Dublin Dreaptha

A fine assortment of local lowlife, they sucked their ciggies through cupped hands, looking very pleased with themselves.

That's the thing about these Neanderthals - they get a kick out of being hard men. At a pinch, they'll spout some simplistic propaganda about the legacy of Pearse, but what they really enjoy is a good fight. That, and drawing fearful glances from ordinary people as they swagger around looking tough.

You used to see them all the time, in the background, at Sinn Fein events, looking menacing as they strutted in the wake of their smart suited, media savvy officer corps.

They've been airbrushed out of the picture.

The Sinn Fein leadership instructed its members to stay away from Saturday's 'Love Ulster' Unionist march. And most of them did.

Any of their rank and file who attended the counter-demonstration organised by republican Sinn Fein did so without authorisation.

But the general view around the city on Saturday afternoon was that the 'The Shinners' had run amok. For most people, life is too short to distinguish between republican Sinn Fein and respectable Sinn Fein. In the city on Saturday, the tough guys you'll never see on election literature got a rare chance to display their particular brand of thuggery in public. They call themselves 'republicans' - no need for distinctions.

Apparently, this group of individuals - old enough to know better - were not considered a threat to the marchers who had been bussed down from the North for the event. A line of waist-high crush barriers encircled them at the monument, where they stood with RSF placards in their hands and disruption in their hearts.

Midday passed, and the number of protesters appeared confined to that one spot at the junction of O'Connell Street and Parnell Street.

Worryingly though, the unionist parade would have to pass by them at very close quarters, before being funnelled through a bottleneck where they could be offered little protection in the event of an attack.

Even before the march was scheduled to begin, observers were pointing out in disbelief that a tempting smorgasbord of flag stones, builders rubble and missiles was available in O'Connell Street if any trouble kicked off.

Intelligence

Not to worry. Everything would be fine. The safety of the city, its citizens and many visitors, was based on "garda intelligence".

Low-key was sufficient. Even after the place had been thrashed and innocent people terrorised, that phrase was still being trotted out at the highest levels.

It sounds like a contradiction in terms now.

The marchers from the North arrived by coach at Parnell Square, next to the Garden of Remembrance. Gardai closed off a stretch of road in front of the Hugh Lane Gallery, and the victims and relatives of people who suffered at the hands of republican violence disembarked.

The flute bands travelling with them mustered under a large poster depicting a huge pair of boxing gloves.

The atmosphere was calm while the visitors assembled. The flute players tooted little bits of tunes, warming up. The drummers did the same.

And then, with minutes to go to the official starting time, the menacing, repetitive beat of a Lambeg drum struck up.

We were in Dublin, at lunchtime on a Saturday. It was surreal.

Flags

The marchers - apart from the musicians, mainly women and elderly men, some on crutches - lined up. There were no Orange Order collarettes or bowler hats in evidence, but everyone wore an orange lily. There was a banner, and a collection of flags, including a Union Jack, an Orange Order flag and American, Ulster, Scottish and English flags.

The crowd, some curious and some miffed by the scene, stood back as instructed. There were no crowd control barriers in Parnell Square, nor were there any along the pavements of Cavendish Row, which leads to O'Connell Street.

Shouts and roars, increasing in intensity, drifted up from the crowd at the monument. Reports came back of golf balls and billiard balls being thrown at the gardai. Bomb scares were logged by radio stations. The noise below increased.

A man in a suit with a tricolour around his shoulders walked past the gardai and towards the gathering of unionists. Eventually, he was noticed and pushed backwards. "Wha? Wha? Why am I not allowed walk down a street in my country?"

The flute bands were playing 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary' as the parade prepared to move off. There were hurried consultations among the gardai as the commotion further down got louder.

Reporters ran to see what was going on. The protesters at the monument pushed over their barricade, and had been joined by a large band of reinforcements from neighbouring pubs. Suddenly, gardai in riot gear ran out from Parnell Street and the first of many clashes began.

Back at the assembly point, police were pushing people back onto the pavement.

"You should stop them. You should stop them. There'll be people killed!" cried a distraught woman, who run up to escape the escalating violence.

"We're well aware of that, ma'am," replied a garda, pushing her back.

Firecrackers exploded. Plumes of smoke rose up. Groups of men walked briskly towards Parnell Square. "F***ing music!" spat one of them, as he came closer to the unionists.

Youths, their faces covered with scarves, danced around the road with republican banners. Older men, in faded denims, with shaven heads and dark glasses, swaggered around. Garda cars and vans screeched up and down Cavendish Row at high speed. This stretch of roadway was the only buffer between the bulk of the protesters and the marchers.

The older republicans seemed to have ceded the riot to a growing band of young gurriers.

Four ambulances pulled up, followed by a fire engine. Shop and car alarms screeched above the sirens. A fire hydrant gushed at the Parnell monument. After another barrage of debris, the gardai charged again and pushed the crowd back towards the Gresham Hotel.

Saturday shoppers - mothers with buggies, elderly people, tourists - rushed for safety. But where to go? Meanwhile, the older republicans seemed to have ceded the riot to a growing band of young gurriers, whooping with delight as they taunted the gardai. Some of these older individuals were constantly on their mobile phones - some wearing earpieces, as if issuing instructions.

By God, but they looked happy.

The drumming continued back at the Square. It didn't help, rather, it fuelled emotions. A new front had to be contained by the garda line. At the Garden of Remembrance, a growing crowd screamed abuse at the collection of unionists, straining to get at them.

"There're not Irish people. They're not Irish people!" screamed a man in a leather jacket, purple-faced with rage.

At this stage, O'Connell Street was out of control. (Thousands of people were happily shopping away, oblivious, in Henry Street.) Fires burned along the centre of the street, the sound of crashing glass was punctuated by the sound of missiles hitting the ground.

Ambulance staff rushed to attend to fallen gardai and members of the public. Bloodied young rioters pranced around, displaying their wounds with pride.

Finally, the Northern visitors were put back on coaches and taken away. "Scum, Scum, Scum," chanted the lowlifes, who think irony is used to make bars you hit people over the head with.

The departure wasn't enough for the lowlife gurriers in the Celtic jerseys, who realised they could fight and rob and vandalise to their hearts content.

Some kept fighting on O'Connell Street, but the bulk of them moved southside, wreaking havoc in Nassau Street and its environs. It was truly frightening, as crowds of Saturday shoppers got caught up in the madness.

Deathly

"It was deathly!" one little git was bragging to his mates, strutting down the street having put in a car windscreen.

Three pimply faced little bantams, chanting "I-I-I-IRA" and dancing for joy. An older man - the sort you wouldn't like to meet in a dark alley - came along and shouted "I told yis to leave the cars alone. Go up to Leinster House."

And, as a caller correctly reported on radio yesterday, the lads bounced on down Nassau Street, delighted with themselves. And one said to the other "Where is The Leinster House?"

"Dame Street," came the reply. And so another three brave young men are politicised. If nothing else, they should be good for handing out leaflets.