Manchester Pride owes me thousands – I’m losing a queer space too

I had hoped I’d never have to google the definition of ‘voluntary liquidation’ in my career but there I was – after a pitfall of private messages from friends and colleagues with the words ‘Have you seen the email?’ pinging through my notifications – delving deep into its meaning.

‘Your company cannot pay its debts,’ Google ominously informed me.

It was Wednesday at 3:13pm (unlucky for some, definitely me) when myself and a number of others received an email statement from ‘Manchester Pride’s Board of Trustees’.

This group of figures sent us all a sneak peak of the public statement they were going to be releasing, informing us of Manchester Pride’s years of financial turmoil and now imminent liquidation of assets.

It felt like we were being scammed.

To give some backstory, I had worked this year with Manchester Pride on three events. My own main stage performance slot, hosting their VIP brunch and a runway show.

The latter event in particular was staffed and brought to life by 17 other artists.

Now all of them – myself included – are going unpaid due to Manchester Pride’s liquidation. And it’s devastating. I’m losing out on over £3,000 of unpaid invoices.

I first took part in Manchester Pride as a bright-eyed 19-year-old on the George House Trust float, sailing through Manchester City Centre down the parade route. I’d tell you the year but a drag queen never reveals her real age.

I distinctly remember the atmosphere; the sunshine, the smiling faces. As a queer kid, who grew up in Wigan and moved to Manchester that year, it was a dream come true to express myself wholeheartedly.

Over the years, I’ve seen and participated in many different iterations of Manchester Pride. Some have been focused on the community, but in more recent years, I’ve noticed more seems to have focussed on the profit.

Going into the festivities this year, however, I felt confident that Manchester Pride was making active changes to revert to more community-based initiatives, after the previous year of public scrutiny about rising costs amidst a cost of living crisis.

From internal chats, I saw them investing more in grassroots organisations, freelance curators, and finding new sponsors for the following year.

Then I heard the words that I didn’t realise would be the nail in the ceremonial coffin: Mardi Gras Stage. It was a new stage attached to Pride on the other side of town, located inside of Mayfield Depot, where Pride attendees could see large names for large-ticket prices.

Sadly, it appeared to me that no one bought them and the arena was empty for the majority of the weekend – even at my very own event.

Once the event was done and my work had been completed – you would assume the next step is to get paid. 

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It wasn’t that simple. 

Invoicing with Manchester Pride has been somewhat complicated in the past. So I made the decision to alter contracts this year and Pride signed me onto a 30-day invoice payment schedule, instead of their standard 60 days.

This meant that, from September 27, the money would be landing in my bank account. Or so I thought.

Nearing the deadline, I thought it would be fair to remind them of the impending payment date and I received the usual ‘heavy work load’ email. Then the date rolled around and nothing happened without much communication.

By this point, a couple of thousand pounds had been left unpaid and rent was due. So I then spent the next 14 days sending reminders and a 10% late fee because ‘invoice terms are legally binding contracts if the company has begun processing your invoice’, according to my legal representative.

But I wasn’t just fighting for the payment for myself, I had 17 other artists who were looking to me for answers. People relied on me and the guilt began to set in.

I would not have made it into the world of showbiz and Rupaul’s Drag Race UK without my Manchester community building me up. So to feel responsible for the unpaid bills of your colleagues and friends is a severely mounting pressure. 

That’s when we then received the news that Manchester Pride had gone into voluntary liquidation. Now, the vast majority of us feel cheated, lied to, and scammed.

The statement points to ‘rising costs’, ‘declining ticket sales, and an ambitious refresh of the format’.

I can’t help but think about what my mother taught me from a very young age: ‘You don’t spend what you can’t afford’. Maybe she should be the new CEO of Manchester Pride.

On a serious note, I honestly don’t know what the future holds for Manchester Pride (the event, not the organisation). I feel let down and so do many others.

So I implore Manchester City Council to look into creating a round table of queer events curators from all over the city spectrum; from the queer bars of Canal Street to the diverse grass roots club nights of the surrounding city.

We can make Pride what it was always supposed to be, a collection of queer life in our city. And protest for the things we need to change locally and globally. 

That’s what Pride should be all about.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk. 

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