Special Guest Blogger: The Vivienne

First things first, the obituary must lead with the important stuff. I was the nation’s first-ever Drag Race UK champion and fabulous. My exit was reportedly more stylish than Posh Spice’s entire 1998 tour wardrobe, and caused significantly less international incident.
Yes, that’s the stuff. I want my legacy to be cemented in the facts, darling. I won. The first one. A small, humble achievement, you might have heard of it. Before me, there was just… well, there was Drag Race, but it was all a bit… American, wasn't it?
I brought a certain Scouse grit, a specific brand of polished bitchiness, that the world just didn't know it needed. I turned the UK from a charming little novelty act into a global powerhouse of drag and I did it all on a diet of fags, gin, and a relentless, borderline pathological desire to be the shiniest thing in the room.
What else will they remember? The looks, my God, the looks. I’ve corseted my ribcage into shapes that would make an architect weep. I’ve glued down more eyebrows than I’ve had hot dinners. My body was a roadmap of pain with aching feet from stilettos that could double as murder weapons, a back held together by sheer force of will and the occasional dose of ibuprofen.
But was it worth it? Listen, when you can walk into a room looking like a divine, otherworldly creature who has just beamed down from Planet Fierce to inform the mortals that their hair is, frankly, a bloody mess… yes. It’s always worth it.
Of course, The Vivienne doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Behind the sequins and the attitude is a fella. A lad from Liverpool called James who pays the council tax and occasionally forgets to take the bins out. This is where the self-deprecation comes in, you see. The Vivienne is a legend. James is… fine. He’s the one who has to deal with the aftermath. The one who scrubs the glitter out of the sink.
James is the sensible one. The one who tells The Vivienne, 'No, we can’t afford that custom-made crystal-encrusted gown, we’ve got rent to pay.” And The Vivienne, bless her, looks back from the mirror and says, 'Bollocks to that, get the credit card babe'.
He was the yin to my yang. The calm to my storm. The one who remembers to buy milk. And while you all came for the queen with the sharp tongue and the even sharper cheekbones, a little part of my legacy is the quiet fella who just wanted to make people laugh. He’s the engine in this ridiculously over-decorated, high-maintenance sports car. And he was absolutely knackered which is why we both pegged out at the age of 32, dead after a cardiac arrest bought on by a Ketamine overdose.
Let’s be frank. In 100 years, will anyone really remember my season 9 snatch game? Probably not. Will they recall the exact shade of lipstick I wore for the final? Unlikely. My legacy isn’t in the trophies or the TV appearances. It’s not in the brand endorsements or the sold-out tours.
My legacy is the permission to be a bit of a bastard. To be witty, and sharp, and maybe a little bit too much for some people. To wear the absurdly high heels even though you might break your ankle. To tell someone their outfit is a disaster with a wink and a smile, because life’s too short for bad fashion and long faces.
So I say stay Vivacious. Or don’t. See if I care.