beach parties and following strangers into the hills on the promise of some sprawling villa. And at the heart of it all is The Dungeon.

It's the scruffy little centre of my world. The venue for unforgettable pre-
parties, after-parties and parties-that-weren't-supposed-to-be-parties. A place where friends from home stay while on holiday, kindly chipping in with the
rent, and leave with swine flu and psychological scars of screaming bad acid trips. Where words like "stolen boat", "watching DVDs" and "lizard people" trigger vivid memories and fits of uncontrollable laughter. All the fun of a holiday, augmented and stretched out over four debauched months. Home to an orgy of excess. A place that, despite its dilapidated appearance, inspires the unique feeling of waking up every morning knowing there's nowhere else in the world you'd rather be.

As the September sun rises over the play park outside my apartment block, approaching the 72-hour mark without sleep, everyone reassures me there definitely isn't any sand in my drink. I'm not so sure – I can feel it in my throat.

Maybe it's sleep deprivation, maybe it's the substances that have deprived us of sleep, but within a couple of minutes everyone around me is equally convinced there's sand in their drinks.

It's time for bed. It's almost time to fly home. But there's always next year...

Do get some kind of home insurance and make sure your accommodation is secure. Apartments are robbed all the time in Ibiza, your stuff can be expensive to replace, and filling in forms in Spanish at the police station is a very tedious way of spending your time.

Do show the police respect – they are not known for their patience and restraint when it comes to foreign workers. If you see them coming get out of the way.

Do ask everyone and anyone for guestlist places and even club cards. In Ibiza, if you don't ask, you don't get – especially if you have something to offer in exchange.

Don't panic if you can't get a job in the first month. Many of the thousands who come out to work will chuck it by mid June.

Do have something to go home to. Anything. A job, uni, somewhere to live, a significant other, a cat … Ibiza blues after a two-week holiday are nothing compared to the spirit-crushing desperation of returning from a summer there.

Do some planning. Unless you're a returning worker or well-connected it's tricky getting a job before you actually get on the island. But you can at least find out when and where "auditions" are. And you can sort out somewhere decent to live before you get there.

Don't go over there without a Euro to your name. Take some savings, if you can. Enough to cover a month's rent and deposit is good – enough to cover your rent for the whole summer is perfect.

Don't pace yourself. A summer in Ibiza feels almost as fleeting a fortnight's holiday. Say yes to everything. With everyone. No matter what time of day or night.