A very average night out in Paceville

The sun also rises over Paceville on a Sunday morning. The waves of St George’s Bay, together with piss-filled beer cans and empty takeaway boxes, glimmer in the pale orange sunlight.

The soft morning light also serves as an alarm clock for those who went a little too crazy the night before and fell asleep on the cold, stone-tiled streets.

We had spent five hours crawling through the sticky streets of Malta’s nightlife capital. You might think Valletta is where the island’s culture is most evident, but you haven’t seen a thing until you’ve seen Paceville.

The idea was Jaelle’s. She wanted to see a different side of Paceville, beyond the drunken crowds and deafening music. After all, how many people know what it’s like to be a police officer, an AFM soldier, a clubber, a horse, or even a rat scurrying through the streets on a Saturday night?

And so, we got into a cab.

Welcome to Paceville

As you approach the entrance of a Paceville club, you might find yourself rummaging through your bag in a drunken attempt to locate your ID card, which is supposedly part of the routine. While some bouncers will ask to see it, others will wave you through without so much as a glance.

It would be wrong to make any sweeping statements but, personally, we were let into every club we entered alone with little more than a smile and a nod.

Immediately upon entering, you are greeted by the smell of vapes and vodka, the scents of which combine in the most marvellous way in the heavy, at times, poorly ventilated places.

The sensory wonderland is only enhanced by the music, which seemingly consists of Pitbull, Cardi B, and some sort of Spanish rap played on repeat for seven hours, turning the very concept of conversation into an extreme sport. Although, to be fair, I doubt you’re walking into a club for an intellectually stimulating conversation.

Drinks are flowing, and judging by the aforementioned sticky floors, a fair amount of alcohol never makes it past the glass. Leaning against the bar was a wide-eyed man, looking up at a young woman who was attempting to pay for a rum and Coke with a €100 bill.

There you have it, the perfect place to do MDMA, and conveniently also one of the easiest spots on the island to find it, but you didn’t hear that from us. In fact, one of us is about 99% sure they watched a man slide what appeared to be a tab of acid off his tongue.

And then there are the toilets.

One visit is enough to make you consider walking out of the club and pissing behind a wall. Soggy rolls of toilet paper plaster the floors, which are best navigated without looking down.

“Does anyone have a tampon?” a girl yelled out from inside one of the two stalls.

“Shove a tissue up there!” the woman who sat beside me responded.

All the while, the music keeps thumping, the girls keep crying, and strangers become best friends who will have forgotten each other by tomorrow. The beauty of womanhood is encapsulated in a nightclub bathroom.

Not a nightclub, officer!

But beyond the loud music, overflowing drinks and questionable toilet conditions lies a more technical problem—licensing.

According to police officers we spoke to, many establishments that operate much like nightclubs are not actually licensed as such. Instead, they operate as “bars with amplified music.” As ridiculous as it is, it’s a distinction that creates considerable challenges when it comes to enforcement.

Although the law provides a definition of a nightclub, officers explained that establishments licensed as bars are not subject to the same obligations. This means that, even when police identify practices that would otherwise constitute breaches of nightclub regulations, their hands are often tied by the absence of specific legal requirements. It’s one of those wonders of the law that makes you question whether the rules mean anything at all.

And even when officers can take action, the penalties appear to offer little deterrence. According to police, fines are so low that some establishments barely feel their impact. Violations become recurrent, with the penalties seemingly treated as just another cost of doing business. In other words, breaking the rules can be cheaper than following them.

Even when an establishment does have a nightclub licence, officers claimed that licences are issued without prior inspections and that enforcement remains inadequate. The licensing process itself, it seems, is something of a mess.

Here’s the funny thing—police told MaltaToday that only one establishment in the area operates as a properly licensed nightclub. Be honest though, are you surprised?

Police say they are pushing for stricter licensing requirements and seeking greater cooperation with other authorities, including the Malta Tourism Authority (MTA), to address these gaps.

Girls just want to have fun

Back outside, the streets of Paceville are putting on a show of their own.

The famous stairs are packed with revellers, some making their way up, others stumbling down, and a few seemingly struggling to remember which direction they were heading in the first place. Empty cups and half-smoked cigarettes litter the steps, illuminated by the bright pink lights above us.

A techno remix of Girls Just Want to Have Fun makes its way into the chaos, although it’s difficult to decide which song to listen to when you’re hearing four at once. At least one of them was Pitbull.

A girl holding a man’s hand ran into my shoulder.

“Sorry!” she laughed, before disappearing back into the crowd.

Every few metres brings another invitation. Buy-one-get-one-free shots! Free drinks! Free entrance! Free entrance! Free entrance! A stripper hands out tokens to passing men. I wonder what that could get you. Only one way to find out, right?

A barefoot woman lies flat on the ground. An empty bottle of Absolut stands upright beside her head. Police did their best to get her back on her feet. She rolled over and waved them away. A child walked past, looking up at us as he went.

Garbage, rats, and your takeaway dinner

Garbage is found on every corner of Paceville, every surface, anywhere except a trashcan, which to be fair are quite sparce in the first place. Personally, it took a 15-minute walk to find a place to throw out my empty can of Redbull.

Paceville’s viral takeaway problem only adds fuel to the fire. After a night of drinking and dancing, the temptation of a late-night burger, kebab or slice of pizza is understandably difficult to resist.

But, according to Police Superintendent Melvyn Camilleri, the growing number of takeaway outlets along the stairs has created an additional headache for officers trying to manage the crowds. It also makes the countless greased up paper bags and scatteredd bottles a lot easier to understand.

And it seems the nightlife is not reserved for humans.

While walking with police officers back down the steps, we were graced with the presence of a rat, scurrying across the street from one hole into another. I turned to the officer.

“They are like rats,” he said, looking down the crowded street. “Like flies. They are all inside, then they all go outside, then they all disappear.”

The up-and-coming market of BCRS

Among the partygoers is another group of regular visitors. People collecting discarded plastic bottles and cans to cash in through Malta’s Beverage Container Refund Scheme (BCRS). Police know them all by name.

Armed with large bags and trolleys, they make their way through the streets, collecting empty bottles and cans left behind by revellers. Once their bags are full, they return to their cars, unload their haul and head back out for round two.

And business is hardly in short supply. Police officers told us that one collector makes around €200 a week from discarded bottles alone. Another, they explained, donates the proceeds to charity.

The order behind the chaos

Speaking of officers, there’s actually quite a bit of organisation happening within the crowds of Paceville, although you might not notice while walking through. From about 9pm to 4am, the area benefits from the constant presence of police, the Armed Forces, and emergency medical personnel. Hell, there’s even police horses. Maybe I should interview one.

Paceville has its own permanent policing team, but according to officers, the sheer number of people visiting the entertainment district means additional resources are regularly brought in from across Malta.

According to police estimates, Paceville attracts between 10,000 and 12,000 people on busy nights, with the figure rising to between 15,000 and 18,000 during the summer months.

Paceville has five police inspectors, compared with the two or three typically assigned to other districts. An attempt to introduce a sixth was unsuccessful, leaving the existing team with a demanding caseload.

On the weekends, the team is reinforced by officers from other districts, as well as members of the Rapid Intervention Unit (RIU), fully armed and dressed in black, standing in a corner across club doors.

A man, visibly wasted, walked up to an officer for a photo. He said he wanted to show his mother back home.

“Not while I’m on duty,” the officer replied. “Maybe try the RIU.”

“Do they have guns?” the tourist asked, with a smile on his face.

The officer placed his hand on the man’s shoulder: “We don’t need guns here.”

Police also point out that Paceville’s reported crime rate is approximately double the national average, although they attribute part of this to the area’s unusual population dynamics, with large numbers of tourists and other visitors moving through the district.

The operation relies on a mobile police station, positioned near where the former Burger King restaurant stood.

Rather than transporting every person requiring police attention back to the station, the mobile unit allows officers to handle certain procedures on site, including those relating to arrests. It also serves as a point of assistance for the public, offering a safe space where people can approach officers for help, files a report and even charge their mobile phones.

During our visit, the arrival of AFM soldiers was enough to prompt some of those gathered near the beach to begin leaving.

“Policía, policía,” I heard a man mutter in Spanish under his breath in his friend’s ear, all the while chewing the inside of his mouth. The pair got up and walked away.

Paceville’s medical emergencies

But perhaps one of the most pressing challenges facing the Paceville operation is the demand for medical assistance.

According to police, busy summer weekends can see an average of six to eight ambulance call-outs per night, frequently involving people suffering the effects of excessive alcohol consumption.

Officers say they have been pushing for a permanent medical presence in Paceville for years, arguing that having medical personnel stationed in the area would allow for a more immediate response to emergencies.

However, establishing such a service would require considerable resources, and the proposal has yet to materialise.

The need for medical assistance is evident during our patrol. At the rocky beach near St George’s Bay, we encounter an ambulance attending to an intoxicated individual.

“Only the first of the night,” an officer remarked.

Failed to get lucky by 4am? Try St George’s Bay

The police might leave, but the party doesn’t end when clubs close their doors at 4am. Instead of heading to bed, party-goers stumble down the paved staircase and descend upon the shores of St George’s Bay. Without police presence, this was probably the first time I felt unsafe throughout the night.

With more than enough liquor to go around, the drinking continues well into the morning, until the rising sun burns your eyes and sends you crawling back to your hotel room up the road. And, if you’re lucky, you won’t be alone.

That, it seems, is part of the appeal. For those whose romantic pursuits inside the clubs proved unsuccessful, St George’s Bay offers one last chance. Strangers approach strangers, conversations are struck, and some disappear together into the early hours. Sometimes, you’ll read about it in a court report a week later.

Before 4am, however, the bay is patrolled by members of the Armed Forces and mounted police officers, whose horses are quite difficult to miss. Initially, I assumed their presence was intended to intimidate troublemakers, but officers explained the animals actually have a calming effect on the crowds.

And, if you’re tempted for a late-night swim, make sure not to think about the common sewage leaks into the beach. This is another spot best navigated without looking down.

The price of hating Paceville

Beyond the garbage, the rats, the spiked drinks and Pitbull, Paceville is an economic powerhouse. During our patrol, police officers claimed that this small corner of St Julian’s contributes around 10% of Malta’s GDP.

Paceville, they explained, is a vital part of Malta’s economy, attracting tourists, investment and new business opportunities. Its economic influence extends well beyond the entertainment district itself, with the growth of short-let apartments and other businesses spilling into surrounding areas.

And that’s the thing. Paceville is no longer just a collection of bars and clubs. It has evolved into a district increasingly dominated by hotels, restaurants, gaming establishments, and shopping centres, all contributing to its changing identity.

That night, or rather, that morning, I went home smelling of cigarettes, without a thought left in my brain except I hate Paceville. But 10% of Malta’s GDP and 18,000 revellers is a lot to simply throw away.