Photo: Kate’s Bones

There was a hula-hooper, a juggler, a mime and a comic on our 2015 Christmas cabaret tour, and a striptease, too. Mine was called the “Hotdog Act”. Every night, in full drag, I want to go on stage in a room full of complete strangers with a 10 inch jar of Hotdogs, and shove them up my nose, down my throat, into the air, to music . I was aping the burlesque style, turning what could seem sensual into something totally grotesque. You’ll struggle to believe me, but during this period of my life I took myself – and my work – debilitatingly seriously.

There was a lot of baggage on that tour bus: cases full of costumes, yes, but also the emotional variety. Each of us was going through the wringer – breakups, breakdowns, crises galore. I know, how festive. My mental health was in the pits and it had been six or seven months since I’d spoken to my family. I was in self-destruction mode. Through our collective pain, we bonded as a cast. When you live and work together on the road, there’s no escaping it. Pre-show, our dressing room became a group therapy space. And, after a gig, high on adrenaline, we would sit around sharing problems and too much Merlot. One of the other artists was reading a book that argued that he was born traumatically and that you have to heal him. We spoke Logistics, but I failed to revive my own delivery.

Christmas can be a tough time for queuers: Not all of us are welcome back to our families or the places we grew up. It can be a reminder of traumatic times. I’m lucky that’s not my story. I was brought up in a warm, supportive environment in rural county Durham. Running in fields and living in them, I had a lovely and simple childhood. As a kid, I did a lot-Youth Theatre, Drama Time, a clowning gig at a nearby theme park. I put on magic shows at the local library and puppet shows from the back of the living room sofa, often to an audience of no one. I was floating around silly and carefree; What came naturally was dressing up, posing and playing the fool, not conforming to masculinity.

The story continues

As I grew older, however, I realized that I was gay. I had no idea how to deal with it. I didn’t know anyone else queuing. In the classroom, it was the worst insult you could do. The teacher? The weather? Math homework? Gay, gay, gay. And mine was a Catholic school where queuing sexuality was never mentioned. The media was no better. On screen, the only gay storylines were those of trauma and pain – there was no positive narrative. Once I understood that was my identity, too, I didn’t tell a soul. I was scared of what people would think of me if I came out. What could happen if I was found out. And so, I put all that horror quickly. Anything that I’d been taught that might make me less of a man was done away with. I felt unhappy, ashamed of who I was. For years, I stopped engaging with that whole part of myself.

By this trip in 2015, my life had changed. As a student at Newcastle, that guard began to come down. I came out and started doing drag. As part of my course, I wrote a radio play just about the women in the north east I grew up with. To mark it, it needed to be recorded. I didn’t know any actors and I didn’t have the budget to pay, so I put on a voice and did it myself. Soon I was performing in front of a small live audience. After graduating, I moved to London with a now ex-boyfriend. He chased his dream of being a musical theater star and started my drag career right. I found my people, yes, but I still felt ashamed of who I had become, even if I had put confidence and self-acceptance on stage. That queer shame was unusable. So I worked hard and went harder, suppressing all internalized hatred.

For years, I’d worried that if that silliness trickled into my personal life I’d be perceived as unreliable, unworthy and unprofessional. Inside me was still that child desperate to keep my true self hidden. It’s why, I think, by 2015, I’d cut off contact with my parents and siblings, too. I convinced myself doing so meant I could disconnect from those troubled times. They’re the people who knew me best – disappearing felt easier than trying to find the words to communicate what was happening. The longer it went on, the more I felt. Finding a route to getting back in touch slipped further and further out of reach.

That is, until one evening in Edinburgh, the last stop of our tour, when something happened. In the dressing room, while we – the cast – are all on our slap, we ended one of our personal conversations. I broke my soul, forgetting, briefly, where I was. After I was opening, I turned back to the mirror and saw myself – one stick, lopsided wig, half-full makeup. My reflection was so enthusiastic that I could help smiling as I looked myself in the eye. Why was I, a literary clown, describing misery? All my problems felt so heavy and so big, but staring at my reflection on my reflection, it all suddenly felt so silly. In Wig and Heels, I was a professional Frankfurter mobiliser; The day before, I had hoped to repeat my own bloody birth. It was so predictable. A deep, rich smile was kept on.

Through Ginger Johnson, my drag persona, I was no stranger to channeling my bad influence. I’ve sung a duet with a talking poo I’d met in a sewer; performed psychic surgery dressed as a Victorian biennial; He loved a talking custard pipe; Swords swallowed so far that they are seen at the other end. However, I kept my inner courtyard hidden. In the world of academic clowning, there is a concept known as “Clown in Trouble” syndrome. It’s a term coined by John Wright, teacher, theatre-maker and author of Why is that so funny? He writes about how being a complete idiot can be an exercise in self-improvement. When you find yourself in a difficult situation, the most popular way is the most popular way. It meant, I think, that this is a mantra for the stage. I’m in the dressing room, I realized that Wright’s ideas could apply to my own life too. Not just when I was performing. For years, I imagined my life as a tragedy playing out – why not repeat it as a comedy?

Seven years later, this is how I see the world. When you approach each day as a ridiculous effort, life feels easier. When things go wrong, I’m looking for the punchline. Most of us are pretending all the time, putting on a mask, trying to be high functioning when in reality, we are idiots for children. I simply decided to take it.

So, I decided to call my parents – and I made the call from the top of Arthur’s seat in Edinburgh. Mom picked up. For a while, we sat on the line in silence. Then we got to work repairing and rebuilding. It could not have gone better. It was light when I got up there, but it was dark by the time – an hour later – we finally said our goodbyes and see you. After one of the most important conversations of my life, I had to scramble up a mountain quickly in the dark, because I was late for cucking on a garish frock and throwing saveloys in my face.

I always had an internal monologue saying, “Oh my God, how terrible.” I had a disaster. Now, I pray those thoughts. It’s easier to realize you’ve lost the plot when you hear yourself actually speaking nonsense. When it feels like things are falling apart, I think of the worst, most devastating ending to the story I’m in.

I had a festival gig last night. It was a disaster. Advanced technology went wrong from the start; My support track put up. Then, as I trotted from one side of the room to the other, my stiletto heel got caught in a floorboard and I fell completely over. The old me would have been mortified: I’d have thought my career was over, I’ll never get booked again. But as I laid there flat on the floor-wig skew-whiff, dressed in my face and rabbit-shaped shoes flying through the air-I started cuckling. The crowd entered.

There are many reasons why I do drag. It’s my creative outlet – how I express my thoughts and my politics. I make children’s stories that I gave to the kids, full of happy LGBTQ+ characters – creating what I didn’t have when I was younger. Mostly, ginger is my way of freely spreading the slatiness and stupidity. When I’m the most ridiculous thing in the room, nobody else feels that eyes are on them; it gives audiences a license to let their guard down and experience the restorative power of the ridiculous. Ginger helped me find a way to exist in the world. Now she allows others too. Failing that, there’s always revival.
As told by Michael Segalov

Ginger Johnson: Ginger all the way! It runs until January 6 at London’s Soho Theatre