Thursday was reserved for Marc Jacobs at MasterCard LUXURY WEEK, where Bryanboy, fashion blogger and muse (hello, MJ made and named a bag after him) was flown in and sat on Section B, Row 1, Seat 2. I was Section C, Row A, Seat 15. Which means we were Front. Row. Center. Thank YOU-Arigato-Meherbani, Neelam-ji (who handed me my ticket), I loved your fierce outfit!

It was amusing seeing all these bitches trying to sit front row, but they obviously had no Right to be sitting there. And they knew it. So there was a lot of fidgeting and furtive glances. Hello, front row seats are ASSIGNED. And unless you are press, celeb, tai-tai or buyer, you’re standing at the back.

Bryanboy was sitting diagonally across from me, next to the absolutely spectacular six-foot-one Miss World 2007, Zhang Zilin. She had excellent posture. Karen Mok was slumped in her chair, but exuded quiet stellar fierceness. She’s a total Rockstar. And Bryanboy was looking nervous in his chair. I got my cards and walked over. And he beamed and squealed when I introduced myself (as I had previously Facebooked him and told him I JUST HAD to interview him and he read my column online and thought it “was rad.”)

Security broke us up and told us to be seated. I noticed that people who weren’t supposed to be in the front row were GONE. (except for Kenneth and Karen who werq’ed it). Seconds later I realized I had no idea where my seating card was. The show hadn’t started yet, so if security came and asked for my ticket, I would produce none and be kicked out. I would have to scream and protest, “I’m Nightlife! I have, like this column! I’m HK’s SJP!” and they would probably just throw me out regardless because rarely does security read. Luckily, all that drama was just the product of my twisted paranoia during that split-second.

Then everyone made the mad rush to the Convention Centre for the YSL extravaganza. I mentioned to my friend Kenneth that the wigs are from Paris, and he thought I meant that the hair belonged to French nuns. No, I meant the wigs were used in the Paris show. The actual hair is probably from some Brazilian mother who cut it all off to feed her seven kids. But YSL was a beauty to behold. Pretty limitless champagne.

Friday, we went to Sushi Kuu, where head honcho Satoru-san came over and presented us with yet another bottle of daiginjo sake and samurai drinks. So I was quite tipsy already when we went to Cliq for "Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy." No poseurs, just folks who wanted to dance-dance revolutionize the night. As I drew up to the front, DJ Enso approached me and yelled, “I know you! I know you... you sold me a t-shirt in Causeway Bay!” I was like, “I’m sure I didn’t.” and he was like, “Yeah you did!” and I went, “No I di~nt!” and he asked, “What’s your name?” And I said “Johannes.” And he was like, “Aaawshit, I read your column, I’m gonna be in it now, right?” Uh, YEAH. But don’t worry, honey, you’re not my “Bitch, please” casualty this week.