A night before Christmas

With office-party season in full swing, Larry Ryan wanders the streets of Dublin to observe the after-dark activities of its citizens. Such as pulling rickshaws. Holding up buses. Doing the Christmas shopping in Tesco. Oh, and there's a bit of drinking, too.

'Fáilte - We're Open." A low-key sign greets you when you enter Tesco Ireland's Clare Hall shopping centre, on Malahide Road in Dublin. It's midnight on a freezing Friday. A female voice singing Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas drifts out over the busy car park.

Tesco opens for business at 8am on Monday and closes at 10pm on Saturday, reopening between 8am and 10pm on Sunday. The other shops appear to keep more conventional hours. The huge Tesco, on the second floor, is the focal point of this odd-looking building, though; with its slanted glass front, it resembles a slice taken out of a football stadium.

The piped music segues into another version of the same song, a man on the mic this time. A woman and a young child leave with a trolley full of groceries. About 20 customers are wandering through the seemingly endless aisles. An eerily quiet air pervades the place, although, given the hour, it feels unnaturally luminescent.

Several people are here to grab some beers before the off-licence closes, at 12.30am. A few couples and flatmates do their weekly shopping. There is something of a convergence in the crisps and snacks aisle. One man's basket contains a curious mix of a teddy bear, a copy of Guinness World Records, a computer game and a value pack of condoms.

Of 32 checkout lanes, two are open. "It's usually pretty quiet all night," says the checkout girl. The number of staff far outweighs the customers; most of the employees are restocking shelves. Many aisles are lined with crates and boxes of goods. The staff go about their work with gusto, largely oblivious to the few customers walking around with tired eyes. The customers seem a little out of place in a shop that feels as if it's closed.

UNLIKE bigger cities, such as London and New York, or Mediterranean towns, which warm up as Irish ones wind down, Dublin largely closes for the night once the last pubs and clubs shut, between 2am and 4am. Save for whispers of a hallowed pub lock-in, some casinos dotted around the city and the odd basement dive that stays open longer than it should, there are few options for those still out in the late hours.

There is an extensive network of 24-hour convenience stores, serving unappetising sandwiches and sausage rolls. There is, however, only so long one can spend lurking at their magazine racks before a security guard gets suspicious. And that's about it.

For those who work nights there is little post-shift entertainment. Bar and restaurant staff can perhaps hope for some after-hours drinks in their own establishment and then, maybe, a party in someone's house. Others probably have to make do with the comfort of their own beds. Even finding somewhere to have a cup of tea and a sit down is difficult.

"I STOP at two, before it gets crazy," says Brendan, a taxi driver, as he ferries me from Clare Hall to the city centre. He works from 6pm to 2am, avoiding the post-pub rush of traffic and passengers and ensuing messiness. Also, these hours provide a relatively normal working regime. "If I can get to bed by half two or three, it can stay like a normal day," he says. "You can get up at ten or so the next morning."

Another driver says he works the night shift because he hates sitting in traffic. Starting at midnight, he works "until the city clears out". He keeps going until a fare leads him to the general Swords area, where he lives. For him, the worst part of the night shift is not seeing his children leave for school in the morning. "There are some mad stories, though; they make the job worthwhile," he says, seemingly still enamoured with his previous fare, a 39-year-old woman. "She was beautiful, looked 25. She kept hitting me on the arm, just messing around . . . She said she had her first sniff of cocaine tonight. She works in a hospital, some medical job. She had to leave the party; her head was all over the place. She said she was starting to feel paranoid. It'll do that to you. I've tried that stuff; it's best to sleep it off."

It seems that the woman is going to be permanently lodged in his anecdote bank. "She had a 21-year-old son; you wouldn't think it to look at her," he says, chuckling to himself.

AT THE RDS, the lead singer of the Dublin band Hard to Touch launches a falsetto attack on Scissor Sisters' Take Your Mama. People in party frocks and tuxedos dance, mingle and drink. It's office-party season. For the three Fridays before Christmas, Bravo! - "Ireland's number one global event solutions company" - stages giant parties for hire in two of the RDS's main halls. One room hosts 400 O2 employees, the other 800 from eBay. The following week it will be a multi-office party, with the employees of numerous companies thrown onto the Christmas plate. For €100 a head, they get a meal, a show by Keith Barry or the Après Match team, a band, DJs and, of course, a full (cash) bar. It's a pretty large production, but all seems to be running smoothly.

I chat to Erka, a bored-looking toilet attendant and accountancy student. He says things never seem to get too out of hand - unless you count multiple renditions of Fairytale of New York.

STROLLING back up Baggot Street, towards the city centre, I see a youngish woman unsteadily zigzag along the pavement. A man balances precariously on the curb, attempting to hail a cab. It's unclear which will be more difficult for him: remaining upright or getting the taxi. Another, older woman stumbles down the street, away from town. A silver Mercedes pulls up alongside her, a man offering a lift. At first she declines, but then she moves in to speak to him. She doesn't look like a prostitute, but you get the feeling that his actions aren't motivated by seasonal goodwill. I hope against hope that she doesn't get in the car.

UP ON Grafton Street is a fleet of rickshaws. Catering for wide-eyed tourists and cashing in on closing time, they are manned largely by male students in their early 20s. For €40 a night they can rent a manual pull or tricycle rickshaw, seating two or three passengers in the cabin. Any money they make beyond their €40 expense is profit.

Waiting on the corner of Grafton Street and South Anne Street is Jovan, a 22-year-old photography student from Dublin. He operates a tricycle rickshaw. "The money's pretty good. Otherwise I wouldn't do it," he says. "I just work Friday and Saturday nights, and it gives me enough money for college." A stream of drunken passers-by with heavy wallets can lead to some tidy profits. One group gave him €100 for a 10-minute journey.

High spirits can lead to trouble, however. "The amount of shit you get is unreal," says Jovan. He has been robbed once and assaulted twice. People often try to jump on the rickshaw or knock him over. "If you had any temper you wouldn't last at it." The job can feel quite dangerous. "Some people are sizing you up for your cash. Sometimes the atmosphere is brilliant, but sometimes everyone gives you abuse."

The air of the night can be threatening; a few nights ago he witnessed three fights on Grafton Street and the window of a shop being smashed. "I don't go to Grafton Street or Temple Bar after 2am; it's not worth the hassle. And I don't go to the north side since I was robbed there doing this." Apparently, the top of O'Connell Street is the most troublesome place to go. "Even though I don't live at home, my dad still texts every night I work, to see if I made it home alive."

Jovan winds down by cycling home to his apartment, in Stillorgan. Working such harsh hours does take it out of him. He says it seems as if you have been working for two days. Despite all this, he still feels it is worth it, as virtually no other part-time jobs pay so much in such a short amount of time. Plus, "you see so much funny and strange stuff happen that it makes it worthwhile. You do turn into a bit of a pervert, watching all the girls go by ... "

The most regular comment he gets is a well-worn joke, each time asked as if nobody else has ever thought of it: "How much to Tallaght?"

OVER on D'Olier Street, Nitelink buses line up, just in time for a crowd spilling out of nearby clubs. People throng the street, scurrying to the buses. A few minor scuffles occur. Two lads in short-sleeved shirts, too hepped up on alcohol and hormones to notice the cold, square up to each other. They push and shove a few times until friends intervene. One is dragged to the far side of the road. Both make gestures, inviting the other to "come over here and say that to my face", though neither seems too keen on taking up the offer.

The bus drivers wait for these excitable types to jump aboard. Dan helms the 27N, to Artane. A Romanian, he has been driving buses here for five years. Doing the Nitelink shift is overtime for him; he does it about four times a month. In January, however, driving the night buses will become shift work. "You don't really enjoy it, but you have to work hard to make a decent living," he says. "You get used to it. It's just different." Christmas is when it gets really busy. "That's when the tough times come. People have more time off. They've nothing else to do but go out."

Occasionally, he encounters trouble, but it is usually safe enough. Sometimes there are fights, but most people quickly sort them out among themselves. Recently, he had to call the Garda when trouble started - he is not allowed to leave his cabin. Smoking is the biggest problem for him on the night buses. "It's a big-time smoking room upstairs."

When he finishes a late shift he tends to go home, as there is little else to do. He doesn't seem overly enamoured with the Nitelink experience, but he is willing to accept it. "It's not too bad. I don't think anybody really enjoys working nights, but it has to be done."

As the buses pull away from the curb, a man vainly runs to one of them, trying to get it to stop. The driver refuses, but somehow the man gets his body in front of the bus before it can build up speed. Proud and defiant, he stands in the middle of the street, blocking the bus, brandishing his ticket for all to see. The driver turns off his engine, refusing to let the man on or to move until he gets out of the way.

So now, in the middle of the street, at 4am, in the cold and the rain, we have a stand-off. It resembles the moment in Tiananmen Square, in 1989, when the guy stood in front of the tank. Except it's a bus, not a tank, and instead of an idealist with a noble cause and a shopping bag, it's a drunken moron with a €4 Nitelink ticket.

The passengers shift angrily, wanting to know why they are no closer to their beds. Passers-by are delighted. Slow clapping starts. People take photographs of themselves with the one-man blockade. The scene continues for 15 minutes. A very optimistic woman knocks on the door of the bus, to see if the driver will let her on. He won't. "I'm not gonna f***ing move," bellows the man, and with that two gardaí stride towards him. One shoves him in the back, and they take him off the road. After a few moments they lead him away in handcuffs.

ASIDE from the Coffee Dock, at Jurys Ballsbridge Hotel, which serves full meals and coffee almost round the clock - I recommend the warm apple pie with two scoops of ice cream - the search for a late-night bite invariably leads to the area around Camden Street.

Near Adelaide Road, the uninitiated may be confused by the sight of a huddled queue forming at 3am outside a wooden door marked 23. It seems miraculous that the building is still standing; those to its left have been demolished. This is the Manhattan, an old-fashioned greasy spoon that serves nothing less and little more than a full Irish breakfast, for about €7, all night. Nearby are Tandoori Bites, a standard late-night Indian restaurant, and, strangest of all, the Gigs Place. Its dingy white concrete plaster facade sets it apart from its neighbours.

I enter in trepidation, half expecting to encounter a sordid bacchanalian underworld. The reality is much drabber. The Gigs Place opened in 1970 as a late-night diner, catering for people in the entertainment industry looking for a place to eat after work. It serves from midnight to 6am, with an early-bird menu between midnight and 2am. Its blurb claims the diner is popular with "celebrities and ordinary punters alike".

When you go in you meet a poster for the 1995 film Clueless, a signed photograph of the snooker player Ken Doherty and an unsigned photograph of a Joshua Tree-era Bono with, possibly, Mary Black. The inscription beneath reads: "The rich and famous at the Gigs Place". Further photographs recall the showband era and Pat Kenny in his early days.

Although Gerry Ryan may have tucked away a few rare steaks here, you sense that's about as glamorous as it has ever been. The room is made claustrophobic by a wooden cage-like structure above each booth. It's dim, rather seedy and depressing. The menu includes burgers, steaks and spaghetti Bolognese. There is a minimum €10 charge, which puts paid to my Edward Hopper- inspired, Tom Waits-tinted notions of being a nighthawk at the diner, beating the hell out of a cup of coffee while checking out the racing form in yesterday's paper and shooting the breeze with the waitress.