In a development that has left the UK Foreign Office reaching for the good sherry, Budapest has held its first Pride parade since the departure of Viktor Orban, that magnificent hairy-backed nationalist who treated democracy like a particularly troublesome fly to be swatted with a rolled-up constitution. The march, a defiantly colourful serpent wriggling through the drab concrete veins of the city, was hailed by our government as 'a beacon of democratic progress in Europe'. Which is Whitehall-speak for 'thank God we don't have to pretend to be polite about that ghastly man anymore'.
The scenes were, by all accounts, joyous. Thousands of Hungarians, many of them young and too buzzed on freedom to care about the hangover of economic reality, danced and waved flags that looked like they’d been designed by a committee of drunk anarchists with a leftover Pride budget. Banners read 'Love is Love' and 'No More Hate', though one wag in the crowd held up a sign saying 'Orban's Moustache: Still Flawed'. The police, stripped of their authoritarian mandate, looked almost lost, like bodybuilders forced to attend a poetry reading.
Now, let us not get carried away on a wave of liberal triumphalism. The UK’s applause is akin to a man who has just emerged from a collapsing house congratulating his neighbour on having a functioning front door. We, after all, are a nation that has spent the last decade systematically disembowelling our own human rights legislation, a fact that Foreign Office press releases conveniently forget like a drunk uncle at a wedding. But still, the sight of a parade not being pepper-sprayed into submission is a small, pleasant shock to the system, like finding a tenner in an old coat.
This is the first Pride in Budapest since the fall of the Orban regime, which collapsed under the weight of its own kleptocratic absurdity, leaving behind a legacy of illiberal democracy and really quite terrible street lighting. The new government, a ramshackle coalition of opposition parties who have so far only agreed on the colour of their parliamentary seating, has promised to restore Hungary's place in the European family. At this rate, they might even fix the potholes by 2030.
The march itself was a masterclass in controlled euphoria. There were drag queens with wigs that could have housed a small bird sanctuary. There were lesbian couples holding hands with the kind of defiant tenderness that makes bigots choke on their own bile. There were even a few sober-looking liberals, clutching EU flags and looking nervously at the sky, as if expecting a thunderbolt of orbánic fury. It did not come. The sun, perhaps finally unembarrassed, shone.
But as the confetti settles and the glitter glue dries, we must ask: is this a genuine shift or just a temporary blip in the endless, dreary cycle of European authoritarianism? The UK’s approval, while welcome, is the political equivalent of a participation trophy. We have our own battles. Our own Pride events are increasingly corporate-sponsored affairs where rainbows are used to sell yoghurt and mobile phones. But Budapest today reminded us of what Pride actually means: a refusal to be invisible. And that, even if only for twenty-four hours, is a victory worth celebrating with a terrible, lukewarm Hungarian gin.
So raise a glass to Budapest. To the marchers. To the fact that, for one glorious day, the streets of a city once known for its dark squares and darker politics were filled with nothing but joy, noise, and a profound, unshakeable belief that love will, in the end, have the last laugh. Even if it has to lobby for it.
