Nightclub - opening night

   The nightclub we've been working on finally opened its doors last night. We've been working hard, although usually starting at 'gentlemans' hours and working late.

   Once again large amounts of our time have been spent in consultation with the outfit that installed the LED lighting systems all around the club. They're in charge of 500+ tiny light fixtures, scattered all around the club, all of which are independently controlled via our computer systems. The problem being that the wiring is rather muddled and the wrong lights are turning on (or not), or showing the wrong colour, or not working independently, or flickering, etc, etc. The techs attempting to fix the problem would tell us everything was working fine. We'd test it. Chaos. They'd scratch their heads and work on it for a few hours, after which they would tell us that the problems were all fixed. We'd test it again and find that nothing had changed! Arrghh! We managed to get two thirds of the LED systems working acceptably, but had to disable the rest of them for the night.

This is the club about 3 1/2 hrs before opening. I'm on the ladder, polishing a freshly installed mirrorball.










Rach in the control booth, about an hour before opening.








An ice-sculpture on the bar, with the ice-sculpure installer-guy (I don't know the official name of his profession).







The almost-ready dance floor.










   About an hour before opening a remarkable transformation took place. The messy, unfinished club changed dramatically. Mexicans scrambled around furiously, cleaning, applying last minute coats of paint (warning to punters - watch what you lean on) and then, like magic, all the labourers, electricians, steel workers, and such disappeared. To be replaced by, among other people, a bevvy of gorgeous, impossibly thin hostesses wearing bum-skimming, cleavage-showing, ultra-tight black spandex minidresses. These girls were the 'table service' ladies, who attended to the high flyers that shelled out mucho mucho dollero for a table to sit at and a pretty girl to mix drinks. There were lumbering XXXL-sized security giants in black suits, ready and capable of tearing limbs off unruly patrons. And suave, impeccably dressed gentlemen (think James Bond) who would effortlessly help your every need, with dashing good looks and a charisma to be envied, as long as you were willing to shell over the dosh. Plus there was the good-looking-but-not-gorgeous bar staff who served the plebs rich enough to get in, but too poor to afford to sit down. And, of course, the obligatory mexican busboys who worked harder than everyone else.

   And us, near the bottom of the food chain.

Suckers, I mean punters, lining up outside.
















   Was it a success? Yep. People queued up outside in the cold, wearing their finery, hoping to be allowed in. Not everyone can get in of course. The club must retain an element of exclusivity, snob value, if you will. To be able to have your chauffeur drive you up in your Rolls, and step straight into a place like this is a worthy status symbol indeed.

   It's all bollocks, of course. It's just a big room! Those 'fancy' people staffing the place wouldn't give you the time of day if it weren't for all the money they're milking out of you. But the clientele of this place are the cream of New York.

   And good cream is always rich and thick.