Young men stride in white plastic boiler suits which are covered in permanent red-markered Mitsubishi signs . . . the abiding logo of 1990s ecstasy tablets. Young women in uniforms of bras and knickers, covered slightly by tricolour tutus and an occasional stretch of material along with fluffy neon boots, shiver in the cold. A news update on the taxi's radio says that it's three degrees outside. It feels colder as a wind whips rain across the Liffey.

The night before A few years ago, the switch from St Patrick's Day to 'Paddy's Eve' began. Promoters and clubs realised that gigs on the day weren't working, but they would get more people in the door the night before, solely because a hangover could be afforded. Now, while all-day drinking on the 17th remains a priority, 'Paddy's Eve' hosts the big names. And so the Point hosted Godskitchen, a dance event, which attracted about 3,000 people.

"If you don't leave, I'm going to arrest you, " screamed a garda at a young man who had been reprimanded at least four or five times. The man's jaw looked out of place, grinding against the upper row of his teeth . . . an unpleasant side effect of ecstasy. A sign warned that all patrons are subject to search, and that any illegal drugs will be confiscated. Those who are underage or too inebriated to get past the wall of ticket-checking security staff, amused themselves by throwing glass bottles at passing cars. A BMW provided the biggest cheer.

In Smithfield, the replacement for the SkyFest fireworks display, an acrobatics show, took place to a backdrop of fairground rides and drinking teenagers. Leaning against the glass fronts of blocks of new apartments, they clutched cans and shivered. A horrible thought occurred. Perhaps tomorrow will be too cold to hang around and drink.

What else will they do?

In Temple Bar, by 10pm, drink was taking its toll.

Two men in furry Guinness hats infuriated potential users of an ATM because they'd just chosen the machine as a urination spot. One fell over.

At St Stephen's Green, the pubs were full, probably a bit fuller than on a busy Saturday night.

Bland pop blared across the dance floors. On nearby George's Street, a squad screeched down the alleyway beside The George. Two gardai stepped out and knocked the bottles of alcohol from the hands of the stunned teens before screaming "get down on your f*****g knees" and physically forcing them to do so before they had time to react. A punch on the neck of one enforced the order.

A drunken cliche "It's a bit OTT, " said an American woman in the main square of Temple Bar, nodding towards a man who had taken to dancing on top of a rubbish bin singing an incoherent drunken chant. "But it's Ireland! It's St Patrick's!" her friend grinned, oblivious to a patron behind her drinking a pint of Guinness, trying to chat up a worried looking woman (and her more worried looking male partner) and falling over his tangled legs.

On O'Connell Bridge, the request for directions to "a real pub" from an Australian man was met with disdain from the Chinese server: "You want f*****g hot dog?"

A roar went up when the distinct sound of another drunk person urinating in a beer bottle was heard above the loud drunken slagging upstairs on a Nitelink bus heading for the southside. Many of the passengers occupied themselves by drunkenly rolling joints. Cans are passed around before the obligatory 3am compulsion to sing 'The Fields Of Athenry' kicks in. Someone threatened to vomit;

his friend warned him not to.

Back in town at 4am, there was vomit everywhere. The paths around Tara Street station were covered in orange splodges, gradually being erased by the increasingly heavy sleet. Outside the Central Bank, a man was curled up on the ledge of a potted plant. He shivered, and one of his shoes falls off.

Not homeless, just drunk.

The parade The last of the flags were going for a euro each.

Miniature tricolours, plastic, good for a few hours until the parade had passed off into history. The vendor had set up shop on Gardiner Place, around the corner from Parnell Square, where the parade was due to start at noon. It was seven minutes shy of the appointed hour and he still had at least a dozen to unload. This was your last chance to buy a flag and wave it for Ireland. But the throngs hurried on by, most of them already togged out in the colours. Up above, the sky was the hue of dishwater. Brass monkeys would fear for their manhood in weather like this.

Down on Cavendish Row a half-an-hour later and the army chaps on motorcycles were performing as outrider for the parade proper. On the steps of one of the Georgian dwellings, next door to Cassidy's Hotel, a man dipped into a rucksack sitting at his feet, and came up with a blue and gold can of Harp. A patrol of two gardai walked by, but the drinker paid them plenty of no notice, and they he.

The cops looked young and cold and not in the mood to be eagle-eyed. Trouble, if it reared its scarred face, would find them easily enough. The lads didn't need to go looking for it.

They kept coming. The dancers from Brazil, the singers from Blue Heaven. Dracula showed up in fine form and Ronnie Drew kept the show on the road. All along the building site that passes for O'Connell Street, there wasn't a loose missile to be seen. The parade passed off peacefully into a cliche. The Lord Mayor, Catherine Byrne, did a fair to middling impression of a royal wave from the ornate coach that ferried her along. She disembarked at the viewing stand outside the GPO.

Cameras flashed. Handheld videos whirred. "The coach, " an MC of sorts announced, "is now worth three million pounds." Knowing the value of something isn't enough. We must be told the price too.

Everywhere, people strained for a view. In the body of the parade, there was the usual array of comedians, extroverts, the odd fool and plenty of pretenders, all donating themselves for the gaiety of the city. Soon after 1pm, the elements had enough. Hailstones beat down from on high, and the more adventurous clung for dear life to Henry Gratten on the island in College Green. Nobody in the high-school band from Powder Springs, Georgia, missed a step, no trumpet a note. The parade moved apace, defiant against anything nature could throw at it.

The hooded brigade By mid-afternoon, the main event was spent but the hooded ones were just kicking off. Knots of them milled around outside the St Stephen's Green shopping centre, a touch of menace piercing their exuberance. They had a dilemma. The cops held the Green. Four officers guarded the entrance across the street, another complement stood sentry at the Leeson Street end. All the other gates were locked. The Green itself was crawling with both cops and "park constables". In the normal course of St Paddy's Day events, the Green was a place to get locked and foment trouble. Not this year.

A steady stream of people drifted diagonally across in the aftermath of the parade. Only the young and the hooded were searched on entry. Plastic bottles of Coke and 7-Up were uncorked and smelt before being returned. Inside, one young man was approached by a park constable on a humpback bridge over the pond. The constable demanded the 7-Up bottle the lad had in his hand. He uncorked it and sniffed. Then he poured the contents into the water, oblivious to abstemious ducks, and handed back the empty bottle. When approached with an inquiry about how he knew the imbiber was on the hard rather than the soft stuff, the constable drew a finger across his mouth, as if it was stitched.

Outside, in front of the shopping centre, a young woman had collapsed and was being attended by gardai. It didn't appear that drink was involved.

Over 10 minutes later, on the stroke of 3.30pm, an ambulance wended its way up Grafton Street.

The patient was helped on board. Further down the street, a group of Hare Krishnas were doing their shake, rattle and hum thing. They were helped out by a group of young lads in high, green hats, who had their own version of the ritual dance.

The comedian Dave McSavage was getting a great kick out of it. All was quiet on the rioting, cavorting and general mayhem fronts. It still wasn't any weather for nervous brass monkeys.

Wesley disco, Donnybrook "Fat chance, faggot, " one boy said to another in the Shell garage opposite Wesley disco as he produced a strip of condoms. "Fat f*****g chance."

Luckily for teen drinkers, Wesley fell on St Patrick's night. It was too cold to hang around parks and streets drinking, but St Patrick's Day falling on a Friday offered other opportunities.

"State of me, I've got four naggins in here!" a pretty girl said, patting her black jacket that concealed the vodka. She was one of the few to wear a coat. One girl stood out . . . a film of white lycra covered her pre-pubescent breasts and a see-through white tutu surrounded her pelvis like rings on Saturn. Her buttocks were divided by a black thong. The 46A deposited gelled boys, who pushed each other drunkenly into oncoming traffic. More girls arrived in their mothers' cars wearing tracksuit bottoms with school bags on their backs.

Inside are the clothes they were intending to wear.

Temple Bar By 8pm, Temple Bar was rocking. The spiritual home of Celtic kitsch was in form to party the night away. The square on which the enclave centres was heaving in a green mass. At one end, a group of drum-based buskers provided the soundtrack for a dance fest. A crowd of revellers, soft but happy from drink, surrounded the musicians and engaged in bodily contortions that bore little relation to rhythm or reason.

The other end of the square was dominated by an ensemble with guitars and accordion, dipping into history for its repertoire and attracting many among the out-of-towners. A queue to the ATM snaked its way through the square and, while many revellers were unsteady on their feet, the air was free of any hint of menace.

A female garda wandered among the crowd, emptying confiscated cans of Bulmers onto the cobblestones. Street drinking was conspicuous by its absence all along the main drag. You couldn't go 50 yards without encountering a garda patrol, composed of either a single or a pair of officers.

And then through the crowd pushed four men who each bore a striking resemblance to the late Elvis Presley. The paddywagon eased through the crowd, attracting little notice. Then an ambulance appeared from the Parliament Street end, siren blaring as the sea parted in front of it.

Momentary sobriety was induced at the sight of the vehicle, but once it passed, normal fare resumed.

Not all entertainers were enjoying the benefit of loose pockets which accompany booze. A lone guitarist stood at Rory Gallagher Corner, his instrument wired up to an amp, a wig of green white and gold fitted to his head. He was moaning his way through 'Smoke On The Water' but nobody paid him a blind bit of notice. Still, he looked to be in his element, and that good cheer seems to have been the uncustomary theme of a day that in previous years has often turned sour.

The early house A motley crew of all-night partyers in their 20s, tweaked out gay men and drug dealers congregated in a popular early house on the morning after St Patrick's Day. It should have been too early for this . . . Jameson and Red Bull, cocaine, ecstasy, cannabis, cigarettes and beer. Barmen creased their foreheads as they pulled pints in the twilight-zone atmosphere.

The music thundered. Eyes rolled back, jaws fell open, and everyone congratulated themselves and each other for keeping the night going till 11am on the morning after.