And then, as we view the transcender (our only amusement of an evening, while we wait), things float into focus. Here there seems to be a smooth venomous braggart, who claims to be ruling a powerful nation (on earth, he says, but it is not our earth), and we are to record that his name is Trump. Bruna is reminded of the Last Trump (for that is when she latterly died, having overdone, not for the first time, the diamorphine and pear juice). We are appalled. Yet, we discover (even worse) he has an accomplice (he is otherwise referred to as an adversary, but the transcender does not lie), and he is a tiny mannequin with a pumped-up chest (Fabor says it is in artificial ribcage, and he should know, after all these years under the knife). His name flickers on the screen – we think it might be Pouting, or Putain, or Pottin, but perhaps is is Putin – to us, out here, he is not dangerous, but we still feel the instinctive impulse to warn about this pair, this destructive coupling, this signifying rut in the bordello of desire.