Ibiza. The sun-drenched island of eternal youth, where smiles shine brighter than inhibitions, and DJ decks drown out existential dread. Or at least, that’s what we thought. Turns out, the Balearic hotspot is rewriting the retirement narrative, and it’s got nothing to do with bingo. Instead, it’s about letting loose on the dance floor without the guilt of being hungover at work looming over you, or the hassle of trying to finesse free drinks because now, you can actually afford them. Welcome to the wild world of old people clubbing, where the cocktails flow like Botox (we’ll get to that). It’s like a midlife crisis with a better soundtrack – think Stealer’s Wheel, instead of David Guetta.
Divorced, Beheaded, Drunk
The geriatric Ibiza dream starts on the plane. My friend spent the flight sitting next to a recently divorced man in his fifties who was living. He bought her wine, shared his tragic backstory (wife left, house sold, dog custody battle unresolved yada, yada, yada…), and confessed he was heading to Ibiza alone to “find himself.” Somewhere between the Chardonnay and the cramp he got from Ryan Air’s lack of leg room, she realised Ibiza isn’t just a place for reinvention; it’s a neon-lit therapy session.
“How Did You Get In?”
Granted, the clubs we explored did not include the infamous Ushuaia, where I’m sure a herd of Portsmouth mandem would be, or Pacha where influencers prefer posing with the famous cherries over partying with any real fervour. Instead, we were all about Pikes – an iconic, over-27’s-only club. For us, mere babes at 21 and 24, getting into Pikes felt like sneaking backstage at fashion week. Entry to this hallowed house of hedonism wasn’t achieved through age but through connections. Specifically, my friend’s mum knowing the DJ. (Because nothing screams “Ibiza nightlife” like nepotism by way of maternal friendship.) Once inside, we were hit with the realisation: this isn’t your average club. This was a temple to ageless cool, where the line between being a regular and being a relic blurs under dim lighting and disco balls, and – actually, ball pit balls – because, yes, there was a bath filled with them and, yes, I fell in.
The funniest part? People were asking us what Botox we use. As if we were undercover retirees with expertly concealed bunions. It was both flattering and concerning – kind of like being ID’d at Tesco when you’re 30. In all fairness, we did look half the age of the majority of the crowd, but bar the occasional Botox banter it was certainly a judge free zone.
The Silver Generation Steal the Spotlight
Pikes is no ordinary club. Housed in a 15th-century finca (that’s Spanish for “bougie farmhouse”), with a pool and tennis court, it’s Ibiza’s mecca for mischief-makers who’ve swapped glow sticks for glowing skincare routines they’ve found at the beach. The crowd? A mix of silver foxes, divorcees, still the odd drug dealer and lifelong ravers determined to party like it’s 1989.
One moment, you’re watching a man with a salt-and-pepper ponytail light up the dance floor with moves that scream yoga retreat instructor. The next, a woman in her sixties is poolside, passing out shots and giving unsolicited advice. In the corners are your usual hen dos and stag nights, drunkenly complaining about the stickers covering our phone cameras to ensure Pike’s mysterious essence is preserved. It’s not what you expect from Ibiza nightlife; it’s better.
Chat’s Dry, but the Vibes are Moist
Of course, it wouldn’t be Ibiza without drama. At one point, a girl (barely old enough to remember Myspace) let rip at a man who looked like he’d been there since it opened. “Your chat’s dryer than my nan’s crotch.” Brutal, yes, but also incredibly iconic, unfiltered, unsparing.
The man, unbothered, shrugged and went back to his beer. In a place like Pikes, ego takes a backseat to endurance, and the real goal is surviving until sunrise. It’s not just about pulling; it’s about proving you’ve still got it — even if “it” is a discount card for orthotics.
Rewriting the Retirement Playbook
There’s something undeniably cool about old people clubbing. It reclaims nightlife as an ageless pursuit, a rebellion against the idea that fun has an expiry date. These aren’t retirees settling for shuffleboard — they’re sipping martinis, shaking it to 70s classics, and proving that life doesn’t end at 50; it just gets a more adventurous palette for both wine and experiences.
As a 21-year-old who typically claims to “hate clubbing,” I found myself dancing to a remix of “Stuck in the Middle with You” with an iced Diet Coke in hand (designated driver duties), and having so much fun, I almost convinced myself I was drunk.
As we stumbled out of Pikes at some ungodly hour, still reeling from a man in leather trousers insisting we’d “never know disco like they did,” we couldn’t help but admire them. These legends were partying not because they were chasing youth but because they owned it. And as for us? We’re starting to think early retirement in Ibiza doesn’t sound half bad — that and the relief that gardening isn’t inevitable.
Georgina Lunn 