Having been an MP I know how their minds work. So I warn you not to wish too hard for the failure of Mr Speaker's attempt to block publication of MPs' addresses. Publication could generate a new category of expenses. One well-publicised assault from a have-a-go nutter newly apprised of his MP's address would make their argument for them.

It will occur to Hon Members to demand an extra allowance, on top of their existing second home allowance, to cover the expense of enhancing their domestic security in their second (usually London) home.

Think door-to-door taxis (too dangerous now for any of the family to walk to the Tube); top-of-the-range video entry systems; smoke alarms; the MP's share of the concierge's salary; extra nanny-cover... some of it extra, some of it a way of paying for what they already had.

And what about their constituency homes? Think wrought-iron gates, a groundsman, Pedigree Chum for the German Shepherd... within a few years we'll be begging them to go incognito again.

Now here's a mystery. On Tuesday this week a significant figure in British politics launched something important. Do you know (a) who? Or (b) what? - or, indeed, (c) where? Answers are (a) the Prime Minister, Gordon Brown; (b) Labour's campaign for the May local elections, just a month away; and (c) Stevenage.

Is the Prime Minister trying to wriggle out of these elections? Labour's official website gave the launch about 20 words. Mr Brown's short speech was notable for saying nothing at all. A couple of national newspapers reported the event without much prominence. The rest of Fleet Street didn't report it at all.

There was something ghostly about this launch. These elections could, just conceivably, break Mr Brown's premiership; a strong result could rescue him. But all that was to be seen at the kick-off, on TV, was the PM trying awkwardly to make small talk (“Thank you for all you're doing”, “Do you like the bus pass, the bus pass?” and “You've got to take the tough action”) punctuated by weird little grunting sounds.

Occasionally Mr Brown would murmur things like: “I'll just take notes of all the good so I can tell the rest of the country.” His final audible remark was: “I believe Stevenage works best when Stevenage works together.” And that was it.

So is that all? Does this strange man really think that if he isn't seen much during the campaign, and it fails, people somehow won't associate it with him?

“If you ask any Russian [says the blurb on the website www.sanduny.ru] ‘What is the most famous bath house in Moscow?' you will get an immediate answer - the Sandunov bath house. Indeed it is not only the oldest bath house in the city, but also a miracle of architecture and engineering, such that Feodor Chaliapin dubbed it the tsar of bath-houses. It is a veritable palace, with huge halls, tall ceilings, sculpted decorations, marble staircases, exquisite gold frescos, and statues.”

Every word is true. I was there on Saturday: one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life. Thick carpets, carved mahogany, marble, rich drapes, sculpted nymphs, oil paintings, green and red leather... and everywhere steam, water, and huge, bear-like, naked men.

It was like walking into the Garrick Club and taking all your clothes off. Or picture a nudist occupation of the House of Lords.

This was no gay pick-up joint: deeply respectable, segregated into ladies' and gentlemen's sections, it was a working, late Victorian, bath and steam house where in Soviet times party bosses frolicked. There was a searing sauna, a big pool, and a marble hall with ornate chairs, banks of showers, two deep tubs of iced water, and pivoted half-barrels of freezing water suspended from the ceiling that you tipped on to yourself by pulling a chain. From inside the sauna came the rhythmic thrash of bathers birching each other, and themselves, with oak boughs (if it's possible to birch with oak).

And nobody wore a stitch - except strange pixie-like felt caps to heat the scalp. “Give me my hat,” said one of my companions. “I feel naked without it.” And he was. He remained so as we repaired to a hall of carved wooden compartments for tea, cold beer, prawns and caviar.

But for the rest of my days my enduring memory will be of the massive buttocks of a hippo-sized Russian man, bent over the sauna bench as his two friends thrashed him. Dwarfed against the fleshy vastness, a wet, black, loose oak leaf stuck to his bottom. For a moment I thought it was a tattoo.

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