Slagland, I am told, started in Bella’s bedroom. Two and a half years later it has become an annual party at the Harringay Warehouse District, and now also a club night. “We would love a thousand slags,” one organiser tells me, “but we don’t want the vibe to change – we want to protect the community.” I begin asking everyone the same question as the night unfolds. What does being a slag mean to you?
Urban Dictionary helpfully offers a few definitions of slag:
- to spit
- a woman who sleeps around, looks cheap and or has questionable character.
- the waste product of the steel making process.
None of these definitions feel right for the space. To be a slag is a state of mind. At one point, delighted, I lean towards the organisers and ask, “Did you know slag backwards is gals?” They erupt. Immediate joy. Groans. Applause.
I’ve been to the original warehouse for many afters, and it feels beautiful to see how the Harringay – also known as Manor House, or “the Manor” – way of life has expanded into its own little club universe. We arrive at 11:30 to a room that still feels unready. The lights are on, the floor is bare, and Low Profile Studios, a quirky multi-space venue at Manor House, looks exactly how the best nights often begin: slightly shoddy, a bit improvised and full of intention rather than polish.
The Slagland team tells me their top five slaggy celebs are Julia Fox, Katie Price, Allison Hammond, Gemma Collins and Charlie Craggs, which immediately lets me know what the mood of the night will be.
To my slag question, the answers come easily. In the toilets, one person tells me, while carefully fixing their lip gloss, “It means that I know how to find other slags and I can be myself.” Their friend nods beside them. “Being exactly who you are. Doing what you want. Not being anybody’s bitch.”
I ask them what the big dream of the night is and they answer without hesitation. To centre the FLINTA community in a way that is active rather than aesthetic. They speak about safety as resistance, shouting out Riposte as a space that knows how to do it well. We chat about how queer spaces are so often observed, diluted, wandered into, and how intentional it feels to build one that is actually, authentically queer. “It can be lost if you don’t protect it,” they say. “You have to keep working at it.”
By midnight the room fills in that soft, London way, not a crush but a gathering. In the brightly lit corridor, regulars interrupt our interview to hug the organisers, and a round of compliments for everyone’s silly slumber party inspired outfits begins. It feels less like arriving at a club and more like being absorbed into a living room that also happens to have decks.
The music is banging but the energy is gentle. Entry-level DnB, house party classics, a lighting rig that feels closer to a university rave than a superclub, which only adds to the charm. Bella MCs between sets, the whole crew eventually taking to the decks. When I ask if they were always DJs, they laugh. “No, but when you live in a warehouse it’s kinda expected.”
The decor amplifies the silliness. Bella tells me that when they were hanging the toys from the ceiling they kept bunching together. “It looked like they were having a toy orgy,” she says, and suddenly the whole room makes sense. Camp, playful and deeply unserious. When they told me that they would love to take the concept to a festival I had a clear vision on what Slaggy world could look like.
Thin string stretches across the ceiling with ratty Barbie dolls and teddy bears suspended mid-air. Posters of Bratz, Buffy and Lindsay Lohan line the walls like a teenage shrine to girlhood and chaos. My housemate whispers that one would look perfect in our bathroom and I silently agree.
I continue my survey, making new friends all over the space: “Being free, being yourself,” Elaine tells me, beaming. “I’m a self-empowered slag.”
Another attendee offers, “Reclaiming patriarchal ideas of what female sexuality should be.”
Someone else tells me over the music, “being a dirty hoe with no one to disappoint. It’s about making out with all my friends and maybe fucking them too!”
There is a confession booth in the corner upstairs, opposite a crafting table (I decorate a pink compact with the words “piss” and “sparkly gems”) “Princess A Mess,” introduces herself in her pink boudoir, before quickly amending, “but call me messy.” The whole night holds that same tone, messy and stupid in the most intentional way.
When I ask another group, they answer in quick succession. “Being British,” one jokes, then adds, “word to Kat Slater.” Their friend carefully pauses. “Being something else. Something fun. Not just empowering who I am, but empowering everybody.” A third cuts in, deadpan, “Turning your knickers inside out,” and we all dissolve into laughter again.
What becomes clear, slowly and collectively, is that slag here is not an insult but a term of affection. In a queer space, the word softens and becomes incredibly generous. As the final track plays, I overhear two girls shouting across the room, pure joy in their voices, asking each other if this was the best night ever. I think it was.