Writer Ben Freeman and photographer Daisy Bradford take a trip to Gingerland, billed as the ‘ultimate playground for redheads and their admirers’
“Step into Gingerland, the ultimate playground for redheads and their admirers,” begins the description of Club Red Hot, a brand new gay club night in London. “Nowhere else on earth will you find a higher concentration of beautiful redheads.” The party is thrown by RedHot100, who describe themselves as “a lifestyle brand on a mission to rebrand the ginger male stereotype”. They aim to do this by “showcasing men as confident and desirable” through club nights, Instagram posts and sexy calendars. As a gay ginger, my intersectionality is rarely platformed, especially not in the spaces I find true solace in (circuit parties). My interest was piqued. Would I walk into the party with a red or orange carpet rolled out for me? Would I feel stiff competition from other gingers? Or would I find community, a brotherhood? I imagined a sea of copper, ebbing and flowing to the sound of Kylie Minogue. I simply had to pay £23 to find out.
The venue, Here at Outernet, is a basement superclub hidden underneath Tottenham Court Road. As I stood in the queue, I quickly noticed that there were fewer gingers than I had anticipated (I should have suspected this when they were offering free tickets on their story to gingers the day before). As I had my bag searched and descended into the abyss, I felt like a cow out for slaughter.
My friend Daisy came with me to take photos. I was Louis Theroux, and she was my camera crew. “‘I’m nervous for you,” she whispered. “It’s a journalist’s job to be a witness to history,” I muttered to myself, as I approached the bar and ordered a double vodka cranberry. I was welcomed by someone yelling, “Finally! An actual ginger!”
It’s no secret that gay parties can shoot your ego into the heavens if you get the attention you’re seeking, but it can also be blown to smithereens if a glance doesn’t hit in the way you’ve anticipated. I experienced a certain turbulence of confidence, of both receiving the manic attention I secretly wanted, and having moments of my own be rejected, on the night where people have literally bought tickets to rub shoulders with my kind. But everywhere I looked, I saw mostly brunette men making out with each other. Could it be true that a fetish night dedicated entirely to your genetic rarity still couldn’t save you from the bottomless pit of gay-guy existential dread?
Towards the end of the night, I finally found a gaggle of gingers in the smoking area. I asked them if they were also expecting more redheads at the event, and they said they definitely were, but it was nice to feel like a celebrity. We drunkenly talked about whether we’d been with other gingers (mostly not), and whether we had been bullied in school (mostly yes) and how we all were just quite content with our orangeness. Despite there being far fewer gingers at the event than I anticipated, I had never talked to more gay gingers in my life. I felt camaraderie with my brothers, and the drunken hug with the gingers in the smoking area who looked oddly similar to me was far more gratifying than any dancefloor smooch.
Maybe Red Hot were right when they said, “Nowhere else on earth will you find a higher concentration of beautiful redheads”. It’s just that the high concentration is still not that high. Quality over quantity, I’ll see you next year.