If I'd been John Prescott's mistress...

... I'd be keeping pretty damn quiet about it. But, once again, the question has to be asked: what is it about the British nudge-nudge obsession with sex?

We have a home secretary presiding over a chaotic government department incapable of undertaking the most straightforward checks on released foreign prisoners, some of whom have gone onto commit further serious offences, and what does most of the national press lead on... bloody John Prescott, and his bedroom shenanigans.

And I'm not blaming the newspapers: our esteemed Deputy Prime Minister's sexploits have been mentioned more on the doorstep when canvassing than has Charles Clarke's ill-advised attempts to cling onto power.

I imagine tomorrow's Mail on Sunday, which has bagged an exclusive interview with Tracey Temple - "the other woman he wronged" - will be a sell-out. (Though I must question how anyone, no matter what depth of prurience they can usually find it in themselves to plumb, can possibly stomach reading about Mr Prescott's lustings.)

Somehow, I can't help feeling our collective sense of proportion is all whack.