THEY say he’s into yachting and polo. Drives a Maserati. And he bought part of the Kebble assets on auction. Just some of the art, and the one property. They say he’s quite a good oke, though. The new girlfriend seems to think so.

They say she was in Miss SA. Didn’t win it, but she did well. Top five in 2004 or something. You’ll recognise her from somewhere. She also did some bikini modeling. I preferred the previous one, the brunette one.

He’s got the VIP booth with the good lighting. It’s like they’re on stage. Bottle of Moet on the go all night, and the ou’s got an awesome build, you gotta hand it to him. Can’t be just polo. He must gym. Unless horse riding is quite harsh on the biceps.

In nightclubs, the alpha male doesn’t really have to do anything, he’s just the most talked-about guy in the room. The centre of attention. Great hair. Great suntan.

And it’s been raining like a bastard these last two weeks. It’s a really deep tan, that. His girl too. People are tanning these days.

They don’t dance so much, though. More chill in the VIP booth. And people come up and have cellphone pictures taken with them.

Then, somewhere around midnight, the axis of power shifts with the arrival of a rival male. The cricket professional!

Now here’s a guy everybody knows. And dressed smart, hey. Not like you see him on TV. That must be an Armani suit he’s got on.

He does nothing. He just comes in and stands. Surveys the dance floor. He’s tall, hey. Gravitas, they call it. You find yourself staring at him for a couple of minutes before you realise, hey, that’s who it is! They were supposed to play at the Wanderers tonight. Rained out, so he came out on the jol. Nice.

The nightclub millionaire lurks ignored in his VIP booth, but here he comes now!

He’s wading through the dance floor throng to get the cricket star.

A showdown ensues. The cricket guy is at least a head taller than his rival, who does all the talking.

The shorter man is intense, pointing in the other dude’s face in a “who do you think you are” kind of way. The model girlfriend screams and tries to drag him off. Bodyguards materialise from somewhere. Not bouncers, bodyguards! They squeeze between the two men. Testosterone is dripping off the ceiling by this point. You can smell it – it has the scent of sweat and Jaeger-bombs.

The man in the Armani doesn’t even move. He doesn’t even make eye contact. He stands, unfazed, while the nightclub millionaire screams and gesticulates, before being bundled out of the club.

The cricketer turns and makes his way to the bar, where he and his entourage order whiskies. It’s quite an entrance, and we now have a new most-talked-about guy in the room.

Elsewhere, the new beta male goes home with a supermodel. There are worse consolation prizes.