Help! DragCon UK was a capitalist hellscape – and I love it

It’s the second day of DragCon UK and RuPaul is standing on the inner balcony of London’s Olympia, a monarch surveying his kingdom. Somewhere in between a campy sugar rush and a capitalist hellscape, this giant expo hall is swathed in bright pink carpets, punctuated by narrow cabins that house both the American and British TV series’ drag queens. “KEEP CALM AND WERK” screams one sign, Adoring fans cheer manically at Mamma Ru’s arrival, her entrance soundtracked by “Kitty Girl” and “Main Event”.

Occasionally, Ru is flanked by members of the ‘Brit crew’ – hot men in Union Jack underwear who act as props and assistants on the TV show – and there’s some security and VIP package buyers hanging in the wings, but mostly, he’s alone. “He looks exactly like he does on TV!” an onlooker says during his two-hour DJ set. And just like TV, he’s painfully removed from the ‘main event’.

Down on the expo floor, the show’s biggest stars sit in 2x2 metre boxes, like Barbies, where gushing fans queue up excitedly for a £30 selfie with their favourite queens, an added bolt-on to the £40 entry fee. It’s a sanitised approach to socialising with the masses, and reduces the queens into objects to gawk at, rather than the breakout performers they are. It’s a stark contrast to how we’re used to seeing these queens, who (on stage and screen) seem to possess infinite amounts of energy and charm. Crammed into their little display cages, and robbed of any authentic interactions with their fans, you could just as easily be queueing up for a pic with the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, as you could Baga Chipz or Derrick Barry.

The first day of DragCon UK saw hundreds of fans queuing for hours in the cold, only to be denied entry and told to return on the Sunday. The shitshow was documented on Twitter, with many comparing the happenings to Fyre Festival and TanaCon (influencer Tana Mongeau’s failed convention). “Been queueing for two hours in the freezing cold with no explanation why it’s taking so long!” wrote one attendee. “Been excited about this event for months and people have travelled from across Europe to be here. Give us an apology and a #RuFund.” Another person tweeted: “Standing out in the cold with hundreds of others. Not letting anyone in. Absolute shambles #dragcon.”

It’s clear the American blueprint of capitalism and commerce falls flat on British ears. As someone who’s been a fan of Drag Race since day one, I keep wondering to myself, why does this feel like a furniture expo? It seems devoid of everything you watch Drag Race for – that is, campy, surreal fun that doesn’t take itself too seriously. Instead, we’re met with exactly what it’s not: an ultra-commercialised fever dream, peppered with shops that swing between bespoke corsetry and the sort of stuff you’d find cool in Camden Market ten years ago, while you’re jostled between queues for burgers and selfies at the fuschia, drag-themed phonebox. Sure though, I’m all about queens (for whom the spotlight will likely be bright but shortlived) who have grinded their way here getting the bank they deserve, but I’d like to see that same kind of cash dropped on local nights and hustling local queens outside of the franchise flourish too.

Later, Ru rushes past us to his very own booth, a flash of neon green whisked away by a gaggle of security, which draws parallels to a president walking through a public square (bodyguards and ear pieces at the ready).

Despite all this, however, it’s impossible to ignore the buzz of the crowd, which has an electric energy. LGBTQ+ people, straight (presenting) people, young families, old people, people with disabilities, all coexisting in a way that feels respectful. There’s no-one pushing and shoving aggressively, and on the whole, people seem pretty content. There is, of course, a distinct lack of seating, which renders many clusters of people to the very corners, many holding Pizza Express takeaway boxes in hand, looking gormless.

A special mention goes out to the kids club, which can basically be described as an amalgamation between crusty utopia festival Boomtown’s Kidztown and IKEA’s Småland. Here, drag queens take turns, or ‘sets’, to entertain those toddlers and babies whose parents are inevitably queueing up for some photo opp or another. Walking past, I overhear one queen telling a little boy, “you’re worth something, you’re special, don’t you ever forget that”. I cry.

Then, I catch myself: who am I kidding? Drag has been pummeled by enough criticism and prejudice throughout history that it’s entry into the mainstream should be celebrated, and if that means milking an economic system that favours cis, hetero men, then why not? My main concern, however, is this: the smooth-oiled machine that is Drag Race has catapulted many of its contenders into overnight stars – even minor contestants have managed to monetise their brands (Charlie Hydes, Scardey Kat, Gothy Kendoll, we’re looking at you). Sure, it’s well-deserved to see the success of those previously on the sidelines, but is it actually elevating and supporting drag queens, generally, or simply narrowing the pathways of success for artists – would we ever get this fanfare for a DragulaCon, or sold-out sets in the most local midlands drag shows? – homogenising aesthetics, and sucking up a culture into the bloated Ru franchise? Keep calm, and I’ll continue to werk on that thought.