The Jewish party that has counted Tom Daley, Sir Ian McKellan and Venessa Feltz among the revellers

“The thing about Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, is … that they’re actually really, really, camp, y’know? Wouldn’t it be funny to put on a queer Jewish party? We could call it Butt Mitzvah. I don’t know if people would come but it’s worth a try” said Josh, excitedly, to a rag tag bunch of queer Jews from his phone book that he had assembled in his office in Soho, where he worked (naturally) as a comedy producer.

Little did we know that several years later the night wouldn’t just still be in existence, it would be one of the most iconic and weirdly star-studded events in London. It would go on to build its own congregation, and the people who now sat bemused around the table would become more than just its producers, they would become a family.

This time between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur is a period for reflection. It’s been six years since Buttmitzvah started. Six is an important number. Six are the books of the Mishnah. The world was created in Six days. Six are the days of the working week. After six, it’s Jewish tradition to step back and take a breath. So there couldn’t be a better moment to stop and share a journey that none of us, that afternoon in Soho, could ever have predicted.

The first thing we didn’t expect was how much it would mean. A party is just a party, right? But there was power in bringing together two things that didn’t fit. From the first iteration in The Glory in Dalston, the highlight was when we danced to Moshiach in the basement.

Six years later that same ecstasy bursts from a two thousand strong crowd when the klezmer band comes on and unites everyone in treacherous circle dancing (especially if you’re a drag queen in 9 inch heels).

Perhaps it’s the movement that gets people, it takes us back to our own coming of age simchas when we knew we didn’t quite fit, now reimagined in a circle where everyone is included. Perhaps it’s just the fact we all hold hands. Whatever it is, it’s like a nuclear fusion of identity. It’s explosive. As one party go-er said last week “This was the very first time in my life I feel like every single identity I carry was welcome and celebrated.”

It might seem like a long way from mainstream Judaism, but a beautiful surprise has been how the party opens up a path back to a Jewish identity. Some arrive who have shoved the Jewish part of themselves deep down where it doesn’t ache so loudly.

And at the party it re-awakens, safe in the knowledge it’s in a space where it won’t suddenly find itself on the outside. Even as a group of organisers we have shared many Friday nights together, and for some of us, through hosting the party, we have found our own different ways to get closer to Judaism.

There is an old Jewish joke I love about a religious man shipwrecked on a desert island. When his rescuers arrive, they discover he has built three huts. One is his home. The other two? “This is the synagogue I go to,” he explains, “and that is the one I don’t go to.” It’s a joke built on the ridiculously nuanced and diverse ways you can be a Jew.

Whilst we might have thought we’d only appeal to a queer liberal flavour, we have been overjoyed to welcome crowds of straight liberal Jews who see it like an extension of Machaneh, orthodox queer Jews, and, pretty regularly, rabbis too. We’re not for everyone, but we’re open to everyone, and always will be.

Sure, some might have predicted an appeal to broad range of Jews but what about non- Jews? For many, Buttmitzvah is actually their first introduction to Jewish culture. I’m sure my Hebrew teacher in Sunday school would question the Halachic value of the education that they’re getting but we do the basics pretty well.

Everyone gets a beigel, the klezmer band is on point, Vanessa Feltz is always there, and whilst the festival stories told through the welcome family show are not entirely accurate, there’s something that remains unwaveringly authentic; the Ruach.

In a world where Judaism is most often discussed or read about in the context of politics and antisemitism it can be tough to engage with it, as a Jew or as a non Jew. You don’t want the angst, to say the wrong thing, or to be the wrong kind of Jew. It’s human. It’s understandable. But, it’s a disaster.

Because it hides us away. It keeps one of the most special and unique worlds hidden from view for non-jews, or worse, painfully, hidden away from ourselves as Jews. What we have attempted to create at Buttmitzvah is a different door to walk through. A door where the Jewish angst is left outside, and where the Jewish joy thumps on the dance floor.

When you step into Buttmitzvah, the simcha never stops, and we’re just getting started.