The Birmingham club scene in the late 90s and early 00s was a different beast. It was a world where you could be turned away from God’s Kitchen for something as ridiculous as the wrong pair of shoes. I was there with a group of friends, dressed for the night and ready to go, but one of our guys got the boot for the wrong type of shoes. Yes, really—that was clubbing back then.
As we stood there, frustrated and weighing our options, a guy walked up to us. He was charismatic, sharp, and had a proposition: “Forget this. Come to S.L.A.G. instead.”
I’d never heard of it. But we followed him. That night, I met Black Pat, and in a whirlwind of questionable decisions and one too many drinks, I ended up snogging the promoter of the wildest night in the city. It was a one-off moment of madness, but it paved the way for something far more important: an unbreakable, platonic bond. S.L.A.G.—which stood for Straight, Lesbian, and Gay—was iconic, and for me, it was the start of a friendship that would weather storms I couldn’t even imagine yet.
The Shadow of the Underground
Pat was the visionary behind S.L.A.G. But as I got to know him, I saw the rot beneath the surface. The night had been moved to the Steering Wheel Club from Bonds, and while the party looked electric on the surface, behind the scenes, Pat was being systematically hollowed out.
The “underground”—the firms and gangsters who treat nightlife like their personal piggy bank—had latched onto S.L.A.G. They squeezed Pat until he was just a salaried employee of his own creation. I watched a bright, creative, and vibrant man turn into a nervous wreck, terrified to even leave his house. They took his name, his night, and nearly his spirit. I even had my own run-ins with Tatt, the man acting as the underground’s puppet, who made it very clear that I should keep my head down.
Rising from the Ashes: The Birth of 101 Hurst Street
Years later, I was handed an opportunity to run a restaurant by individuals with those same “underground” ties. It was a disaster waiting to happen. I realised that the only way to save the venue—and my own sanity—was to turn it into something bold. I wanted to build a gay bar that didn’t settle for the “tacky” aesthetic that plagued the Birmingham scene at the time. I wanted plush, I wanted style, and I wanted it to be an institution.
I called it Prague. (I’d toyed with the name “Senso,” but a friend rightly pointed out it sounded like a washing machine. We dodged a bullet there.)
I brought in the legendary DJ Simon Baker for marketing, and we launched a tease marketing campaign that set the city on fire. But I had one non-negotiable condition for my “investors”: I wanted Pat back on the door.
The Power Move
The room went silent when I suggested it. The owners knew exactly who Pat was, and they knew exactly what they had done to him. But I held my ground. I insisted that for the brand to have any soul, we needed the man who started it all.
I’ll never forget the day the “main man” from the firm came in to “clear the air” with Pat. I watched from the sidelines, feeling the static in the air, watching the sheer, paralysing fear that these people had drilled into Pat’s bones. But as the words were spoken and the air was cleared, I saw the mask slip. For the first time in years, Pat could breathe.
Putting Prague on the Map
Bringing Pat back wasn’t just a favour; it was a masterstroke. Everyone knew us from the S.L.A.G days. We were the legacy, the heart of the scene.
Prague at 101 Hurst Street became a massive success. We took home “Best New Gay Bar in the Midlands” within our first year. The popularity of Pat was staggering; I remember when we hosted his birthday on what was usually a dead-quiet Tuesday evening. The place was absolutely rammed—we took more money that night than we typically did on a Saturday.
My proudest moment, however, was Pride weekend. We dragged in massive, bone-shaking outdoor rave speakers, and we didn’t just host a party; we commanded the street. That was the moment Prague wasn’t just a bar—it was a landmark.
Running that place was a battle, but we won it on our own terms. We took the trauma of the past and turned it into the best damn nights Birmingham had ever seen.
Dan – Audio Groover
