A fortnight ago, I sat in a chilly, near-empty basement bar in Prague that smelled of beer, sweat and fried cheese, watching the Czech equivalent of David Gray. Between songs, he swigged disconsolately from a bottle of red wine. He was obviously as sad as my husband and I were about the night out. After two tequilas, we cut our losses.
As we left, I looked longingly over the road at Patra, the best queer bar in town. It was hosting a Eurovision party, with drag queens, cocktails and a glorious, shouty crowd spilling out into the street. I lingered at the door. I was wearing cowboy boots and head-to-toe leopard print – was a woman ever more ready for Eurovision? But I was also with my husband. Yes, I am queer, but I knew I wouldn’t be going in. The space was not mine to take up when I could go to any other bar in the city.
