Once you’ve dealt with Morpheus the bouncer at the foyer entrance, you get the feeling that you’re on your way to an illegal poker room. It feels like some sort of an opening scene of a Steven Segal movie. The silence of the high-speed elevator ride, girls giggling, guys shuffeling. Everyone staring at the changing digital floor numbers above the door. I commented to the tart on my right that I thoroughly enjoyed her fish net stockings.

“They’re actually from Woolworths”, she tells me.

“Does it matter where you bought them? They’re fish nets”.

The doors opened on the 31st floor presenting a complete change of senses; music pumping, large pods of angels hurtling around at high speeds and a vulture’s view of the City of Cape Town at night time. (Did you enjoy my semi-colon back there?) Sand blasted glass surrounds the VIP section where girls dance on tables and the club owners knock over buckets of champagne. Welcome to Hemisphere night club on the 31st floor of the ABSA building. It’s quite fun here.

Angels. Three of them. Three angels.

We farted around and danced with some of the underage angels (These we refer to as ‘UNDERangels’). I threw out some moves, allowing them to feed off me. They did. I had to have a chat with Janine the VIP hostess. Gorgeous.

My barman (earlier seen skulking around the loos) was very silly. Do barmen still argue that the incorrect drink they just served you REALLY IS what you ordered? No one cares if you think I said ‘lime’ and not ‘ice’. Take the fucking glass…. empty it…….. and pour a double Jameson with ICE, not LIME, white guy.

It’s not that easy. This particular prima donna stormed over to the sink, turned to me and shouted over all of the music and the noise, “I’ll have to put in (pay) for this!”. Still looking at me, with his arm outstretched behind him, he turned his hand – allowing the contents of the incorrect drink in his hand to pour expertly into the sink, without him having to look at it. With his foot tap tap tapping on the floor like a proper little bitch.

VERY IMPRESSIVE………..TOOL. But please note that your little toy throwing exercise has taken 20 seconds out of our evening. Get that double Jammy and then, if you behave, I’ll use your head as a step, allowing me to climb up and over you to reach things. Like if I wanted to reach up and get a cooler box on top of the kitchen cupboard. I’ll use your head like that – like a step.

As I write this, MTV has gone back in time and played Britney Spears ‘Baby one more time’. God I miss you, Brit. Can’t we just start over?

Back to the bar. The double Jammy’s and ice finally arrived.

“Thanks, Dave”

“My name’s not Dave”

“………..what?”

“I said my name is not Dave”

“….whatever”

I must say, the dance floor was heaps of fun. Heaps. And the angels played so nicely! Groups of four, sometimes five angels at once – dancing, playing, smiling, laughing…..jumping. You’re very cute, Romi. Sadly the DJ wasn’t able to play my current late, unhealthy obsession with Good Charlotte’s ‘I just want to live’. I didn’t expect him to have it, it’s not the right “vibe”. The DJ left later in the evening allowing the actual club to take over the choice of music. It was around this time that our ears started to bleed. That little “Greased Lightning” medly causes migraines – does no one realise that?

I’m still not ready to use their valet parking. Might take the chopper next time and go in directly from the 31st floor landing pad.