Growing up in the English countryside, I dreamed of moving to the city and joining the gay world. At 18, in the mid-noughties, I moved to Manchester for university. On my first night out, I went to a popular gay club and got extremely drunk. The halls were only a five-minute walk away, but I was alone. Around 2am, I found myself propped against a wall outside a takeaway, unable to find my way back.
Spotting me in trouble, Nana, known as the oldest drag queen in Manchester, approached and asked: “Are you OK, chicken?” Nana was a local institution who had campaigned during the HIV/Aids crisis in the 1980s and 90s. In the 2000s, she would often hand out ice blocks to drunk young revellers to help sober them up, saying: “Here’s something to suck on, boys.”
I told Nana I lived at the university but didn’t know where I was going. Without hesitation, she replied: “Come on love, let’s get you home.” She escorted me back, got me safely into my room, tucked me into bed, and saw herself out, all while in drag. Her parting words were: “Nana loves you – now be careful.”
Looking back, I realise how vulnerable I was as an 18-year-old in an unfamiliar environment. Nana, probably in her early 60s, took me under her wing and got me home safely, then disappeared like a gay fairy godmother. Nana died about three years ago, and Canal Street went into mourning. After her passing, we shared stories of her kindness and realised how wonderful she was—a fabulous person who looked after her community without expecting thanks. Vale Nana.
