No Men, No Madness: Inside Dublin’s Lesbian Underground
By Betty Murphy
On any given Saturday night in Dublin, the streets hum with the usual chaos, perfume clouds, taxi beeps, half-zipped jackets and shouted plans. But tucked somewhere between the late bars and kebab shops, there’s a quieter kind of gathering. No neon signs, no door list, no rainbow-washed branding. Just women meeting for a pint, a laugh, and a bit of peace from the madness of the modern “community.” They call themselves Bean an Tí, a secret club of lesbians who’ve had enough of walking on eggshells in spaces that used to be their own.
This is one of their co-founders, Betty’s story.
All across the city, people are getting ready for a night out. Outfits chosen, looks perfected, lipstick steady in the mirror. The favourite boots, the clean jeans, the maybe too generous splash of cologne. It’s all quite a production, and it’s worth it.
But for some of us, there’s something different about tonight. The meet-up location, chosen at the last possible moment, kept carefully secret. The watchful scanning of the bar, noting exits and entrances. The quiet vetting of new faces, are they who they say they are? Can anyone vouch for them? Withholding posts until days after, just to stay safe. The small but tedious habits that have become second nature.
The golden oldies amongst us remember when this type of behaviour was par for the course, meeting other lesbians in a society still dominated by the Catholic Church. For the younger members it's a newer experience, but it knits us all together. For this is the Bean an Tí, a lesbian social club - for natal women only. No non-binary, trans-identified, or otherwise gender wobbly funny business allowed. Somehow old fashioned and brand new, all at once.
In the Ireland of today, it's a risky proposition at times. More than once the group has been targeted by leering trans-identified males and their handmaidens, determined to infiltrate and expose the anonymous membership. None have ever succeeded, but they certainly make their anger known. They’ve tried threats, bans, and cancellation, and it’s changed absolutely nothing.
Founded in 2023 by irritable lezzers who just wanted a quiet pint, our group meets monthly. Much to the chagrin of trans ideologues, it has been an immodest success, tripling its carefully guarded membership in a matter of weeks. Despite keeping a determinedly low profile, the number of regular attendees is still mushrooming. Why, you may ask? Well, the appetite was there, and genuine single sex spaces are as rare as hen's teeth. How? Everyone is vetted, and guests are not permitted. When not falling afoul of "Community Guidelines" on digital platforms, the BAT posts regularly on TikTok and X. Online especially, the interest from prospective members is surging. Our group is no flash in the pan, however. Steady hands on the tiller keep bad actors and black hats at bay, for the sake of our membership and the peace the group represents.
Named for the women who once kept Ireland’s hearths warm and her households running, the Bean an Tí carry that same quiet strength into modern Dublin. They are the antidote to the “TQ+” circus, steady where others shout, grounded where others posture. No airs, no performance, no need to tick the right boxes. You don’t have to look a certain way or play a part. No tradwifing, no politics, just women being women. Some turn up in heels, others in hoodies. It doesn’t matter. It’s a simple thing, really, a proper night out with the girls. Only the girls.
Often, newcomers have no idea what to expect. In the finest pub tradition, they eventually settle down to a mixture of animated discussions, mutual support, filthy jokes, and inordinate slagging. Lasting friendships are forged in the crucible of the loo queue, the dissolving paper straw, and the pursuit of the much-needed late night kebab. It's just how nights out used to be, before avoiding the hulking bloke with the unibrow in the ladies toilets became a necessary skill. There is safety in numbers, even if society has decided that the old rules no longer apply.
As gender-critical women, we risk being ostracised in our workplaces, educational and recreational spaces, and in our social and home life. Gender-ideology seems to get everywhere, and like spores of mould, wherever it lands it multiplies, contaminating the space for everyone. Fuelled by ignorance and neglect, it turns even the most benign of scientific realities into a heresy of epic proportion. It's difficult to be around that, and it can feel suffocating.
For much of the BAT membership, our group is a place where we can put down the burden of catering to the fragile delusion. A place lesbians can relax, be themselves, and not have to police every word we say. It's exhausting having to engage in constant mental gymnastics. One might otherwise accidentally say aloud something that's been true since humanity's earliest ancestor first crawled out of the primordial ooze. Heaven forbid.
As for the existing members, we’ve shared every kind of moment together from weddings, funerals, films, music, the whole rhythm of life. It's nice to have "your people" around you. Much to my shame, I had almost forgotten what it was like. It feels like a long time since Dublin had that sense of community. Time was, you went into a gay bar and felt just a tiny spark of communion with every woman there. As one member wryly quipped, "Men get in the way. Sometimes you just want to be with your own demographic." Our shared identity was something that held us all together, as a community, once upon a time. We don't plan on losing that, now that we've found it again. It's not exclusion, it's sanctuary. Often it's safe.
Lesbians are a minority within a minority. We face our own challenges and deserve the space to speak about them.” Bean an Tí is exactly that , a place where voices aren’t policed, and no one’s told to shut up or soften the truth. As the Bard said, “Society is no comfort to one not sociable.” Self-censorship may keep the peace, but it kills the spirit. Once you choose freedom, there’s no going back. We’ve given ourselves permission to exist, to laugh, to live as we are, and nothing infuriates our critics more than women who no longer ask for it.
"How do you know suchandsuch?" is a question that makes me smile these days. Our members are different ages, and come from diverse backgrounds. It seems to shock some people how well we get along. (Even when the somewhat touchy subject of the Premier League is being discussed.) Good humour and good craic are the order of the day. We were made to feel unwelcome, so we created a space for ourselves. As our founders say, it's not political, it's social. It's only controversial because no one else is doing it.
You can find Bean an Tí online, or at select events. Come say hi, or better yet, start your own night. It’s as simple as a phone, purse, keys… and out the door.
Because in a country that once told women to keep quiet, it’s no small thing to see them carving out space again, on their own terms, for their own peace. Bean an Tí isn’t rebellion for rebellion’s sake. It’s a homecoming. A pint shared between women who remember what community felt like before it was filtered, flattened, or sold back to as “inclusivity.”
Lesbian spaces aren’t a luxury. They’re living proof that you can build something real out of what’s been taken, that you can still find safety, laughter, and belonging without apology. In a city that’s forgotten how to mind its own, these women are keeping the hearth lit. Quietly, stubbornly, proudly.
