We tend to think of Victorians as stuffy and patriarchal. Images of trussed-up women and imperious men. Recently though I’ve been wondering if perhaps they had things right when it comes to etiquette and dating.

I’m currently in Oslo at the Freedom Forum, an annual conference where the world’s most engaging human rights advocates, artists, tech entrepreneurs and world leaders meet to share stories. Last night I was sitting in the hotel bar with two female film-makers. We were having a brilliant and enthralling conversation … with prosecco. The best kind of chat.

At the table next to us was a man on a business trip. He wasn’t part of the festival, but the kind of boorish English man I hate meeting abroad. He leaned in and said: “What is this event then? Why is everyone wearing badges?”

I knew immediately his question wasn’t one of genuine interest but rather an attempt at an in with us. One of the women I’m with politely explains what is happening. He replies: “Oh, that’s why I couldn’t get a room tonight!” His friend repeats, in case we missed it: “He couldn’t get a room tonight.” My level of interest in his problems with hotel booking websites is minimal. So I reply: “Actually we are in the middle of a work chat.”

His friend thinks this is some kind of invitation and sidles over to our table: “So what is this thing then?” These guys know how to repeat a question, maybe they’ve been watching Jeremy Paxman. Slightly exasperated I repeat what the festival is and elaborate slightly, mentioning activists from Sudan before repeating: “Sorry we are just in the middle of work chat.” I’m annoyed at myself for apologising but I’m trying to stay polite. He looks irritated, as if he can’t understand why we wouldn’t want him there. The boorish friend starts offering drinks. NO WE DON’T WANT DRINKS DO NOT BRING YOUR DRINKS OVER HERE!!!

“In my London residence I have a painting by a Sudanese artist, it says ‘Freedom’ underneath it,” he continues. Now the conversation has become all over the place, none of it makes any sense. I think he’s trying to tell me he is rich. I still don’t care , what I care about is the conversation I was having before he interrupted us. Boorish man and the art collector mean nothing to me (although it would be a great name for a detective duo).

He still won’t leave – maybe the floor is too sticky? We tell him that if he is interested he should find the organiser of the festival at the bar. He didn’t. Eventually we had to call it a night because of the persistence of these men. They wouldn’t leave, so we had to.

It comes down to consent. We didn’t invite those men to join us and we made that perfectly clear. Everything was met with such base entitlement. Bar screaming in his face that he should go procreate with himself I don’t know what more I could have done, and even that doesn’t always work.

On a similar night in Soho a year ago, I was out with fellow comics Roisin Conaty and Jen Kirkman. Some men offered us drinks in a bar, we refused. They wouldn’t accept that. We tried every tactic – polite, firm, funny, angry; yet the men followed us from bar to bar. Eventually Jen flipped out, screamed in their faces and we nearly got arrested. One of the men told us his girlfriend had died in the bath and that we were horrible women. More emotionally manipulative than a Pixar film.

It’s no wonder society has a problem with consent – it starts in bars, and clubs, in apparently innocent meetings where men just won’t take no for an answer. This isn’t a case of flirty persistence but an absolute demand to have the attention and energy of women. If a man can’t pick up social signals in a bar, what hope is there for the bedroom? I shared the Oslo incident on Twitter and had so many other women tell me their stories. One said that after explaining she was married a persistent man had said: “Why the hell are you out then? If you don’t want men to talk to you.” Her attention was his divine right.

In Victorian times if a young woman saw a gentleman friend, she would have to take the initiative and offer her hand. The gentleman had to wait for the lady to recognise him before lifting his hat – using the hand farthest from her. These days men don’t really wear hats unless they want to appear interesting or not bald. However, letting the woman take the initiative is a great first step. Ask if they mind you joining the table. If they say no or the sentence begins with “Actually …” then take the hint. Better still wait for an invite from them. That way you can be certain that your company is wanted.

According to Victorian etiquette, if a gentleman was calling he would bring his hat and riding whip to indicate that he didn’t intend to stay long. The gentleman would keep his hat in his hand. Sure if we did that now most people would assume it was some weird cosplay, but I think we can translate. If you have invited yourself over to a table maybe don’t take your coat off and start ordering beers until a member of the group has said: “Join us.”

How long has it been this way? Maybe it is getting worse? Now “incels” have appeared, pushing the old idea that women “owe” men sex. I refuse to believe that women need to adjust their behaviour to accommodate men with rampant horniness and no boundaries. We know where that ends up … Gilead. So perhaps the way forward is to start educating the next generation of men – with a pinch of Victorian etiquette thrown in.

• Tiff Stevenson is a standup comedian. See her at Cambridge Junction on 2 June and Southbank Underbelly, London, on 28 June