Jo-Jo Bellini and John Robertson: Food and Redecorating in a Sex Club

It was around 8pm when John Robertson called to ask, "Have you ever taken a shit in a corset?"

I'd already drunk three shots of vodka while my attorney, Dickie, desperately tried to tear eye-holes into the adhesive bandages he'd wrapped around his head. "No," I replied, "but we'll be with you in 20 minutes."

Dickie handed me the bottle of Zubrowka and then the kitchen knife: "Just cut me a fucking nose hole before I pass out."

"Make that an hour," I told Robertson.

This weekend was planned as a quiet, romantic sojourn for Mrs Fletch and I on a double-date with comedians John Robertson and Jo-Jo Bellini to an impossible sex club. But in a total confuckulence of events my mother-in-law had wired herself from her own timeline to the exact coordinates of my living room. My mother-in-law doesn't much like sex clubs and hence why I had my attorney present.

Once, long before my mother-in-law and I met in person (and on hearing of her daughter's engagement), she'd conducted a basic background check on me. There is no easy way to explain her search results and what she found there. But, in brief... while the internet is a great place to see a cat play the theremin, it’s a terrible place to see me. The reference to Thundercatting her daughter's sex pants had rather turned my future mother-in-law against our engagement. Yet, the whole thing resulted in a situation like Catherine Brelet’s mother telling her not to marry Max Von Sydow because she once saw him trying to explode Flash Gordon.

Having failed to prevent our nuptials she put her everythings into a space-block of our basic right to go fetish clubbing. By incommoding me the evening was now in jeopardy, with Bellini and Robertson left in a ticketless purgatory.

Now, we always knew Dickie gave unorthodox advice. But tonight it backfired completely. It turned out that the spectacle of a mummified lawman bursting into the living-room wielding a knife didn't bring about the absolute collapse of my mother-in-law's mind we had hoped for. Instead she looked past his bandages and hardly registered the disappointed eight-inches of my barely concealed dong silhouetted in the doorframe.

Five minutes later, it was with Dickie rather than Mrs Fletch that I headed out to meet Bellini and Robertson. 

Tonight, I dressed as Sean Connery from Zardoz complete with galactic space-diaper. Bandaged Dickie, of course, continued to play both The Invisible Man and my wing-man. Although our taxi driver said nothing there was an unspoken understanding that he'd have to boil the cab's upholstery and mark the invoice to bypass the Comedy section and go straight to the Editor.

As Bellini and Robertson emerged from their hotel the eighth shot of vodka kicked in. It was a good thing too, for Robertson was dressed like he'd been kicked out of Thunderdome for Thunderdome-ing too hard, with tight corset and boots designed specifically to start some shit on the moon. Bellini, hair streaked red and clutching a rolling pin, was adorned in a low-cut latex dress that revealed NASA's underwear scientists must have finally worked out how to weaponise a bra beyond the usual Ninja stars and Mexican fireworks.

The pair of them had officially just replaced human genitals at the top of the food chain.

On arrival, the four of us found the venue awash with latex, rubber, fur and military uniforms. Clearly 90% of the club was wild enough to spend a weekend cutting fuckholes into a fox-costume but domesticated enough to know exactly which biological soap powder gets semen out of a 1920s air marshall's hat. Yet, the whole event was terribly civilised with people passing charming pleasantries to each other like, "Your slave is so well behaved" and "I love what you've done with your nipples."

Robertson could not have been more at home. Frenzied, sharp-witted and almost supernaturally sexual, it is no surprise he became the centre of many attentions that evening. The only thing keeping my mouth off every part of his body was the three King James Bibles that I'd juiced and drunk before all the sorry business with Dickie and my mother-in-law. But Robertson is still the kind of pal you can inform, "My nappy has ridden up so tight my dick looks like a balloon animal," without meeting his disapproval.

Of course, you'll appreciate the one thing I was meant to do this evening was interview Bellini and Robertson about their Fringe shows. When I was meant to ask them both where they got their ideas from and who their comedy heroes were and what was their favourite heckle and which of their mates' shows they would like to plug, I was actually surrounded by five-star slave boys tied to a mermaid, a sexy Hitler and a latex Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Unfortunately we simply found all the fetishes on offer too distracting for in-depth feature interviews.

I've since done some investigating though and it turns out both shows are boner-level awesome: 

Robertson's show Let's Redecorate brings S&M, death and God together for an event horizon of beautiful comedy, yet reflects on the passing of a dear friend. It is ultimately a salute to life and love. He will also reprise The Dark Room, his signature show.

Then there's Bellini's This and That – A Late Night Tasty Delight. While most debut shows end with an apology, Bellini will end hers with a delicious bowl of soup. And though it didn't constitute an interview, whenever Bellini spoke about food on the sex club night, it was as sexy as regional hygiene laws allow. Her salacious decriptions came so close to porn I'd seriously consider fucking the marmalade I have in the fridge – though it's probable my attorney got there first.

"The pair of them had officially just replaced human genitals at the top of the food chain"

Meanwhile, back at the sex club, that very attorney was possessing an ever-diminishing percentage of normal human vision as his medical bandages were slowly tightening due to the sweltering atmosphere. It would be a continuing problem but, for now, one he managed by simply demanding a straw for his beer and vanishing deeper into the club. The subsequent crashes and screams assured me he'd successfully found the dungeon.

It was then that Robertson started playing whack-a-mole with the glow-sticks he'd unceremoniously rammed into my crotch, until the sexy Hitler winked at us as she was drawn past our table and onto a dance floor playing Wild Wild West by Will Smith, and broke the mood. I pulled a glowstick from my urethra with about as much dignity as I could muster and joined Bellini for a cigarette. We were soon tasked with keeping a close eye on the woman in a basque who politely asked us if we'd "piss on her twat", an opportunity we passed on for not having a urologist on speed-dial.

We were late back to the table and Robertson smacked me hard across the nipple as he'd ended up looking after the increasingly constricted Dickie. We headed to the bar again and, then, the evening becomes a blur. I recall dancing with latex ninjas and Bellini rescuing Robertson from a slap fight in the women's bathroom. I remember a room with a woman strapped to a table being paddled on the butthole by a Jon Snow from Game of Thrones. I remember Dickie advising me to take a drink of whatever he produced from his coat pocket... then nothing until the music stopped and we headed from the cloakroom into the cool night air.

We were all forced to step carefully over a girl on all fours fellating the end-of-level boss from Double Dragon. Although I'm a firm believer of spontaneous, last minute passion, she clearly knew a lot more about putting her entire mouth over a penis than she did about trip-hazards near a fire exit.

As we staggered into the night, Dickie reappeared in a state of panic. It turns out that while adhesive bandaging makes an impressive and alluring invisible-man costume, after five hours of dancing under disco lights, the shit had turned into a material as tough as kevlar. Exposed to the cold night air, Dickie began to choke and tear at his face like he was metamorphosing into a warewolf with space-eczema.

And so it was that Bellini, Robertson and I ripped and pulled the accursed mask from him in chunks while he loudly screamed, "Just give me a fucking knife" on the damp road surface of one of Edinburgh's main thoroughfares. Unfortunately, my mother-in-law was doubtless sat on the knife he needed.

If anyone had told me at the start of the night that our adventure in fetish and fantasy would end standing in the rain, tearing the face off a howling Invisible Man I'd have said, "Well, obviously, Timecop."

The last we saw of Dickie was as he ran along Cowgate, sodden bandages flailing and arms akimbo, a receding figure disappearing from our vision into the night.