Magaluf has never struck me as the sort of place I’d like to visit. It’s sort of like a version of ‘Escape from New York’ set on a Spanish island where the only Spaniards are the people in charge of pumping stomachs and where custom dictates that god-awful techno be blared at excruciating volumes in order to mask the sound of knuckles being dragged across the Punta Balena pavement. 1,079 more words