The young loyalist waved a large plastic Union Jack hammer as the main Twelfth parade set off in Belfast. "This is to smash a few Fenian heads when we get near the Ormeau Road," he said. His mates cheered.
Around 250 lodges and their bands departed from Carlisle Circus on a beautiful morning. Weather-wise, it was a truly glorious Twelfth. Deck-chairs lined the route through the city centre and up the Lisburn Road.
For many people, it was a family day out. Youngsters waved plastic Union Flags and squealed with delight at the blood and thunder bands. Their parents kept a keen lookout for marchers they knew. There were shouts of recognition to Billys and Sammys.
The old and infirm were taken from Belfast City Hospital to watch the parade. They sat ghostlike in wheelchairs, draped in white sheets to protect them from the sun. Other observers were much more exuberant. At Shaftesbury Square, a group of thirtysomething women clutching plastic cups of vodka sashayed on to the road as each band passed. They sang, danced and kissed any unfortunate Orangeman who fell into their path.
"We'll all get boys tonight, Sharon," one shouted at her friend. Most of the men were drinking bottles of beer. It was only 11 a.m. The Star of Ulster Temperance Lodge marched unflinchingly past the scenes. Older Orangemen were immaculate in their Sunday best. They wore bow ties and sported carnations in their bowler hats. The younger ones were more unkempt. Sashes were stretched untidily over ill-fitting suits. Still, they were having a grand time, especially the bandsmen. Larkhall Purple Heroes and East Belfast Orange Volunteers swaggered up the road full of machismo.
Many spectators wore Union Jack hats. The more militant ones waved UDA and UVF flags. Babies' bibs were emblazoned with the slogan "Born to shit on the Garvaghy Road." The bibs weren't just restricted to infants. Some adults wore them too.
On the Lower Ormeau Road, it was all very different. The thunderous pounding of Lambeg drums from over the bridge signalled the Orangemen were entering Ormeau Park. Small knots of residents stood at the top of the narrow, terraced streets. But they were outnumbered by journalists and Sinn Fein representatives. "About half the local population has left the area," explained a woman.
"Anybody who can afford it has gone away for the week, caravans by the sea and that sort of thing. Others have just managed to get out for the day but it's better than staying here."
A wall of steel, barbed wire and concrete bollards separated the residents from Ormeau Park. Helicopters hovered overhead.
Still, local people said it was a big improvement on previous years when they were placed under curfew.
There were no complaints of British army or RUC harassment. "It's a state of siege and the Orangemen shouldn't be here but it could have been worse," said Paul Carson.
The road was relatively tension-free but ordinary life had stopped. The chip shop, the taxi depot, the bakery, the furniture store, the Chinese and the hairdresser's were all closed. Only the pub, the bookie's office and the newsagents remained open. Over in Ormeau Park, sweaty Orangemen, tired after a morning's marching, stretched out under the trees. Families shared flasks of tea and sandwiches.
The ice-cream vans did a roaring trade. The sun spilled down from a clear blue sky. Young men removed their shirts to reveal muscular, tanned bodies. Orange officials had erected a podium beside the park's tennis club.
They prepared for the prayers, Bible-readings and hymns as the last of the lodges filed through the gates. The lush, ornate banners showed the Battle of the Somme, the Titanic, Queen Victoria, and King Billy on his white horse.
The scenes were all from a bygone era. Engraved on the wall of the Free Presbyterian church opposite the park was the warning: "Time is Short".