Words: Sam Temple | Photography: Shan O’Donnell
Queerness has always existed on this nine-by-five-mile patch of land floating between Britain and France — but it hasn’t always had a microphone. Or a spotlight. Or even a proper stage. So when a group of seasoned drag queens decided to stop waiting around for a platform to be handed to them and build their own, they didn’t just create an event — they created a sanctuary.
Enter Jersey Royales: an evening of drag and cabaret where newcomers and veterans share the same stage, the same lash glue, and the same desire — to be truly seen as they are. In a place where queer spaces are rare and DIY dreams reign supreme, this isn’t just entertainment — it’s mentorship, magic, and movement in an uncharted direction.
As audience members file into the back of the Troubadour, awaiting the start of Jersey’s newest queer event, it’s immediately clear this space is for everyone. Whether you’re dressed in jeans and a tee or a handmade jacket with glow-in-the-dark vinyl shoulder treatments and a four-foot duochrome tailcoat, you’re not only welcome here — you’re loved, encouraged, and celebrated.
The bar is business as usual, packed with its usual clientele enjoying a toasty summer evening. Most are totally oblivious to the fact that, through two layers of reflective streamers, nearly 70 people have gathered for a night of unapologetic queer joy. Mingling in a place like this is easy. Nothing starts a conversation quite like, “I love your electric blue sequin gown,” or “That’s the biggest candyfloss-coloured wig I’ve ever seen.” Some may call it too much. Here, it’s called business casual.
The lights dim and the show begins with cabaret extraordinaire and host for the evening, Dr. Adam Perchard, who firmly and lovingly lays down the ground rules:
“This is a place for kings, queens, and in-betweens to try something new. So if we see something we like, what are we going to do?”
The crowd roars in response.
“And if someone has a mishap, falls down, or loses a wig, what are we going to do?”
They whoop even louder — not because they’re told to, but because there’s a shared understanding of the courage it takes to present yourself to a crowd and potentially fall. Especially for new performers, who may have an extra wobble to their heel. This express permission to fall and still be safe and loved as you get back up — those are the cornerstones of the queer community.
Nobody fell. Nobody faltered. All nine performers commanded the stage with their own flair — including contemporary ballet, live singing, comedy, poetry, lip-syncing, and an honourable mention to Peachy Keen, who shoved an entire cake into her face during Olivia Rodrigo’s “All-American Bitch”.
After the show, I spoke with Adam, to talk about what it means to be queer, loud, and unapologetic on an island still finding its feet with the queer scene.
“We’re living through quite a dark time for our community. There’s a lot of hate out there that we’re having to deal with and it can be exhausting and frightening. Being able to step into a safe haven and have the weight of that negativity lifted off your shoulders for a while is incredibly powerful and freeing.”
“These kinds of sanctuaries are also places where we become who we are as LGBTQ+ people: they’re spaces where we can play with our identities — try on new hats, dresses, beards, ideas — and figure out who we are and who we want to be. They remind us we’re not alone. It’s a place for big, fierce, sustaining, riotous queer joy.”
Jersey has had its fair share of drag acts over the years — but never something like this. Sitting down with some of the show’s performers and creators brought to the forefront the significance of what they’re building together.
“We created the event because we needed it ourselves,” said Shan O’Donnell. “ It started as a personal need — to have a creative outlet where we could have fun and feel safe. But after talking to others and hearing how much they needed it too, it blossomed from there.”
“When the gay clubs closed here in the early 2000s, there was a real gap — and Drag & Cabaret exploded because people were hungry for it,” Ollie Gaynor added. “But that event quickly earned a polished reputation, which made it trickier for new acts to cut their teeth. So we wanted to create extra avenues for first-time performers.”
Queer spaces in Jersey didn’t take off in the same way that they did in places across the UK. I mentioned to the queens, “When I first moved here, I googled ‘queer culture in Jersey’ and the only things that showed up were public toilets and secret cruising spots”. “I’ve worked in the archives for years,” said Shan, “and I noticed there was barely any documentation of the real queer history here. No evidence in the public record that we exist, or that we’re part of Jersey’s cultural history. I started a project called Guys and Dolls, where I photograph queer performers — in and out of drag — and submit them to the Jersey archive. It’s about making sure our presence is documented. That we have roots here.”
What’s happening with Jersey Royales is more than just a night of camp spectacle — it’s history in real time. In a place that hasn’t always had room for queer joy, these performers have carved one out with rhinestoned pick axes, resilience, and humour. They’ve built a platform not just to be seen, but to see one another — in every form. For some, it’s a first stage. For others, it’s a homecoming. But for everyone, it’s a reminder: we’re here, we’ve always been here, and we’re not going anywhere — except maybe to the afterparty.
