Julie Bindel: How I miss the lesbian bar

There are virtually no lesbian-only bars left. Writer and feminist campaigner Julie Bindel looks back at the heyday of lesbian women-only venues and club nights and what made them so special.

In 1979, aged just 17, I left the north east of England in a quest to find feminists and lesbians and moved to Leeds, a city populated with plenty of both. I was keen to be amongst my own in public spaces, and I found plenty of women who showed me which run-down joints allowed lesbians as clientele. It was better than nothing: The New Penny was a clapped out bar in the city centre frequented by working class ‘bar dykes’, and although I shared those demographics, the place reminded me too much of my dad’s Working Man’s Club back home.

In 1982 I co-founded the very first Lesbian Line, a ‘gay switchboard’ for women. To raise money for running costs we ran a fortnightly disco for women only, which was held in an upstairs room of a grotty pub, The Dock Green. Not only did it help pay the bills, but it also gave Leeds lesbians a damn good night out. The women that sought help from Lesbian Line would often have tragic tales to tell. Some had lost custody of the children to violent ex partners because the family courts considered lesbianism to be more problematic than child sexual abuse or domestic violence.

Others were wracked with self-hatred and wanted to be reassured that they were not freaks and perverts. Some were simply looking to meet others like them. We would always encourage the callers to rock up at the Dock Green. Dancing to ‘We Are Family’ by Sister Sledge, slugging down pints of fizzy lager, smoking roll-ups and wolfing down chips and curry sauce on the way home was pure joy.

There was, aside from Sundays, a venue for lezzers every night of the week. First Out Café, Tottenham Court Road was open all week for coffee and gossip, and Monday was The Drill Hall. Tuesday was The Fallen Angel, Wednesday Venus Rising at the Fridge, Brixton. Thursday the Duke of Wellington; Friday 48 Club at Reeves Hotel, and Saturday was Ace of Clubs on Piccadilly where there was often a full-on fist fight between a couple of ramped up butches.

Other evenings we might join the other dregs of society and trot along to The Strega Club in Chapeltown, an impoverished area of Leeds populated by other marginalised communities. The bar was behind a metal grill big just enough for a can of Red Stripe to be passed through the gap. Late into the early hours of the morning, women involved in local street prostitution would drop by to wind down from the horrors of their ‘work’ and would often end up slow dancing with the lesbians. 

The Fallen Angel in Islington

On moving to London in 1987 I made straight for The Fallen Angel, a classy gay joint in Islington that had women only nights every Tuesday. I was there one evening when local thugs put the windows in, shouting something about “rug munchers” as they run away. At the Fallen Angel I saw women hook up and split up, once during the same evening.

There was, aside from Sundays, a venue for lezzers every night of the week. First Out Café, Tottenham Court Road was open all week for coffee and gossip, and Monday was The Drill Hall. Tuesday was The Fallen Angel, Wednesday Venus Rising at the Fridge, Brixton. Thursday the Duke of Wellington; Friday 48 Club at Reeves Hotel, and Saturday was Ace of Clubs on Piccadilly where there was often a full-on fist fight between a couple of ramped up butches. If we wanted to avoid flying glass the alternative was Below Stairs at the London Lesbian and Gay Centre with the wonderful DJ Ritu.

My favourite was Rackets at The Pied Bull pub, Islington, on the last Friday of every month. Van loads of women from Greenham Common peace camp would often turn up, and after having a thorough strip wash in the toilets would dance wildly all night. There were regular fights, either over a love-interest, or some old score that needed settling. More than once the sound of a police response vehicle marked the end of the evening.

The Carved Red Lion, a small cellar bar, was brilliantly seedy. I recall one evening animatedly debating the pros and cons of non-monogamy (the kidz call it ‘polyamory’ these days) with group of lezzers when a man dropped dead of an apparent heart attack on the dance floor. The lights were slightly raised, the music turned off, and he was carried out on a stretcher by paramedics. Lights went down, music back on, and it was business as usual only minutes later.

By the time we hit the 1990s, with the advent of Post Modernism, Queer identities trumped lesbian ones. One by one, venues began admitting men ‘as guests’ and heterosexual women, fed up with being hit on by men in straight joints came along to ours. Bit by bit, as online dating became a thing, and lesbians were drawn into marriage, mortgages and babies, the bar became redundant.

Then things began to change. Lesbians became marketable. Towards the end of the 1980s the UK saw its first sex toy business aimed at lesbians; an anthology of ‘erotic’ lesbian fiction; and the first lesbian sex magazine, Quim. In the 1990s the Soho-based Candy bar  began to advertise strippers and pole dancers, and lesbian publications began to drum up revenue from baby-making businesses, drinks companies, and lesbian fashion outlets. 

By the time we hit the 1990s, with the advent of Post Modernism, Queer identities trumped lesbian ones. One by one, venues began admitting men ‘as guests’ and heterosexual women, fed up with being hit on by men in straight joints came along to ours. Bit by bit, as online dating became a thing, and lesbians were drawn into marriage, mortgages and babies, the bar became redundant.

Today, trying to have a women only public meeting is contentious enough, but excluding men has always provoked a backlash. I will never forget a fundraiser for a conference on violence against women in the early 1990s. Our group had hired a large room above a busy pub. There were 500 women drinking, dancing and getting up to all sorts of debauchery in the name of feminism. As I went downstairs to the bar, I heard a bloke say to his mate, “There’s hundreds of lasses up there, all on their own.”

I pointed out it was a bit difficult to be ‘on your own’ with another 499 women in the same venue, but I knew what he meant. A woman is only complete when she is accompanied by a man. How I yearn for a place we can go to be together amongst those we share an important part of our identity, history and culture. How I miss the lesbian bar.

Julie Bindel is a journalist, author and feminist campaigner. She came out as a lesbian in 1977 aged 15 and has never looked back.