The day is late, and it has become apparent that a time that was once pregnant with possibility can no longer realise its own ideals. There will be no donkey. What has been thought of a possibility has already become impossible, there is no time left. But at the end of every day it is almost tomorrow, and within that promise itself there may still be time to express the ending of something, if only so as to countenance the advent of something new. It is the end of England in Europe, but the beginning of a new fairground. Something will survive on, but it may be beyond what is deemed acceptable. When it grows late the rules go out, they may be flouted or ignored, what may happen in a club or in the dark lies outside of the order of the day. In the back room the CCTV footage plays, looking back belatedly at the event that didn’t happen, of rooms looking empty in the dark. Doom impends, there is the suggestion of decline, difficulty, dissonance, shadows, the moribundity of a late capitalism, the possibility that has become too late. But in the gathering and dispersion of crowds lies the passing of the night and the promise of a new day. Though the only thing dancing is a dancing Soviet bear codpiece, frozen in a defensive kick, the double action of a libidinal jouissance, the death throes of the decayed promise of revolution.