Thank God the boss of this sleazy club isn't going to be Prince George's godfather, says Melissa Kite after spending a very unedifying night there Guy Pelly has been touted as a possible godfather to the newborn Prince He held his first Do Not Disturb night at his Sloane Square club Tonteria By Melissa Kite Two leggy, lingerie-clad models begin to gyrate against each other in time to deafeningly loud pop music. They pretend to kiss, before dripping wax from the candles they are holding on to each other's bodies, to appreciative roars from the floppy-haired former public schoolboys crowding around them. Six topless waiters wearing black leather bondage masks make their way through the nightclub with burning bottles of alcohol, stopping every few minutes to hand out shot glasses or pour alcohol into the mouths of pretty girls. A short while later, a wooden pirate's chest is wheeled out into the middle of the dance floor, to whoops of approval from the partygoers. Unedifying night: Melissa Kite and a dancer at Guy Pelly's Don Not Disturb club night at Tonteria Two curvaceous women leap out of it with nothing but knickers and nipple tassels to preserve their modesty, and hold flaming torches aloft, which they proceed to run over each other's bodies, before swallowing the flames. Welcome to "Do Not Disturb," the latest nightclub event from the best friend of Princes William and Harry, Guy Pelly, a man who just this week was touted as a possible godfather to Prince George. This is the first X-rated night at Pelly's Mexican-themed Chelsea nightclub, Tonteria, in Sloane Square, in the heart of London's most exclusive residential and designer shopping district. It was advertised as a debauched evening of semi-naked dancing girls, and the video promoting the event on Facebook depicts a couple cavorting naked to the sound of raunchy club music, with a strapline which promises: "Thursday nights will never be the same." The campaign has had the desired effect - so many people are clamouring to get into the venue that five police officers were battling to keep the crowds out of the path of oncoming traffic at 11pm. Royal favourite: Princess Eugenie pictured with club owner, and friend of Princes William and Harry, Guy Pelly Club boss: The clientele of Tonteria, Mahiki and other venues of the baby-faced 31-year-old (pictured) regularly queue up like this because they think they might catch a glimpse of Pelly¿s royal chums, their hangers-on or other Sloaney celebrities This is partly due to the Pelly effect. The clientele of Tonteria, Mayfair club Mahiki and other venues of the baby-faced 31-year-old regularly queue up like this because they think they might catch a glimpse of Pelly's royal chums, their hangers-on or other Sloaney celebrities. Even getting into the club is a challenge. The door is policed by an attractive woman in a skimpy outfit and a facemask, who monitors the guest list. We are told sternly that only VIPs are being allowed in, while other masked girls in lingerie cavort around her, carrying feathers. These VIPs are handed condoms as they are waved through, and told to exchange them for drinks at the bar. If I was to be unkind I would say that the place looks rather like a branch of Nandos staffed by escapees from an Ann Summers party. When we are finally stamped with invisible ink and shown down a staircase, we are led past a cloakroom staffed by more girls in raunchy underwear, of the type sold by the upmarket fetish shop Coco De Mer, as well as bare-chested twentysomething men in bondage masks holding whips. As we pass them, one of the men taps one of my female friends on her bottom with his whip. But when we get into the main room of the club, after all the hype and hysteria, it is rather a let-down. But regardless of the orange-stained walls and low ceilings with naff false oak beams, it is crammed with people. Club owner: Melissa Kite attended the first X-rated night at Pelly's (pictured) Mexican-themed Sloane Square club At the side of the bar is a curtain which keeps twitching. Every few minutes, a dancing girl or a bouncer pulls the curtain back and looks out. If they see someone they know, they call them over and take them behind the curtain. Every time the curtain twitches, you can see a washing-up area and storeroom. Why would so many of the club's guests be going there? And then, the curtain twitches and Guy Pelly himself steps out. He is clearly searching for someone in the crowd. But before he can come out into the club, a minder pushes him forcibly back behind the curtain and closes it. What is going on back there? Clearly Pelly wants to cash in on the growing trend for high-end clubs to lay on titillating floor shows and soft porn for their well-heeled guests. It's at this point the scantily-clad women emerge gyrating from the pirate's chest. A similar venue called The Box, in Soho, has made a name for itself by attracting extremely prosperous sorts and some famous faces to the heart of London's notorious red light district with what is essentially a socially legitimate peep show. Celebrities have hardly turned out in force for Pelly's club night, though, and the only other recognisable faces we spot are diamond merchant Francis Boulle, 24, and 23-year-old model, Fredrik Ferrier; from scripted reality show Made In Chelsea. They stand surrounded by models wearing bras made out of sweets. Next to them is a huge haul of vodka bottles on ice. But none of the staff are actually serving alcohol. They are drinking the drinks themselves and cavorting around having some sort of party behind the scenes. Pelly is clearly not going to make any money out of his club like this. Some of the female staff in lingerie are carrying a feather. It takes me a while to work out that if a girl is carrying a feather, she won't mind if the men pull her in close and has a bit of a feel. I long to sit down and take the weight off my six-inch heels, but only the VIP people, who are shut away in a sort of cage at the side of the dance floor, have somewhere to sit. One girl with a feather kisses a big Russian man as he dances. We get chatting with one of these girls who tells us that the lingerie-wearers are not employees of the club but work for an "agency." As she walks away, she grabs my male friend's bottom. We have booked a table, and are told that we will have to spend a minimum of £1,000 to sit on it - but in the event, we are never seated. The staff are too busy flirting with each other. Despite its pretensions of decadence and glamour, Pelly's new club night reminds me of a small town nightclub, or a sixth form disco, but crammed with pink-cheeked Sloanes. One of them approaches, thrusts his glass at me and says: "You look lost. Here, have some rham and cake. Celebs: Two of the only recognisable faces there were Made In Chelsea's Fredrik Ferrier and Francis Boulle (file picture) Rum and cake? I say, peering into the glass to see how it can contain cake. Ya! Rham and cake. It's good for you. "Oh, you mean rum and coke," I say. I make my excuses and head to the ladies, where I discover that there is the audio of a sex tape playing in the background. The noises are not just huffing and puffing and moaning. They are the actual physical sounds of hard-core pornography. I feel a bit sick. Outside the loo there is a notice on the wall warning guests that the club will not tolerate drug use. I'm not sure that all of the guests are respecting this.' The toilet attendant lady, standing at the sink handing out perfumes and towels, has a very weary look on her face. The poor soul has to listen to this stuff all night. I'm not sure that all of the guests are respecting this. A girl with a glazed look on her face is slumped on a sofa by the side of the curtained-off area which Pelly is hiding in. She is swaying from side to side and smiling to herself. She keeps wiping her nose and licking her lips. At one point, a friend gets hold of her and shakes her violently to get a response, to no avail. As we soon discover, the much-touted burlesque lesbian sex show, which we were treated to on arrival and is probably only titillating to public schoolboys, is actually less sleazy than what goes on among some of the customers. The Russian man in his 60s has given up dancing and is now simply sitting drinking vodka and asking the feather-carrying girls to approach young women on the dance floor and bring them to him. The place makes Stringfellows look classy. Pelly, who this week denied rumours that he is to be made godfather to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge's son, insists he is no longer a party animal. Friends in high places: Guy Pelly has been touted as a potential godfather to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge's son Prince George He was awarded £40,000 by News International after it admitted hacking his phone and wrongfully accusing him of supplying Harry with marijuana. He says his hell-raising days are over. Friends say he is a reformed character. "I can't be doing with staying out until three o'clock in the morning every night," he has said. Pelly's previous venture to this, a bar called Public just off the King's Road, was shut down last year after noise and nuisance complaints. Neighbours living in the luxurious multi-million-pound apartments nearby complained of used condoms being left on the street outside. There were accusations of fighting, vomiting, urinating "and other anti-social behaviour." A police spokesman even went as far as to describe the club as the area's "number one crime generator." The council revoked the club's 2.30am licence, imposing a 12.30am closing time instead, and in May last year, it closed. As I leave, I can't help but wonder how long the well-heeled locals of Sloane Square will endure Pelly's latest venture.