And so too were celebs, whose fun behaviour now is truly not dissimilar from that of miners: some of them weren't paid over the holidays for their TV work, so they receded into their barren abodes totally out of pocket.

They couldn't even afford the R100 entrance fee, not to mention the R5000 for a VIP table at ZAR nightclub in Sandton, where yours truly trained shim's steely hawk-eye.

Malcolm X, ZAR's former manager, launched the first salvo of what is likely to shape up as the most vicious battle of 2012.

Malcom X, who's notorious for desperate publicity stunts such as scaling buildings to threaten suicide, kindly informed moi that ZAR is passé.

"Celebrities no longer go there. No one worth their money goes to ZAR anymore," he said, and launched into an evangelical tirade as to why I, of all people, ought to go to Taboo, his new employers across town.

I was horrified. Imagine spending New Year's Eve with hormone-pumping, testosterone-burning teeny-boppers! You know moi is one for high class and taste.

But I'm afraid, Malcolm X wasn't far off the mark.

Neither Juju nor King Sushi were there quaffing Dom Perignon or chain-smoking Cubans. Their absence spoke volumes about how the club is going down.

Phozisa Dlabishana, who was the soul of the party, danced like an uncontainable Jack-in-the-box.

A whole cast of students just sat there, dejected that no recognisable personality was around. And the few BEE men around were with better partners in tow: Nothando Dlamini, Palesa Nxumalo, Noxolo Khumalo, Maala Machaba and Theki Mashigo.

Gayton McKenzie's lovely wife was there and a desperate artist was busy etching her portrait to make a few rands on the night.

She just sat there looking lovely in a virgin white flowing knee-length dress. She flashed a white-toothed smile when introduced to moi.

McKenzie and wife had a dubiously exotic and strange fellow named Joshua Maphanga for company.

Maphanga wore full Muslim regalia on the night, right down to his keffiyeh, which he used to conceal his identity.

He looked as though he was from Yemen, but McKenzie assured yours truly that he was from the Ukraine.

Serge Jao Christiano Gabonge, the Angolan long-suffering awaiting-trial prisoner who was wrongfully arrested, had a fabulous time, as any ex-prisoner would seeing such beguiling flesh. His lilting Angolan accent is charming.

Plenty of flesh there was, and the colour of the night was predominantly grave black and blood red with a smattering of virgin white.

Lucia Semene, with her beau Brian, was stunning in a virgin white mini-dress, revealing loin-stirring thighs.

She danced with him seductively alongside the poor glass-box display of wine and whisky.

She tried to convince yours truly that Brian was her legal hubby. Brain demurred and whispered his protest in her ear, to no avail.

Construction and transport mogul Monkhe Selele made R5700 in hard currency rain down for anyone to catch.

The revellers were soon snatching notes. It was like in the 1920s Chicago when mobsters would rain down hard cash on to pavements to cause public stampedes so they could get away.

Actually, the revellers were decently behaved, underlining the class that frequents ZAR.

Asked why he gave away all that dosh with wild abandon: "It was my way of giving back to the community. R5700 is nothing. I make 20 times that in a month."

Jeez, Khanyi Mbau, are you listening?

Classy model and dancer Patience Phumzile Ndlovu has returned from Turkey, where she's doing modelling.

Her revealing black mini-number had Zaheer Patel quaking with lust.

He clung to Patience and her friend Reay Rebomi.

Lewis the 15th, owner of G-star fashion label was hosted by the self-effacing McKenzie.

DJ Noxx, who was hemmed in by his fabulous voluptuous wife Michelle Mulenga, kept announcing the arrival of Z-listers that Google doesn't even recognise.

DJ Noxx, let's get one thing straight, baby: innocent people such as you don't decide who are celebs. I decide that and I make and break 'em.

Get it, honey?

Oh, dear, Dudu Zuma, notorious for the aborted pirate BEE-deal, seems to be keeping Dom Perignon in a glass box at ZAR.

Why he keeps top-of-the-range champagne in a glass box only this arriviste would know.

My dear boy, yesterday you'd never heard of champagne, let alone Dom Perignon; now you're storing it in a glass box.

So crassness just won't leave you, no matter how much money you make?

Oh, the nouveau riche!