GUNS OF BRIXTON, BABYLON's BURNING!

The gun pointing at me is held by a teenager. It is almost as big as he is. The whole thing is faintly ridiculous and terrifying. Although he is younger than me, still distinctly boy-ish, the gun is very real and loaded. I can see his finger, his hand steady, his eyes not. He is scared and so am I. A small group of us have marched up to the gates of a large British army fort squatting on Andersonstown Road in West Belfast. We are carrying our banners and shouting ‘troops out!’. The local Irish guys with us cannot believe we have got so close to the fort without being warned off. As we push our luck and advance on the small group of soldiers, including the teenager, they are ordered back into the fort. We carry on shouting, beating on the corrugated iron walls for added effect.

The next day I get my second close-up view of a gun. It is a pistol, held up in the air in the middle of a crowd of cheering men, women and children. The speeches have just finished, the rally commemorating the introduction in 1971 of internment without trial is almost over. Just behind me there is a commotion and then there he is – balaclava pulled slightly awry over one eye, a plastic gloved hand waving the gun aloft. The clinical glove surprises me almost as much as the gun. No prints, no forensics. The crowd begin to chant ‘I–I–IRA! I–I–IRA!’ and next to me a man lifts his young son up over his shoulders for a better view. The mood is ecstatic. Nervously, I take a couple of hasty pictures, but no one minds. It's a show of force, it's for the cameras as much as the crowd.

Later, in the customary riots that gather around the street bonfires, plastic bullets are fired as the Royal Ulster Constabulary and the British Army try to reclaim streets that are clearly not theirs. It's scary but exciting.

Back in England a few weeks later, punk fanzines fizzle and pop with protest against the Thatcher government and everything it represents. Calls to all kinds of action are in the air.