Disturbing and depressing scenes at Parliament Buildings. Then, just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, Michael Stone hurtles through the revolving doors with his wild eyes and weapons of war.
Hollow farce or crazy force? Take your pick - both options offered were a waste of time. Some obstruct with vague words and hazy commitments; others disrupt with a gun, a knife and a bag of explosive devices.
Even without the astonishing arrival of a famous loyalist killer on the scene, yesterday presented an infuriating excuse for grown-up politics - Stormont style.
November 2006. Yet another historic staging post appears on the horizon, where it is noisily noted, then duly bypassed on Northern Ireland's never-ending road to nowhere.
It's not like much was expected of the politicians who turned up for this first meeting of their "transitional Assembly". In the touchingly eternal optimism of the British and Irish governments, it had been hoped the DUP and Sinn Féin would nominate a first and deputy first minister for when the Assembly proper resumes on March 26th. (Mark it down as a future historic staging post, but don't hold your breath.) It was never going to be that simple.
From an initial hard-line position of "nominations or nothing", the governments began murmuring that an "indication of a nomination" from the parties would be proof enough of their good intentions. By yesterday morning, they were willing to settle for a "prospective indication".
DUP leader Ian Paisley was the problem. Would he nominate, indicate, prospectively indicate or positively aggravate? The public gallery was packed with paid-up members of the Potentially Historic club, experienced observers who approach political deadline days more in the spirit of hope than experience.
All eyes were on Dr Paisley, who sat with his arms outstretched, palms down, smiling and happy in the knowledge he was the centre of attention.
Madam Speaker called on the DUP leader. "Heee-agh! Heee-agh!" rumbled his colleagues, lazily slapping their desks like overfed seals. Big Ian rose to speak, delivering his statement in a feeble, uncharacteristically quiet voice. He said this was one of the most important statements he ever had to make. After five minutes devoted almost entirely to why Sinn Féin failed to deliver on its commitments, Dr Paisley eventually had to decide whether or not to switch on his indicators.
He didn't. Instead, he fudged. "Circumstances have not been reached where there can be a nomination or a designation this day," he mumbled.
He concluded with a resolute "Here I stand", and sat down.
Gerry Adams was next. As expected, he nominated Martin McGuinness as deputy first minister. No one has a monopoly on suffering, said Gerry. And if the DUP have a problem sharing power with republicans, then many republicans are concerned about Sinn Féin sharing power with the DUP.
To hoots of derision, Mr McGuinness formally accepted the nomination. Sundry unionists of the non-DUP variety tried unsuccessfully to make points of order. Madam Speaker was on a mission, and she was going to complete it.
Going by the direction of the Secretary of State, said Mrs Bell, she deemed both Dr Paisley and Mr Adams had "indicated". This was subject to various terms and conditions and the outcome of next year's elections. Big Ian's two fingers of fudge, it seems, were just enough.
"No!" roared outraged unionists of the non-DUP variety and nationalists of the non-SF strain. "Farce!" Neither Dr Paisley, nor any of his colleagues, disputed Eileen Bell's ruling. In fact, they said nothing at all, apart from bickering with the Ulster Unionists, who bickered back.
The leaders of the UUP, the SDLP and the Alliance Party took turns to savage, sneer and sigh. They were united in their opinion that the acceptance of the DUP leader's non-indicative nomination was farcical, and an insult to the ordinary people of Northern Ireland.
Forty minutes into the farce, the fire alarm went off briefly. It was ignored. A couple of minutes later, the Speaker ordered the evacuation - "Unless you want to sit here and be bombed". And so, side by side, politicians, press and public shuffled down to the back door. It was all a bit of fun at first, until a rising sense of panic seemed to take hold and people were ordered outside and away from the building.
In the distance, security staff were restraining a man under the portico. There was talk of a bomb in the building. People were pushed farther and farther away, and finally told to take cover behind the statue of Edward Carson.
The politicians took refuge in the Stormont Hotel. Loyalist killer Michael Stone, who had daubed graffiti on the front of Parliament Buildings before attempting to storm it, was bundled away by police. He left a rucksack of explosive devices behind.
Maybe he did everyone a favour by ending the proceedings early.