IT'S 3.30 in the morning, and all the people in the Irish pub are drinking tea.

And eating sandwiches.

And speaking to each other in sober, civilised tones.

A bit of raucous laughter breaks out in the corner and is greeted by offended glares. Bit early for that. Everyone here is just out of bed.

It's the Saints and Sinners pub in Queens, New York City.

Full of Irish people, who are preparing to board a fleet of buses to Washington DC. The plan: 4,000 people storm Capitol Hill. The goal: get citizenship for those who are here, and visas for those who want to come.

The buses arrive, and everyone stumbles out into the freezing cold night. It's minus 12 degrees here, an unseasonable "cold snap" that has all the news stations giving advice on how not to die from exposure.

Each bus eases out onto the heavily sanded roads. Lights go off, heat goes up, and for the next three hours, only a few gentle snores break the silence.

"Right lads, you've got five minutes, " says Karl Campbell from Co Donegal, as the bus pulls up beside a motorway Starbucks. Campbell's been here for the best part of a decade. He manages a big popular bar in Queens, is going out with an American girl, and lives his daily life under the shadow of illegality.

"Five minutes, lads. Get something to eat, have a smoke break, go to the toilet, see you back here in five."

There's a general consensus that he can't be serious.

Twenty minutes later, the group is back on the bus with grande caramel machiattos and sticky 'cinnabuns'. American breakfast, Irish timing.

It's 10.30am when the bus finally pulls up to the Washington Court Hotel, which sits in the shadow of Capitol Hill.

The hotel is already swarming with white T-shirts, bearing the 'Legalize the Irish' slogan.

The 4,000-strong crowd mobilises into groups of 10, each group armed with a list of senators and congressmen. A green mile of white T-shirts snakes its way up the Hill.

This is serious business. The belt is tightening on all illegal immigrants living in the US, and the numbers being deported from the country has increased exponentially in the last decade. According to Kieran O'Sullivan, an Immigration and Citizenship Consultant in Boston, his workload has increased from one to two deportations in 1996, to 50-70 last year.

Paul Ladd from Castletownroche in Cork is facing exactly that threat. Standing in his campaign T-shirt and a paddy hat, Ladd says that if the McCain/Kennedy bill isn't pushed through in the next few weeks, he and his wife will be deported.

"I've been here for 16 years, and I was last home 12 years ago, " he says. "I've made my life here. I've set up a construction firm, I employ Americans, I own 34 acres of land, and now that could all be over."

Ladd's illegal status was discovered when he was found driving without a licence - huge numbers of illegal Irish immigrants cannot get a driving licence because they don't have a social security number.

Ladd's wife, who is also from Cork, was in the car at the time. Both are due in court next month, and neither have any legal grounding for being in the country.

"It's actually worse for my wife, " said Ladd. "I came over here on a visa, and overstayed my welcome. But she signed a visa waiver form and said she was coming on holiday. By signing that form, she has signed away her right to have a court trial. If they find this out, they can just put her in detention and deport her without any hearing at all."

It is this threat, hanging over the heads of 50,000 Irish people in the United States, that prompts the campaigners on Capitol Hill not to take no for an answer. Every door is knocked on, sometimes more than once. The hallowed marble hallways of the congress offices are quite clearly under siege.

"Wow, you guys are everywhere, " says an unlikely looking Irish supporter dressed in a US army uniform. "Any chance of a T-shirt?"

The soldier is politely directed towards the Irish Lobby for Immigration Reform (ILIR) website, before the group moves on towards the elevator.

The doors open and an Irish bagpiper steps out. "They said they'd throw me out if I made any noise, " he says despondently. All 10 campaigners squash into the elevator, pinning a lone suit-and-tie American to the wall. "I love the Irish, " he says, clearly petrified.

After three hours of lobbying, everyone gathers again in the Washington Court Hotel for a rally. The room is loud with excitement. Hillary Clinton is expected as well as Edward Kennedy. Sitting one row from the front, Terry and Michelle McGinn look both excited and anxious.

"I've been here 17 years, " says Terry, from Co Tyrone.

"Still illegal, still trying. I haven't been home in seven years. My mum and sisters come over to see me, but Dad won't fly. It's hard, it is really hard. But this is home now."

Beside them, George Gibbons from Cong, Co Mayo, listens sympathetically. Gibbons is now an American citizen, having lived in the States for over 30 years. His daughter, Bernadette, is hoping to study journalism in NYU. But both of them have many Irish friends whose lives are blighted by illegality.

The crowd bursts into a rendition of 'The Fields of Athenry' before the speeches begin.

Senator Edward Kennedy is greeted with a lengthy standing ovation. He throws his hands in the air and sweats and shouts and gives an oratory presentation that justifies his name. He talks about his ancestors arriving from Ireland to Boston. "They were all greeted then and you should all be greeted now, " he roars.

The crowd roars back. Everybody loves a Kennedy.

It's a hard act to follow, but Senator Chuck Schumer gives it a shot. "How does that great Celtic Glasgow soccer anthem go?" he shouts. There's a second of non-plussed silence, before everyone starts singing 'Ole, ole, ole, ole'. There's clapping and dancing and the floor vibrates with song.

Schumer waits for silence. "I was actually talking about 'We will never walk alone', " he says, shrugging. But like any professional, he pulls the speech back from the brink with a stroke-of-genuis ending. "In the words of those great Irish patriots, 'Tiocfaidh �r l�!', " he screams. The room, quite simply, erupts. Schumer flushes with triumph. "Can Kennedy speak Gaelic like that? Tiocfaidh �r l�!" His hand punches the air in success.

But even Schumer's command of inflammatory Irish sayings doesn't top the appearance of the hotly tipped president to-be, New YorkSenator Hillary Clinton. Her arrival is heralded by the appearance of two very tall, very serious Secret Service agents. The type you just want to tickle.

Clinton is dressed in a darkgrey woollen suit, a pastel silk scarf, and a 100-watt smile.

Her eyes and earrings glitter.

Everyone hangs on her every word, but in comparison to the speakers who had gone before her, she has the charisma of a gnat on sedatives.

Where Kennedy had said, "We're going to battle, and we're going to win, " Clinton says: "I support comprehensive immigration law reform."

It's earnest and honest, but it's no call to war.

But the crowd seem happy.

She is, after all, a very big star.

And like Schumer, she saves herself at the end by letting a glimpse of personality show through. "I have a bone to pick, " she says. "I was given this when I arrived." She holds a campaign T-shirt up against her body. It's at least an XXL, and the former first lady disappears behind it. "I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, " she says. "But at least I will be proud to hand it on to my husband." Canny woman.

The crowd, of course, go wild. Beloved Bill in a 'Legalize the Irish' T-shirt. Warms the feet and the heart in the trudge through the snow, back to the bus.