In a basement bar deep in the bowels of Edinburgh’s Old Town, the lights are low and I am preparing for my debut as a porn star. In tonight’s scene I will be making what Shakespeare described as “the beast with two backs” with a very angry looking moustached man, all to the soundtrack of a wah-wah guitar.

My character will be wearing red suspenders and a blonde wig with orders to “let out the screams”. The bar is packed with people eager to hear me moan and groan. A sea of grinning faces stares up at the spot-lit stage, waiting for me to step up. I knock back a drink. I consider asking the barman for the bottle.

Before my parents excise me from their will, let me explain: I am taking part in pornaoke, the latest lifestyle fad from Japan. As the name suggests, it combines the elements of karaoke with a porn movie. The bewhiskered gent is but an image on a screen behind me.

The format is simple. Scenes are shown on a big screen and volunteers from the audience are invited to create the sound effects.

If, like the enthusiastic amateurs I met in downtown Edinburgh, you’re overcome by the need to grunt the language of love in front of an audience of strangers, you can choose your favourite scenario from a “menu” including Doggy, Cowgirl, Reverse Cowgirl and the intriguing Downtown Cockerel.

It’s all very tongue-in-cheek — think less dirty old men and more slap-and-tickle, Eurotrash kitsch. Contestants emerge blinking from an audience made up largely of easygoing students and backpacker types — twentysomethings with time on their hands and enough money to try something different on a Sunday.

The accents come from south of the border, America and Australia. This is, after all, a Sunday evening and many a God-fearing Scottish Presbyterian has probably succumbed to the competing entertainment offered by the evening service at St Giles Cathedral.

To be a “star” at this lark pornaoke performers first have to decide if they want to be “king” or “queen”. As befits a club in a modern European capital, the organisers promote an open-minded, multisexual policy — boys are free to play girls or vice versa. It needn’t be a solo performance, either. Couples are welcome to groan their way together if that’s what tickles their fancy. For the very timid or the extrovert, group scenes can also be arranged.

I would not, I was assured, be required to remove any clothing.

So as the compere introduced my alter ego, Angel Delight, to applause and wolf whistles from the bar, I swallowed what was left of my pride, along with the contents of my glass, and took to the mike.

The video began rolling. A Burt Reynolds lookalike was bending his secretary over an office desk. Angling her hips towards him and contorting his face into a grimace, it wasn’t difficult to imagine what was running through his mind.

“Mind and don’t mess me hair up,” I offered in a squeaky Scouse accent. A few laughs came from the front row. Good, I had the audience behind me.

“Is me make-up all right?” I asked, peering over my shoulder, doe-eyed. Then: “That’s pure magic!” I shouted, surprising even myself with the amount of enthusiasm in my voice.

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