Dan Prince goes all South Beach on us…
The Miami Conference. Three words that instill dread, excitement and embarrassment through my veins all in the space of a second. The build up to Ibiza, the week where DJs break tunes that we will dance around to for the next six months and the biggest seven days on the clubbing calender. So whilst Miranda revelas her three tales of woe, what have been my moments that stand out on the other side of the Atlantic? Well, stumbling into a pet shop with the Global Underground boys and watching with my jaw on the floor as they picked up a parrot of his perch and fed him to an alligator. Coming out of the Perfecto party and hanging out on the beach with a load of UK DJs and promoters…and very slowly tiptoeing back across the sand as they all proceeded to snort coke off driftwood whilst two policemen were standing six feet behind them. Dancing on a glass table with Eric Morillo at his Subliminal party and maybe going at it a wee too much – that was one expensive bill we had to pay for a new table. Having an argument with (thankfully) an ex-girlfriend in my hotel room at The Delano and she smashing a chair over my head – explain that to your parents at breakfast the next day. Getting completely smashed on Pina Colada’s by the pool and then having a Jet Ski race with Quest promoter Gez Bailey – obviously smashing into each other resulting in Gez losing his £300 Oakley sunglasses…and two of his front two teeth. Oh, and ringing Madonna’s doorbell and getting a formal police caution by the cops sitting very discretely behind a tree by her house in their Patrol Car. Nice one Dan…
Miranda Cook gets her knockers out…
Thinking about all the awful things I used to get up to, I’ve managed to come up with my top three most embarrassing stories which I will reveal over the next few weeks.. In at number three, round at a friend’s house after Pushca’s Halloween do in ’98. I’d experimented with bombing MDMA for the first time – this didn’t work out quite as expected, as absolutely nothing happened for hours after I took the first one in the queue for the club. Being a bit of a nob, I did a second one and came up like a bastard…in the taxi on the way back to my friend’s – it was horrible! Anyway, as soon as I got into Emma’s house, I changed into some after-party lounge wear, felt better and proceeded to crack on with everyone else. It all got a bit silly, we all lost the plot – Emma crawled out of her skylight window where she spent a long while climbing around on her pitched roof. Meanwhile, her boyfriend had found a disposable camera down the back of the sofa and started taking pictures of everyone. After what could have been minutes, hours or days, I suddenly came round and realised that I was standing with my vest top round my head in the middle of the front room and Emma had just walked in. “Er, why are you letting my boyfriend take pictures of your tits?” she asked. Oh Jesus Christ. I still have no idea why that seemed a good idea at the time. Suffice to say I haven’t got changed into something more comfortable at an after-party since…