Simon Mills I am sitting in a converted bank in Belgravia, wearing only a pair of swimming trunks and a silly felt hat to protect my head from the heat. It is 93 degrees Celsius and I am sweating profusely. I have gone to the Russian baths near Buckingham Palace, hoping to wash away the filth of machismo and male shame, and the lingering traces of alcohol and self-pity.
Soon I will be the object of a beating from two strong Russian male “bath attendants” who will punish my body with brooms (branches of birch, oak and eucalyptus) in a thrilling, balletic, male dance. More