There was a running joke amongst the friends I hung around with in my twenties; at the stage where everyone else was feeling slightly queasy and the bouncers were scraping people out after last orders, I would be possessed with an unwavering steely determination to find all-night beer. That’s how, some fifteen years ago, I ended-up in a bar at about 4am with my boyfriend of the time and a similarly booze-focused male friend. Dingily lit by strip lights and with a sticky floor of lino-tiles, it had the ambience of a death row drinking hole. The barman was watching…

Jo Bartosch

Writer campaigning for the rights of women and girls.

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