1916 Easter rising commemoration

CROWDS thronged the streets and guns and tanks abounded but Dublin was a far quieter place than it was 90 years ago - mainly because the public address system didn’t work.

The thousands who failed to squeeze into O’Connell Street and lined Westmoreland Street instead found themselves watching a silent big screen and trying to fudge the answer to the question: “Daddy, what’s the man saying?” when Captain Tom Ryan read out the Proclamation.

“I can’t believe we came all the way in to watch it on the telly - with no sound,” said one disgruntled onlooker. “C’mere and we’ll find a pub,” said one less disgruntled individual.

For most, however, the spirit of 1916 prevailed. It was one for all and all for one and it would take more than silent treatment to put them into retreat.

The mighty lungs of the army trumpeters were the first to break the sound barrier, propelling the Last Post across the Liffey to the crowd who automatically straightened in response.

After that the cheers and applause made up for the earlier hush as people saluted loved ones, friends and comrades marching in the parade or acknowledged the brigades in which family members once served.

The bands had feet tapping, the peacekeepers had hands clapping and various exotic species of specialist machinery with names like Flycatcher and The Beast had mouths gaping.

Best received of all were the Air Corps who performed numerous fly-overs in formation, never failing to provide an extra thrill with an optical illusion that they were going to clip the tip of the Spire.

It could have cleverly conceived or utterly accidental but the crowd didn’t care and chiropractors clinics will be jammed with clients complaining of crooked necks as a result.

There can have been few complaints otherwise. The politicians stayed quiet and let the relatives of the Rising heroes take the limelight. Not even Bertie blathered but kept to a few well-chosen words instead.

The odd loudmouth did roam the pavements roaring incoherent slogans but they were odd, both numerically and psychologically, while the intermittent sunshine and abundance of chocolate eggs kept the younger sections of the crowd smiling.

Protest groups kept a low-key presence, some dressing in orange boiler suits and black hoods to highlight abuses in Guantanamo Bay and others opting for a far more fetching Countess Markievicz look to raise issues ranging from the M3 motorway at Tara to the deportation of asylum seekers.

The only people looking put out were tourists running giant suitcases into shins and over feet in places taxis couldn’t reach, and a lanky young man in a limp woolly hat who couldn’t persuade gardaí to arrest him for the can of spray-paint found in his backpack.

“I’m not taking you away - just your spray-paint,” the garda said lightly but firmly as the youth pulled a doleful face. It’s hard to be a rebel 90 years too late.