THE STREETS of Temple Bar are being battered by rain. It's 11.30 on a Friday night when myself and photographer Peter Matthews meet. Our mission: to observe the mayhem that constitutes a typical weekend night in Dublin. It's time to forsake the chattering classes for the staggering classes.

The appalling weather has kept many people at home. Those who have ventured outdoors bustle around, some with coats pulled up over their heads, others using newspapers, plastic bags or whatever else comes to hand in an attempt to protect themselves from the rain. It isn't working. Passengers on The Titanic would have had more chance of staying dry than those searching for a pub, club or their friends. Most of them are already bedraggled, thick wodges of soaked hair spilling down their faces.

The neon signs of restaurants and bars shine defiantly through the slanting rain. Music rumbles into the open air. Irish songs plasticised for the tourist market are everywhere. Strains of 'The Wild Rover' and 'The Galway Races' meld with Spanish, English and local accents. A hen party is trying to persuade a doorman at The Quays to let them in. They raucously offer him various favours if he will do so, but to no avail - they decide to try their luck further up Fleet Street.

A few moments later, three girls are attempting to salsa across Temple Bar Square, laughing and clutching one another as they do so; a group of kilted Scotsmen also wander around and, in some strange act of synchronicity, one of the nearby bar bands begins playing 'Scotland The Brave'; a couple, shivering in the queue for a banklink machine, stop to kiss, before the man breaks away to brush something from his girlfriend's face - not a tear, but the rainwater that has begun dripping from her nose.

Soon, myself and Peter, who is snapping away, are approached by a young man on crutches. Grinning, he asks us what we are doing. We explain, and he introduces himself as Tim Bearpark (which he assures us is his real name. I try to stop smirking). He is 24 years old, is a sales manager with Siemens, and his broken ankle is the result of a clash on a rugby field.

Still, he is intent on having a good night out. "You can't let it keep you from doing what you want," he insists. He can even see the bright side of his predicament: "I tell you what - it's great for the women," he says. "You get the sympathy vote. You're vulnerable, you see."

With this he hobbles off again. About three hours later we see him with a new companion. It doesn't look like it's the right time to interject with journalistic inquiries, but his theory seems to have been borne out.

For now the atmosphere, though ribald, is somewhat less than apocalyptic. There is no-one careering across the streets in a drunken haze, no stag or hen parties exposing themselves, no spectacular fights to relate. In search of more interesting scenarios we head for O'Connell Street. If the media hype is to be believed we are sure to witness a few stabbings and myriad drug deals within the hour. . .

* * *

Or not. There is even less life here. Litter is being flung around in the wind, exacerbating the feeling of tattered grandeur which hangs over the city's main thoroughfare.

Staff in empty fast food joints and 24-hour newsagents wait grimly for the arrival of raucous late-night custom. Some of those who did come out to party have already decided to strike for home. One Liverpudlian is berating his mate who stands, arm forlornly outstretched, on a street corner: "You can't fookin' flag a fookin' cab t'save yer life," he informs him, before marching off in search of a taxi office.

Near the Ha'penny Bridge a little later, pubs like Pravda and Zanzibar have begun to disgorge their drinkers. One man hasn't lasted the pace. He lies in crumpled sleep in a shop doorway. Occasionally someone stops, but beyond checking that his chest rises and falls (albeit at irregular intervals) there is little that can, or need, be done.

Of the pedestrian traffic making its way across the bridge, it is the tourists who are setting the standards in sobriety, chatting animatedly. Yet another group of Spanish students, however, are bringing forth grumbles from the local population. About fifteen of them have stopped at the apex of the bridge to take photos and mess around. This could be regarded as all very lovely and affectionate, but in the Irish scheme of things it only hinders progress from one drinking palace to another. It is therefore to be condemned at all costs, and as ostentatiously as possible.

By this time, drink-induced recklessness is also beginning to set in. One thirty-something man in a sharp suit grabs his girlfriend's arm, and they embark on a hair-raising journey through the traffic streaming down the quay. His perilous one-step-forward, one-step-back and a-few-stumbles-to-the-side-for-good-measure approach eventually delivers them safely to the other side of the road. "Stupid cars!" is his irritated retort to a cacophony of blaring horns.

Back in Temple Bar, pubs like The Oliver St.John Gogarty are full to bursting point. I persuade the bouncer to let me in, but it's a tight squeeze - never mind cats, there is barely enough room to swing a goldfish here. The crowd is mostly aged between 25 and 35, and seems to be divided half-and-half between Dubliners and tourists.

Drinktime bonhomie has taken hold, and with it come some odd situations. One local man is trying to chat up a younger, foreign woman. The determined would-be suitor is not in the least discouraged by the fact that she clearly doesn't have a clue what he's talking about. She has a tenuous grasp of English, and the slurred variant form our friend is employing makes communication impossible. After a while he accepts defeat and slowly swivels round looking for some other likely object of his glassy-eyed affection.

Others have forsaken language altogether in favour of the simpler, neanderthal approach. One man, his dark hair slicked back and shirt half-open, makes a beeline for a blonde woman. He then pauses wordlessly before lunging, lips first, in her direction. Her reactions are not yet so drink-dimmed, and she sways out of the way like a boxer avoiding a jab. This forces the man into the inconvenient position of having to speak, but when a couple of sentences are met with monosyllabic replies, he casts her an irritated glance and departs to nurse whatever wounded pride remains.

As I watch over these shenanigans, I feel a hand running through my hair. I turn around with more than a little interest. Unfortunately, the hand belongs to someone who is sweaty, English and male. He is also dancing to Status Quo's 'Rockin' All Over The World'. This is not an appealing vista. Rain or not, it's time to go back to the streets.

By now it's about 12.30, and things are beginning to liven up. The entertainment on offer isn't to everyone's taste, though. One Dubliner emerges from Gogarty's with a friend."Can we try to find somewhere without fiddles and accordions?" he asks in a despairing tone.

Others are addressing more basic subjects. A couple emerge from the same pub. The woman grasps her partner's hand and gazes soulfully into his eyes. She pauses, struggling, I suspect, for the right romantic words. "A . . ." she begins. "T. . . " A pause. ". . .M!!" she concludes triumphantly, before leading him off in search of funds for further adventures.

By this stage Peter has developed a thirst and we repair to Isolde's Tower, one of the area's late bars. It is also heaving. Dancing and conversation are taking on an ever wilder, more flamboyant and, frankly, pissed nature. People are doing The Timewarp with an enthusiasm which puts anyone within arm's length in mortal danger.

Soon we are on the road again. We halt outside The Kitchen. A young man is lying across the back seat of a parked car, body splayed, head dangling inches from the road. It looks like he could be in serious difficulty. A couple of friends are gathered close around, comforting him. His state, it transpires, isn't that unusual. "That's . . .the last time . . . I ever . . .fucking . . .drink tequila," he gurgles. Alcohol 1, Internal Organs 0.

By 2 o'clock we are making our way down Grafton Street. The toll of the night's fun can be counted out in the splashes of vomit which dot the pavement. The arguments without which late nights just wouldn't be the same have also begun in earnest. A young woman is walking determinedly down the street, speaking into her mobile phone. As she passes the only words I can make out are: "Well, if your friends are more important than me, then . . ."

As the effects of drink set in, conversation is buttressed by cliche as surely as those who have over-indulged seek support from walls. I lose count, for example, of the number of times I hear guys trying to persuade girls not to pull away from their embrace with the phrase "but you can trust me!"

The mating game is at its rawest now. One lone male is in hot pursuit of two girls whose stiletto heels are click-clacking away from him. They opt for the standard brush-off line that they couldn't possibly be interested because they are lesbian. This isn't enough to deter Romeo: "I'll watch if yous want to have a good ride together!" he offers. He is perplexed when this turns out not to be a winning gambit. The girls giggle and leave him trailing in their wake.

Valerie Roe of Lillie's Bordello stands outside the club, an oasis of sobriety in the midst of madness. As manageress, part of her job is to separate her clientele from those either chancing their arm, or too drunk to continue on anywhere.

According to her, tonight has been a bit unusual. "The Horse Show Ball was on, and then the weather has its effects as well. Mind you, it doesn't alter our regular crowd that much."

And does she actually enjoy her job?

"Ah, yeah. I enjoy it most of the time. At least tonight we don't have those guys who play the drums just across the road. That can get pretty bad. There have been nights when I've given them a tenner just to go and play somewhere else. But I think word probably gets around. I reckon they tell other buskers, 'Go down to Lillie's, and if you annoy yer woman enough, she'll give you money just to go away,'" she laughs.

Have there been any awkward situations tonight?
"Not really," she replies, looking to one of the doormen for confirmation.

"It's been grand," he says. "Apart from the usual muppets."

Further up the street, some of the usual muppets are gathered around a rickshaw driver. They want to take a ride.

"Where to?"

"Drumcondra.'

"Ah, you must be joking. I couldn't take you that far."

"G'wan. We want to go there. Sheereeshly. How much will it cost?"

"To Drumcondra? £500."

"Thatsh grand, so."

To his credit, the rickshaw man manages to disabuse them of this idea without being too unpleasant. He simply stays put, making no effort to harness up.

So what's it like watching Friday night pass by from his perspective?

'Mad. Absolutely mad. You see just about everything - people in a terrible state, couples getting together, couples breaking up. . . That's the funniest one, actually."

That's not very nice.

"It must be what this job does to you - makes you an embittered cynical person," he replies with a smile.

Does he get much hassle from people asking to go somewhere and then refusing to pay?

"That happens more at the start when you have no experience. After a while, you learn how to spot them and just make up an excuse why you can't take them.

With that he's approached by three girls returning from a night's clubbing who want to go to the nitelink bus stop at Trinity College. It's a lot nearer than Drumcondra and he seems pretty confident of payment. He trots off.

By the time we reach the nitelink stop on foot the rainstorm has reached biblical proportions. So has the alcohol consumption. The atmosphere is less cheery now, however. One girl looks out at the passing traffic, her face a study in dismay and boredom. She is supporting the head of her insensate boyfriend on her shoulder. Others, waiting for buses and taxis, watch the rain vacantly.

Peter calls it a night, while I decide to make one final circuit of O'Connell Street, Temple Bar and Grafton Street. Along the way I move nimbly past a man who has, to use Sam Snort's lexicon, unleashed his porksword on an innocent public. Eschewing the normal etiquette of in-street urination, he is pissing in the direction of passers-by rather than away from them. Unless you're into 'golden showers', it's an unedifying spectacle.

As I stand on O'Connell Bridge at 3 am, two girls approach a man in a kilt. I know what's going to happen next and am particularly grateful that this time he isn't facing my way.

A few minutes later as the two girls teeter past me one says to the other, "I felt it! Twice! But jeez, I really neesago toilet." Thank you, madam, but that is more information than I needed.

Returning to Temple Bar once again, I am treated to the night's most surreal moment. Two young guys from the country approach me as I write some notes under the canopy of Bloom's Hotel. 'If you want a quote," one of them tells me, unsolicited, "all I have to say is that if the sheep hadn't have moved we'd have got it.'

I suppose you would, I reply.
"Yep. No doubt about it," he says and walks on.

* * *

With his words ringing in my ears I make my way through the night's debris to Abrakebabra on South Anne Street. This is one of the last refuges at this point, and it shows. One staff member stamps his feet at regular intervals to rouse a customer who keeps falling asleep on the counter. A woman is crying while her friend tries to console her. Someone else is embroiled in one of those archetypal 'difficult' late night situations.

She is with a group of her friends, but wants to stay with the man she has met. Her friends want to go. As a result she has to work out how to say something subtle which will nevertheless be understood to mean, Please leave, so I can go home and shag this bloke. She opts to keep sitting with him as the others get up. She explains, half-embarrassed, that no, she hasn t quite finished eating, but yes, she will be fine if they go on.

I force some much-needed food down. There is little left to see, and the night has left me drained. It s a well-worn theory that drink brings everyone down to their most basic level, and there's plenty of evidence for that in what I've witnessed tonight. But it's not all bad. Sure, there's been anger, frustration and lust aplenty. But I've also watched people display their vulnerabilities and neediness more nakedly than they ever would sober. And, while it's often undignified, there's something oddly touching about it too. The last thing I see in Abrakebabra is a man sitting by the window, talking to his girlfriend. Their hands are gripped tightly together, while proclamations of love issue from his mayonnaise-smeared lips. It s messy, real, pathetic and affecting, all at the same time.

I leave and walk towards Grafton Street, happy that the rain has ceased. The few remaining neon signs are being extinguished. The only sounds I can hear are distant laughter and a car humming its way around Stephen s Green. The night, at last, is still.