Lez Miserable: "I'm more Byron Burger than Lord Byron. Is that why I can't get a date?"

Meet our new columnist, Eleanor Margolis, as she takes a frank, funny and cynical tour through life as a twentysomething lesbian. In her second piece, she describes what it's like to fancy women who wouldn’t give you the time of day on their ironic 80s Ca

A bunch of us are round at The Austrian’s, drinking wine. As usual, I’m being boring about my bad luck with women. The Austrian is having none of this:

“Try harder,” she commands.

The others agree. They set me a challenge for the next time we go out: if I say some words to a real life attractive female, they’ll buy my drinks for the rest of the night.

It strikes me that even my best buds have no faith in me. I don’t have to take this hypothetical woman home, I just have to do some talking with her. That is my insurmountable task.

But some lesbians have this really specific way of being aloof. Let me paint you a picture:

Nikki is 25. She’s skinny, gamine and lovely, with a Mia Farrow circa ’68 haircut. She enjoys cups of tea and riding her bike through the ‘queer poetry’ section of bookshops in Hackney. She DJs at a club night called ‘Minge Attack’. She once knitted an entire house and lived in it for a month as an art project. She claims never to have bought a chain store item of clothing in her whole life, although every time she goes into Urban Outfitters on Commercial Street, the staff wave at her.

Yes, I know she’s pretentious, but I still kind of fancy her.

Yet, if she existed, Nikki wouldn’t give me the time of day on her ironic 80s Casio watch. I’m stubby and veering towards moustache-y. And if I took penicillin, I might die.

I run into a lot of Nikkis on the hip ‘n’ happening East London queer scene. They ignore me because I use phrases like “hip ‘n’ happening”. So it goes.

Then again, it’s not like I’ve ever made a real effort to talk to a Nikki. I’m no chatter- upper of women. I’m more Byron Burger than Lord Byron. More of a “watch nervously from a distance” kinda gal. My face even has this special shade of red reserved purely for when a woman catches me checking her out. I call it “Just Go Home And Have A Sad, Quiet Wank Vermillion”. Weirdly, this was rejected by Crayola when I suggested it to them as a new shade. 

So, the night out arrives. We’re going to Club Lesley, a lesbian club night at the tit-achingly cool Dalston Superstore. I put on some Prince and apply red lipstick like war paint.

As we walk into the Superstore, I’m confronted by what looks like a swarm of American Apparel models. I already feel like the complimentary bag of salad that comes with a take-away curry.

And then I clock her, over in the heaving crowd around the bar – it’s Nikki. I find myself veering towards her, leaving my friends behind, looking tense. My feet are moving, while my brain is sending out distress signals:

“What do you think you’re doing, you sad, hairy twit? Do not attempt to engage.”

My feet have other plans and suddenly I’m next to her. I know it’s creepy, but I can’t help noticing how nice she smells – like pencil shavings and CK One. It’s uncanny – she ticks every single Nikki box: the pixie haircut, the Urban Outfitters shirt, the aura of someone who may have once knitted a house. I’ve accepted that my brain isn’t on my side, so I do what I’ve never done before - I listen to my vagina.

“Packed tonight, eh!” I announce, over a remix of some early 00s R&B hit.

She glances over at me. My God, she has pretty eyes.

“Uh-huh!” she replies. We’re both having to shout over the music.

“Ahh, gotta love this song!” I say, while my brain says, “You have absolutely no idea what this song is, you complete and utter wanker.”

“Mmmm. I prefer their earlier stuff, to be honest!”

“Oh yeah, classic!” I reply, while my brain is now screaming the word “arsehat” at me repeatedly.

I spend the next few minutes staring at my feet, while waiting to be served. I order a gin and tonic and flee.

Flustered, I return to my friends.

“There. I did it. I spoke to someone.”

“Yah, and then you ran off like a pussy,” says The Austrian.

I’m not even going to bother fighting her on this one. Technically, I’m owed a night’s supply of drinks, but I know I don’t deserve them.

I spend the rest of the evening dancing limply, while keeping one eye on Nikki and frantically thinking up reasons why I hate her. “Look at her over there with her eyes, and her shoes, and her possible cool job in the media. I loathe her.”

At around two in the morning, I realise that my face hurts from frowning so much. All I want to do is lie in bed, eating a kebab and crying. I head off, leaving the others to enjoy the rest of the night.

The next day, I meet The Austrian for a hung-over brunch.

“You know,” she says, “Zat girl you spoke to last night – she liked you.”

I nearly choke on my eggs Benedict.

“What the..? How? No she didn’t.”

“Yeah, we got talking to her and her friends later on. You know what she said about you.”

“Oh God, what?”

“Your mate is cute. Kind of aloof though.”

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose column "Lez Miserable" will appear weekly on the New Statesman website. She tweets @eleanormargolis

Legs. All the legs. Photo: Getty

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose "Lez Miserable" column appears weekly on the New Statesman website.

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4 ways to end freedom of movement (and try to dodge a hard Brexit)

A lot depends on the details. 

There are few subjects as explosive in Britain today as immigration. Labour is split between those who see anti-immigrant feeling as racism by stealth, and those who consider it a legitimate response to a changing labour market. The Tories, too, are divided between social conservatives worried about culture and communities, and economic liberals who believe everything must be done to preserve the single market.

If David Cameron hadn’t decided to hold an EU referendum, perhaps this debate would have rumbled on before either rolling towards an overwhelming question or being outstripped by events. But he did, and Brexit happened. 

Now, most political realists agree, there will have to be some kind of policy change on immigration. But apart from turning the lights out at border control and bracing ourselves for a hard Brexit, what are the options? Here are some of the ideas on the table:

1. A points-based system

This idea has been bandied around for years, with “points-based system” usually coming straight after “Australian”. The principle is simple enough – aspiring immigrants gain points depending on their education, age, fluency in English and work experience. Of course, the Australian immigration system also involves refusing to let desperate people on boats land, and instead leaving them to rot on islands like Nauru. However, the points-based system is also used in Canada, and *news klaxon* the UK already uses elements of a points-based system for immigration from outside the EU. 

If you’re Theresa May, the main argument against a points-based system is, apparently, that it lets in too many talented immigrants. If you’re the NHS, it can be an obstacle to hiring staff who are desperately needed. And if you’re a Brexit negotiator, since a points-based system effectively eliminates working-class EU immigrants, it is going to make your job very hard indeed.

2. Regional recruitment

In Canada, each province can set their own immigration policy, within certain boundaries, by nominating individuals for permanent residence. So British Columbia is willing to nominate healthcare professionals and post-graduate students who attend a provincial university. The Yukon, a remote province with just one city, nominates entrepreneurs.

But there’s the thing. Canada is the second biggest country in the world, and the population is half that of the UK. Breaking the rules takes effort. Chris Murray, a research fellow at the IPPR, said: “Everyone’s afraid it is a backdoor to London. You say you’re working in Cumbria, and you move straight down to London.”

3. An emergency brake

Back in 2014, the then-Prime Minister David Cameron floated the idea of an “emergency brake” on EU immigration. Under this system, which is based on existing EU law, free movement could continue but the Government would reserve the right to halt it in certain circumstances. As the FT noted: “The rules are supposed to deal with situations such as acts of war or volcanic eruptions, not the movement of fruit pickers from eastern Europe.”

After the volcanic eruption of Brexit, though, the IPPR now thinks an emergency brake could be Britain’s best bet. Murray told The Staggers: “It is quite targeted, and also it is much more likely to get support from European partners.” But remember, Cameron tried to negotiate an emergency brake before. And failed. 

4. Work permits

If you subscribe to the idea Brexit was about wages, and not xenophobia, you might be inclined to support a system of work permits. Under this system, freedom of movement could continue for students, families and retirees, but workers would have to obtain work permits. Home secretary Amber Rudd has said of the idea that it “has value”. 

The problem is, both Britain’s Brexiteers and the EU’s negotiators can count. Hand out work permits to everyone, and immigration levels remain high. Tighten the rules, and that’s the end of freedom of movement. It’s hard to see either side giving the Government such an easy way out.