Lez Miserable: "Ooh, look at that one - it's got veins!"

Meet our new columnist, Eleanor Margolis, as she takes a frank, funny and cynical tour through life as a twentysomething lesbian. In her first piece, her vibrator bites the dust, and her mother is keen to help her replace it.

It’s morning. I’m having my "early 20s English lit graduate, existential ennui-stricken lesbian, post-sleep nap". All of a sudden, the puppies licking my face in my dream scarper. They’re being chased off by something that I can only describe as part-werewolf, part-blender. I sit bolt upright in bed. I’ve been woken by a loud rattling sound coming from my chest of drawers.

I freeze. I recently watched Paranormal Activity. I know how this goes.

After about 30 seconds frozen to the spot, my mouth slightly open and my heart pounding, I summon up the courage to investigate. I sneak up to my chest of drawers, empty Mini Cheddars packets crunching under my feet, and tentatively open the “haunted” drawer.

Relief. No lurking satanic spirit here. Just my vibrator that has somehow managed to switch itself on. I pick it up, study it for a few seconds, then switch it off. I try to switch it on again. Nothing. I replace the battery – number one rule of being single: always have spare batteries. Still no sign of life.

And then it hits me – I’ve bored my vibrator into an early grave. Was that final buzz in fact a death rattle? I only ever used it on one setting – continuous vibrate. All the other vibration patterns just seemed a bit… Edwina Currie.

So this is where I’m at, sex-wise. I can’t even keep my vibrator interested. I may be the first woman in history to have hit ‘lesbian bed death’ without the remotest sign of lesbian bed life.

Something must be done. First things first, I’m going to need a new vibrator. I Google “buy sex toys”, which is now tattooed onto my search history alongside, “diabetes symptoms”, “dealing with neurosis” and “is nipple hair normal?”

The selection is overwhelming. My old vibrator was fairly basic – a longish thing that, up until a few moments ago, went bzzz. The new, sexually adventurous me wants something fancier. Rabbits seem a bit 90s and all these double-penetration gizmos with twirly bits coming out in every direction just aren’t very… me.

“Ooh, look at that one – it’s got veins!

My mum has snuck up behind me (one of the many hazards of having moved back in with my parents). She’s peering over my shoulder, squinting slightly because she doesn’t have her reading glasses on. Horrified, I slam my laptop shut.

“The problem with your generation,” she says, “Is you think you invented sex.” And off she trots to make a cup of Lady Grey.

Back to my search. I remember Fab, the online eclectic cool stuff shop, does a line in masturbation-chic. I got an email about it a while ago, back when me and the old vibrator were going strong. I check out what Fab has to offer and come face to face with the battery-operated companion of my dreams. It looks like an Alessi peppermill, perfectly combining two of my greatest loves: design and having orgasms. A few clicks later, it’s mine.

But this isn’t enough to cure my case of the borings. Must buy more sex toys. Must be exciting. I’ve never owned a strap-on, but suddenly feel that I need one. Immediately. Maybe I’ll start carrying it around in my bag, just in case. I browse through various online sex shops, and end up spending £50 on a high-end strap-on. I reason that I should get something sturdy. I remember an old Jewish saying that my mum likes to quote when justifying spending £500 on a toaster: “What’s cheap is dear.”

The next day I’m woken up by more vibrating. This time it’s just my phone. I pick up and grunt something.

“Hello, is that Ms Margolis?”

“Yeah…”

“My name is Andy, I’m calling from Barclays, regarding some unusual activity on your debit card”.

Shit.

“Oh…”

Andy takes me through some security questions. I know exactly what’s coming. And here it is:

“Now, Ms Margolis, I need you to confirm that you recently spent £50 at bedroompleasures.co.uk?”

My free hand is tightly clamped to my face.

“Uh, yeah. I may have done that”.

“Are you certain, Ms Margolis?”

“Yes. That is a thing that I definitely did.”

“OK, Ms Margolis. I’m going to unblock your card immediately. I’m very sorry for any inconvenience.”

So, the moment I step out of my sandwiches, clothes and Superdrug own-brand ibuprofen bubble of spending drudgery, alarms go off. It’s like the bank knows that I never get laid. It assumes that someone sexy and exciting must have stolen my card. Time to face it, Ms Margolis: you’re staid.

I thank Andy and hang up. I spend a few minutes screaming into my pillow.

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

A cart full of sex toys. Photo: Getty

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

Photo: Getty
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The “lunatic” incident showed us the real Owen Smith: and it ain't pretty

Forget the slur - what really matters is what it says about his empty promises, says David Wearing. 

Owen Smith has embarrassed himself again. Having previously called for Labour to “smash” Theresa May “back on her heels”, advocated negotiations with ISIS, and described himself as “normal” with “a wife and three children” while competing with a gay woman to stand for the Labour leadership, you might expect him to have learnt the value of expressing himself more carefully. But no. Not a bit of it.

At a rally on Tuesday evening, Smith described Jeremy Corbyn as a “lunatic” with no “coherent narrative about what’s wrong with Britain”. It’s an interesting choice of words from someone who needs to win over tens of thousands of Corbyn’s supporters if he is to avoid a crushing defeat in this summer’s Labour leadership election. Indeed, we may look back on this as the final nail in the coffin of Smith’s campaign.

Let’s be honest. Most of us at some stage have used casual language like this (“lunatic”, “insane”), to describe those whose rationality we don’t share or understand. I’ll admit to having done so myself. But it is wrong. It perpetuates a stigma around mental illness and damages peoples’ chances of getting the care and support they need from society. We should all cut it out, especially those of us who aspire to high public office.

Beyond this, however, Smith has driven a coach and horses through the central premise of his own campaign. Throughout the summer he has presented himself as substantively agreeing with Corbyn on almost all domestic and economic issues, and only seeking to pursue that agenda more effectively and professionally. He has set out a range of policies - including a £200bn “British New Deal”, workplace rights and more redistributive taxation - that constitute an overt appeal to the social democratic, progressive values of the hundreds of thousands who joined the party to support Corbyn and secure a clean break with the neoliberalism of New Labour.

But it is simply not credible to simultaneously say “I agree with Jeremy” and that Jeremy is a “lunatic”. No one uses the word "lunatic" to describe someone whose politics they basically share. No one says “your diagnosis of the country’s ills is incoherent, and that’s the substantive agenda I want to take forward”. Smith’s remarks indicate that, deep down, he shares the incredulity expressed by so many of his colleagues that anyone would want to abandon the Thatcher-Blair-Cameron “centre ground” of deregulation, privatisation, corporate-empowerment and widening inequality. After all, Corbyn’s narrative only appears incoherent to those who regard the post-1979 status quo as self-evidently the best of all possible worlds - give or take a few policy tweaks - rather than the very essence of “what’s wrong with Britain”.

This incident will confirm the suspicion of many Labour members that, if he did win the leadership, Smith would dilute or ditch most of the policies he has used to try and win their votes. Those fears are well founded. Take as one illustrative example the issue of immigration, where Smith has shown one face to the party while suggesting that he would show quite another to the country, as party leader.

At leadership hustings, Smith presents an enlightened, pro-immigration, anti-xenophobic stance, but in a Newsnight interview last month we saw something rather different.  When asked if there were “too many immigrants” in the UK, he replied that “it depends where you are”, giving official comfort to the post-Brexit “pack your bags” brigade. He asserted that EU migration “definitely caused downward pressure on wages” despite academic studies having repeatedly shown that this is false, and that EU migration is of clear overall benefit to the economy.

Then, calling for an “honest” discussion on immigration, Smith noted that his wife is a school teacher and that schools in their local area are under pressure from “significant numbers into South Wales of people fleeing the Middle East”. In fact, a grand total of 78 people have been resettled in the whole of Wales under the Syrian Vulnerable Persons Resettlement Scheme. In the local authority encompassing Smith’s constituency of Pontypridd, the total number is zero.

This suggests, not someone who shares members’ values, but one who probably regards the leader’s pro-immigration stance as “lunatic”, and would prefer a return to the days when Labour erected the notorious Yarl’s Wood detention camp, rejected the vast majority of asylum applications from Saddam Hussein’s Iraq, and when Tom Watson put out an election leaflet reading “Labour is on your side, the Lib Dems are on the side of failed asylum seekers”.

Smith’s problem is that his mask keeps slipping. And every time it does, the choice before Labour members comes into sharper focus. On the one hand, they have a man who lacks many of the managerial and communication skills for party leadership, but who shares their values and who they can trust to fight for their agenda until a credible successor can be found. Against him stands a man they may not be able to trust, who may not share their values, and whose claims of professional competence grow more threadbare by the day. It’s a poor choice to be faced with, but Smith is at least making it easier for them.