Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose "Lez Miserable" column appears weekly on the New Statesman website.
While loved-up revellers celebrate in London, LGBT marchers in Istanbul get shot with rubber bullets. There is no fine line there.
The Christian right in the US is upset by a yoghurt advert that features a lesbian couple. But what is it about dairy produce that says “queer”?
She’s sort of the female Mark Corrigan of European politics. She’s ruled out legalising same-sex marriage in Germany. And yet I find everything about her joyous.
Men, particularly middle aged ones, may as well be Lego people to me. I’d have more luck recognising a sandwich I ate last week than a forty-year-old man I met yesterday.
There’s nothing more tit-achingly generation Y than sharing an office space that’s actually a living room with your mum.
What with Russia’s homophobia and Britain’s EU tensions, it’s not really about the music anymore.
Why I hate the pathetic prescribed quirkiness of Ikea's new bed-based coffee house.
Disasters are a well-known aphrodisiac.
Baddiewinkle is the pill-popping, acid-dropping, tie-dye rocking bad bitch granny who counts Miley Cyrus and Rihanna among her fans.
Eurovision is about as tame as it gets, and that tameness just so happens to involve men in dresses.
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