Tucked away in the northern town of Ashton-in-Makerfield, the Stubshaw Cross Social Club is experiencing an unexpected boom. Behind the bar, manager Tasha Duffy serves lunchtime soft drinks and crisps to a steady stream of Labour activists, their canvassing done under a rare sunny sky. The club has become the unofficial headquarters for Andy Burnham’s by-election campaign, transforming its usual rhythm. Where once the giant 200-inch TV was primed for World Cup profits, now the till rings from morning to night with the hum of political strategy. Even the club licensee’s recent wedding here featured a surprise guest: the ‘King of the North’ himself, Mayor Burnham, who, Tasha notes with a smile, seemed to love the occasion. For visitors, the club is a burst of warm nostalgia—not just for member-priced Guinness at £3.95, but for the palpable sense of community and a thousand memories of carpeted lounges that define Britain’s social club heritage.
This club’s sudden spotlight is part of a much larger, quiet revival happening across England. Recognising that these member-owned spaces hold unique solutions to modern problems like loneliness and social fracture, a major new initiative is being launched. The National Lottery Community Fund is injecting £2.7 million into the 21st Century Social Clubs programme, aimed at revitalising clubs in deprived coastal, rural, metropolitan, and former coalfield areas like Ashton. Jonny Gordon-Farleigh of Stir to Action, which is running the programme, hopes the political attention at Stubshaw Cross will inspire a wider rediscovery of these vital spaces. Over five years, the project will help clubs diversify membership, strengthen their business models, and adapt to serve their communities’ evolving needs, reclaiming a powerful social legacy.
The vibrant potential of this mission is already alive at places like the Clacton Railway Club. On a dreary February weeknight, inside its prefab walls, a packed darts tournament generates a glow that defies the deserted seaside streets outside. The club, celebrating its 75th birthday and holding the title of 2023’s Best Club in England, is a bustling hub. For Secretary Alan Kirkham, it’s a “second home” for members, where a pint of Guinness costs just £3.60. Volunteer Wendy Hayward orchestrates an exhausting calendar from chair aerobics to tribute nights, while the darts board tells its own story of intergenerational camaraderie, listing teams with names like “Designated Drivers” versus “The Reformers”—the latter, they hasten to add, having nothing to do with politics. By consciously opening its doors to all, this once-exclusive railway workers’ club has been transformed into a thriving, inclusive heart of the community.
In London’s Stoke Newington, the Mildmay Club represents another facet of this heritage: timeless cultural resonance. Founded in 1888 as the ‘Mildmay Radical Club,’ its opulent, untouched interior—all varnished veneer and flock wallpaper—has made it a favourite location for music videos from Taylor Swift to John Newman, and for period dramas like Call the Midwife. Yet its true soul lies downstairs in the vast Victorian snooker hall, where nine tables stand under a 3ft brass clock. The walls are lined with the padlocked cue cases of members who left for the Great War and never returned, a silent, poignant history. Membership Secretary Tom Campbell speaks of this legacy “from Vera Lynn to Taylor Swift,” a continuity that has seen the club’s fortunes resurge from 300 members a decade ago to over 3,400 today, proving the enduring appeal of authentic, layered spaces.
These clubs are, as Nick Plumb of Power to Change notes, “decades-old community businesses.” They are self-sustaining ecosystems that provide more than just affordable pints; they offer belonging, activity, and continuity in a fragmented world. The Mildmay’s £5.10 Guinness feels like a bargain in a city of approaching ten-pound pints, but the value runs deeper than price. It’s in the shared history, the staged first gigs for young bands in Clacton, and the handwritten letters from the front lines preserved in London. They are democratic spaces where community is both remembered and actively built, where the personal and the collective effortlessly intertwine.
Back at Stubshaw Cross, the immediate future hinges on a by-election result. The club will either host a wake or a victory party to rival any England match, with Tasha hoping to combine the celebration with her own birthday. The campaign has already left its mark, with Burnham’s signature amid hundreds on the wall—a testament to a space temporarily repurposed for democracy. This interplay between past and present, community and politics, is the essence of the social club’s ongoing story. It’s a tale echoed even in a visitors’ book in Clacton, where, upon leaving, one might notice a prior signatory—Nigel Farage—who succinctly commended a “great pint.” On the fundamental, unifying pleasure of a well-kept beer in a welcoming haven, there remains, it seems, a rare and enduring consensus.
