:: Mafia - Russian and Gay Varieties ::

Not much happening in the past 24 hours. Against my better judgement, I got hauled along to a rehearsed reading of Brecht's Mother Courage and Her Children. It's a play I wouldn't mind being in at some point, not now: at the moment, I just need a bit of drama detox. Oh, and tonight promises more gallavanting in the name of Twelfth Night...

On the Russian front, plans are going well for the trip to St Petersburg. Have been in contact with my friend Pasha out there, and will also try to meet up with a mate who now works for The St Petersburg Times. I was interested to read about Putin's measures to ensure good weather during the 300th anniversary of the city. I'm just a bit suspicious about the unnamed "chemicals". Another great piece of (Russian) programming popped up on my radar today: the ultimate photofit will enable you to create the likeness of your favourite Petersburg mafia boss - or your Mum.

The next item is not really new. Yesterday, the Scum offered 50 grand to the first boy-girl couple to fuck on Big Brother. The coy reference to the couple's necessary straightness in order to claim the prize highlights the latent homophobia still lurking between the sheets of Rebekah Wade's grubby snotrag - and by implication, the same attitude in society at large. Gareth McLean's article from today's Guardian dissects this issue admirably.

Contrary to popular assertions of openness and tolerance, there is still far to go where mass perceptions of sexuality are concerned. Our openly gay celebs are the same stereotypes of old: luvvies and pantomime dames, emasculated by their very campness. Brian Dowling and Graham Norton may have become household names with an adoring audience across the spectrums of age and class, but the thought of having sex with either of these trumped up queens turns my stomach. Give me a man any day...

As if I haven't sufficiently alienated the gay audience (this is nearly as funny as Jews telling anti-semitic jokes), I'm going to protest at the forthcoming release of a "dance track" by gak-fuelled scouse has-bint Cilla Black. Granted, my description of her might be a little harsh, but her voice was bad enough on Surprise, Surprise! and can't have got better in the intervening decade. Did your dead husband tell you to do this too?

Bitch, bitch, bitch, eh? I'll be back with pics galore and a little less of the battery acid tomorrow...