The Mare's Head, Mmes Voluptuous, Glazier, Lemon, Rattle, Bag and Babble – and many others. They came here almost every day. They were part of the furniture, just as much as the black hole of the hearth with its artificial logs, or the weird fake armour that was all that remained of the First Republic decor.A stroboscope and frozen vodka, around midnight you couldn't move, the place was small and packed to the rafters, you couldn't see through the thick palls of smoke. Towards morning the DJ would get fifty crowns for every extra song he could be persuaded to play.

Forced smiles and genuine tears. Deep conversations and superficial coquetry. One-night stands and everlasting love. Beautiful young men, beautiful young girls, outrageously camp queers and serious looking gentlemen who had fled their family. Footballers, waiters, taxi drivers, and in all likelihood members of the secret services. Salespeople from the chemist's, postmen and train drivers. The bouncer Ivan didn't let anyone in who simply wanted to gawp.

I was never able to create a real documentary, since there were still enough people who wanted to remain anonymous and would not have wanted to have it known that they were connected with the T-Club in any way. Girls from the Jalta Hotel used to come here after their night shift. All of these and more belonged here, to a kind of family, the community of one of the two Prague gay clubs. The T-Club was a never-ending carnival.