THOSE who count Nancy Clench among their acquaintances will know that fine food and drink are my second favourite thing in the world. I am quite the epicure, and can assure readers that my status as Scotland’s Biggest Drag Queen has been enhanced more by these cultured and expensive tastes than by the tequila swilling public image of my famed cabaret act. I am quite a different person in real life, more often to be found at home cooking up a storm in the kitchen than trawling the seedy bars of Soho – despite what you may have heard.

That’s why the events of last month were so troubling. I awoke on Tuesday morning after a raucous night of karaoke the previous evening, bounded out of bed and, as my foot hit the floor, I let out a noise akin to a pig being strangled, or a terrible Celine Dion impersonator on a top G#. The agony was indescribable.

The obvious culprit was slumped on the bedroom floor – my size 12 laced-up stiletto boots. I hopped to the bathroom and raided the medicine chest for the strongest painkillers I could find and took the maximum recommended dose.

As the drugs weren’t making one whit of difference, I phoned the GP surgery. This being NHS England, I faced an inquisition from the receptionist, who did, to be fair, establish that I wasn’t dying before telling me that there were no appointments available for the foreseeable, unless it was an emergency, in which case, I should go to A&E.

This was not what I wanted to hear. Desperate measures were called for: I swallowed the rest of the packet of painkillers, two strepsils, and a giant vitamin pill, and washed them down with two-thirds of a bottle of benylin that was lurking at the back of the shelf (my throat was actually sore from all that screaming in pain and arguing with the doctor’s ferocious gatekeeper). The sole of my foot still felt like it was being branded with a red-hot iron, but now the room was spinning too and I couldn’t keep my balance on one leg. It was in this delirious, doped-up state that I crawled through to the kitchen and started begging my flat-mate to saw off my foot with the breadknife. It was clear to me that amputation was the kindest option.

I thought it all through in my aspirin-addled brain: “Nancy Clench: Scotland’s Biggest One-legged Drag Queen.” As a champion of LGBT equality, I have fought tirelessly for the rights of sexual minorities; now I could lend my fame and global profile to the fight for disabled people’s rights too, and become a leading expert on intersectionality. I could do chat shows, and modelling, and Question Time and stuff. Maybe the painkillers started to kick in, or the cough mixture started to wear off, but eventually I stopped hallucinating and realised how monumentally stupid this whole notion was. And crass.

Instead, in the absence of proper medical attention, I set about the task of self-diagnosis. Contrary to stereotypes, drag queens are not all melodramatic hypochondriacs, but as I typed my symptoms into Google, read articles on Wikipedia, and answered questionnaires from Web MD, a startling possibility began to emerge. What if my injuries were not a deformity induced by balancing a 20 stone frame on a pair of stilettos over a prolonged period? What if they weren’t due to a forgotten drinking injury or over-enthusiastic moves on the dance floor? What if, in actual fact, I had gout?

As I ticked the boxes, checked my symptoms and eliminated all other possibilities, this uncomfortable reality dawned. In the absence of a proper clinical opinion, it was hard to ignore the prevailing evidence pointing to the likelihood that I did indeed appear to be suffering from gout, that nemesis of the over-indulgent, more associated in the popular imagination with the idle rich than with honest, hard-working bon vivants like me. Thank goodness I hadn’t seen a doctor – it would have been humiliating. She would only have told me to drink less, lose weight, get more exercise and cut down on red wine, red meat, oysters, and offal.

Can you imagine? Life would hardly be worth living. Luckily, Wikipedia advises that certain foods – cherries, cranberries and apple cider vinegar – can be used to alleviate the symptoms, which is caused by a build-up of uric acid. I confess that I’ve never really liked cherry pie, and anything with the word cider in it triggers traumatic memories of an adolescence misspent in Glenrothes, but I am now putting cranberry juice into my vodka, and I feel much better.

Nevertheless, the few days I spent hobbling around on crutches have taught me several important life lessons, and have made me a better person. I learned it’s incredibly difficult and expensive to get to and from work if you have a mobility problem. I learned it’s impossible to concentrate on anything else if you are in acute pain. And I learned that the NHS is really important and we need to treasure it. And access it. Being able to access it is the most important thing. I reflected on these insights over a steak and a wee Malbec the other night and thought about just how fortunate I am.

Nancy is now back in action and I will be fulfilling all gigs as advertised. I will, however, be reviving Nancy’s signature look of leggings and trainers. I’ve still not eliminated those boots as a contributory factor to my incapacity, and it would be a travesty if I was unable to lead the Slosh at the legendary SNP Youth Conference Karaoke this year. Marion Fellows MP better watch out.

Nancy Clench is Scotland’s Biggest Drag Queen, literally. She is a cabaret performer in London, and will hos the SNP Youth Conference Karaoke on Friday March 17.