IT SEEMS I’m a traitor.

Or a dissident.

Or a councillor.

Or something

That’s according to the charmers that I bumped into at City Hall on Monday night as I waited for the Palestine flag to go up – or not go up – at midnight after a rather testy meeting of Belfast City Council earlier that evening had given the green, black, red and white light for the criminally underused flagpole to be put to work again.

As evening turned into nighttime and we waited for December 1 to become December 2 – the day the flag was due to fly – the temperature dipped as dramatically as the mood of Loyal Ulster’s finest, of whom fully 15 were stationed in front of the City Hall gates determined to do... whatever came into their heads if and when the ‘terrorist’ flag was hoisted. To be honest, the modest number of police officers in situ didn’t seem to be overly concerned about what the A-Team had up their sleeve, because even if they had been intent on ending the loyalist ceasefire, most of them didn’t look physically capable of doing much more than chucking a vape or a lighter in the general direction of the flag, the police, or the equally measly number of pro-Palestine night owls standing at the other side of the road.

In five beautiful, memorable, precious moments post-midnight, a sense of relief settled gradually over the Guardians of the Flagpole until by 12.04am there was the occasional outbreak of giddy laughter and the sullen suspicion that had clouded their faces was replaced by a fragile but festively twinkling sense of hope and even optimism.

And then, in the half-light of the Baroque Revival stonework below the famous copper dome, something stirred. Was it a bird, was it a human, was it a flag? Nobody knew, least of all the heirs of Carson who craned their necks and squinted their eyes. iPhones on tripods and selfie-sticks were raised and forefingers and thumbs were pinched and spread on the screens to zoom in, and slowly, gradually, a murmured consensus emerged: the flag was up.

IN THE DARK: It wasn't until the cold, clear light of day that we got a good view of the Palestine flag at City Hall
2Gallery

IN THE DARK: It wasn't until the cold, clear light of day that we got a good view of the Palestine flag at City Hall

A skinny woman who’d been chain-smoking and haranguing police since I arrived went to DefCon 1, recalling a number of IRA  atrocities, each remembered with a louder and stronger passion than the last. An officer laid a gentle, black-gloved hand on her narrow shoulder and asked her to calm down. This, needless to say, had the effect that telling overexcited people to calm down has always had.

When I’d left my car the dashboard said four degrees, but it was colder now and the screams and shouts of anger emerged in plumes of white breath. The Ringleader, or at least the guy who had been doing the most talking in the past hour, burst into song: 

You can stick your Palestine up your hole,

You can stick you Palestine up your hole…

His comrades joined in, creating a discordant but compelling sound that rose up in the freezing, still air towards the Palestine flag that was clinging lifelessly to its pole and refusing to show its colours, teasing us like an exotic animal that won’t come out of its lair at the zoo.

The Ringleader suddenly suffered what I can only assume was an attack of Christianity, not surprising since all those who had turned up in order to fail to get the flag stopped were self-described Christian patriots. It now occurred to him that ‘hole’ was perhaps not a word that a follower of Jesus Christ should be throwing around with such passionate intensity, and so he changed the lyrics of his song:

You can stick your Palestine up your arse,

You can stick your Palestine up your arse…

In the lexicon of vulgar words, I’m not sure how far below ‘hole’  the word ‘arse’ sits, although of course I acknowledge what all of us know: it is indeed less vulgar. But when the Ringleader arrives at the Pearly Gates, I’m not sure having substituted ‘arse’ for ‘hole’ will cut the mustard with St Peter. Naturally, though, I accept that a Christian man like that won’t be relying on such narrow margins when it comes to entering the Kingdom of God.

Attention turned to a small group of “terrorists” and “traitors” on the other side of the road underneath the Samuels clock who were shouting “Free, free Palestine!” 

“Scumbags!”shouted the skinny woman, taking a deep drag on a Superking before following that up with “Dirty, rotten filth.” 

It got colder. The flag kept clinging to the pole as if it was heated. The big Israel flag on the City Hall gates read ‘We love Israel. We never give up.’ They rolled up the flag and gave up. 

 A bloke in a blue top and a monkey hat with ‘Stop the Boats’ on it raised a woolly-gloved hand and gave me the middle finger. A Scots woman gave me the finger too; her Scots companion asked: “Are you allowed to film me in public?” I kept my camera raised as they passed. “Dissident!” shouted an older man who I’ve since been told is called Freedom Dad. “He’s council!” shouted somebody else. 

I joined them on the walk away from City Hall, wondering which they thought was worse.