You probably have to leave the UK to understand what the Eurovision Song Contest can mean. In 1998, I was in Berlin and went to a very raucous party for it in Kreuzberg, then still the district where anarchists and impoverished Turks shared an urban space. The German entry was the extraordinary Guildo Horn, an excitable turquoise-clad eccentric in the Kreuzberg tradition. It involved cowbells. For the Kreuzberg drunks, this unexpectedly mattered: a chance to display the benevolent madness of their own festive lives. But a little later, another sign that these things mattered: the Turkish entry came to an end, and all around there were roars of approval from open windows. For three minutes, Europe had been listening to Turkey.

Eurovision, which began in 1956, was intended to display the unity of peoples. WH Auden had written, with characteristic precision, of “the sixteen skies of Europe”; with more hope than anything else, Eurovision has taken place under the vaguer guiding slogans of “We Are One” (2015), “Come Together” (2016) and “Under the Same Sky” (2004). The original intention of the founders was to bring different countries of Europe together in two ways. The first was very specific: to enable a simultaneous live broadcast across national borders – an immense challenge in an age before satellites. The second has always been rather nebulous: to bring different cultures together in a celebration of light entertainment.

Benevolent madness … Guildo Horn, who represented Germany in 1998. Photograph: Alamy

What “Europe” means in this context has expanded over the years. In theory, any country within the European Broadcasting Area is eligible, including Libya, Egypt and Syria. Morocco entered once, in 1980. But until the 1990s, it was almost entirely a western European contest; subsequently, the countries of the old Soviet Bloc changed the look of the scoreboard entirely, and half a dozen new countries emerged from Yugoslavia, which had been competing since 1961.

For many countries, Eurovision presents a learning process. The sort of music they have always liked has probably never been heard by the rest of Europe. They want to do well; they may want to demonstrate that they belong with the western democracies; they tone it down a little bit. To compare a Greek or Turkish Eurovision entry with a piece of domestic Greek or Turkish pop is to understand how western Europe imposes its own culture wherever it goes.

Examples of countries following their own taste, however, are legion, and often faintly comic. That single Moroccan entry is an interesting example, as is the curious Swedish decision in 1965 to enter the great operatic baritone Ingvar Wixell, a man of whom they were immensely proud. More subtly, there are rather a lot of very heated tragic ballads from Italy, cutesy oom-pah from the Netherlands, and, in the same category, wacky attempts at ironic humour from the UK. These things just don’t travel that well.

Embittered British commentators often bring up the UK’s total failure to achieve anything much in the last 20 years. There is an unattractive air of upbraiding about this – the UK is one of the five biggest contributors to the contest’s budget! In the first 30 years, the UK agreed four times to take over when the agreed host said it would be too expensive! We’ve supplied the language that, last year, all but three entries were sung in! For goodness’ sake. There is, too, the point, never very far from the surface, that in real life English singers and bands dominate European taste. But the fact that Adele and Coldplay can sell out stadiums anywhere in the world does not mean that the viewers of the European Broadcasting Union are going to vote for four British unknowns dressed as airline cabin crew (Scooch, in 2007) or a middle-aged British rapper leching over schoolgirls (Daz Sampson, 2006).

Opening minds … Conchita Wurst, who won for Austria in 2014. Photograph: Jonathan Nackstrand/AFP/Getty

To the British, it doesn’t matter. There are plenty of chances for Europe to buy the records of British artists, and they do. It seems unnecessarily greedy to complain that to the sincere tribute of European credit cards, all year round, ought to be added, on one night of the year, the tribute of votes and points and a trophy at the end. On the other hand, to other nations, this may be the one chance an overlooked nation such as Sweden has to get a good hearing for a major talent – I well remember the 1974 contest that launched Abba on the world. It is not just a singer’s nationality that deserves a good hearing: the Israeli transgender singer Dana International and the extraordinary, wonderful figure of Conchita Wurst opened a few minds when they won, in 1998 and 2014.

Clearly, the votes cast reflect, in some measure, whether a nation thinks it likes another nation or not. Neighbours charitably vote for neighbours across Scandinavia, the Balkans, and the former Soviet republics; points are made about the situation in Cyprus or the Russian threat. One year, Georgia tried to enter an insulting song about Putin. This year, Russia tried to bring off a public relations coup by sending to Ukraine a singer who performs in a wheelchair, but who had previously broken a Ukrainian embargo on Russian artists and performed illegally in Crimea. Ukraine held its nerve: the Russian entry has been cancelled.

Nobody likes the British, and this year, with our bad taste in referendum results amply advertised across Europe, it will be astonishing if the entry even breaks into the Top 20. But it seems as if Europe hardly likes France any more either – they haven’t won for 40 years – or Spain, who last triumphed in 1969, or Portugal, who have never won.

The audience for Eurovision is a curious one. The most fervent admirers appear to be small girls, immigrant communities such as my Kreuzberg Turks, and gay men, who sometimes take it alarmingly seriously. What is the appeal? Perhaps a world turned upside-down for one night; a vision of a continent where the giants of popular culture are Azerbaijan, Serbia and Norwegian violinists. Meanwhile, back in the real world, Eurovision has helped bring about connections in communications that, before 1956, were made arbitrarily impossible by national borders. Technology and good wishes can bring cultures together. Whether they like or understand each other, once they’re in the same giant hall in Ukraine, is a question that has never been answered.