“Always be yourself unless you can be a unicorn,” says Steven Bateson, an eager young man who didn’t get enough points to be a “unicorn” (there’s a degree course in TCD) and has resolved to be himself.

This isn't too hard for him as he has "a big personality" (nowadays, this is more a diagnosis than a description) and he works for the Wright Venue, a massive B-list-celebrity-frequented nightclub that sprang into existence when an enchanted copy of the Sindo's Life Magazine was hit by lightning and turned into a place.

The Wright Venue is the subject of Clubland, this week's Reality Bites documentary (Wednesdays, RTE 2), and Steven is the chosen star. He wanders around the venue getting in a tizzy about the "slick smoking section", which he understandably plans to recreate in his garden, and "the cougar room" wherein, he explains, the more mature woman finds love among virile young bucks (curiously, the two main demographics who read The Ticket).

Hedge-trimmer

There are some other people on Clubland, but they're not given as much screen time as Steven. Steven's boss is Michael Wright, who named the venue after himself (his spoon is probably called "the Wright spoon"; his hedge-trimmer "the Wright hedge-trimmer"). He wears crisp shirts and has a mane of hair like a noble lion or majestic Bee Gee. He turns up as a talking head but doesn't actually appear in his domain, much like an ascendency landlord or God. The Wright Venue is his legacy, his monument.

When he dies, it will be his tomb and his attendants and retainers will be buried alive with him (this is allowed under Irish employment law). Steven doesn’t mind.

Being buried alive with the boss is a small price to pay for getting to hang out with Proudlock from Made in Chelsea.

Rachel Wallace, Steven’s best friend, is a “host”, blogger and presenter with Wright Venue TV (an online vehicle for Soviet-style Wright Venue propaganda). “Me and Rachel always do little sneaky little shots,” says Steven, as he and Rachel do sneaky little shots. “Nobody has to know.” The camera crew must have been hidden behind a bush like in a wildlife documentary.

Then some text comes up onscreen saying: “Rachel is no longer employed by the Wright Venue”. Which is slightly chilling and feels like it should come with some warnings about Trotsky. Rachel returns later, seeming older, as though traumatised by the world outside this glittery idyll (Swords).

Crazed king

Rachel is replaced in Steven’s affections by Kate. “She is literally like a sister to me,” he says, before being carried around on her back like a crazed king. By “sister” he must mean “pack pony”. By “literally” he means “literally”.

There's also a shoal of management types. They blend into one composite character who rolls his/her eyes in exasperation whenever Steven isn't where he's supposed to be, but is, instead, eating dinner with Proudlock from Made in Chelsea, checking out decorative dildos in a sex shop, writhing around a large prop cocktail glass, or driving a tiny little car like Noddy.

Steven is responsible for entertainment at the club during its fifth birthday celebrations. On the surface this seems like asking Norman Wisdom or Spongebob Squarepants to do the job, the only possible logic being “we want to see what happens”.

But, some panicking and squabbling aside, Steven is perfect for this ridiculous task.

As you can imagine, Michael Wright wants a quiet little gathering, nothing over the top. So it's just a few drinks, some friends (2,000 or so), fire-breathing stilt-walkers, a confused lingerie-wearing dance troupe, people in bondage gear, live snakes, foreign dignitaries paying tribute (Katy Armstrong from Coronation Street, Proudlock), and four men carrying, on a bier, a scantily clad woman who is pretending to drive a tiny red car and holding a Molotov cocktail.

It seems a little conceptually incoherent, but when you realise it’s a metaphor for the Irish economy, it’s okay.

Michael Wright seems pleased. “They’re party people in a party world,” he says wisely from his orbiting space station/ heaven. The man is a detached, non-interventionist visionary. Look on his works, ye mighty, and disco.