THE moving circus got going just after noon at Conway Mill in west Belfast. Fifteen of Sinn Fein's elected forum members emerged from the red brick building in bright sunshine to get the stunts under way.
"We go there as peacemakers," declared Mr Gerry Adams. "We go to contribute to the collective task of negotiating a peace settlement."
The fact that they weren't going to get in - except to be told why they couldn't stay - was beside the point. Off they went, accompanied by about a dozen Sinn Fein security minders with wires coming out of their ears.
The Adamsmobile - a battered looking but bullet proof black taxi - led the way. Behind it more than a dozen carloads of Sinn Feiners and British and Irish journalists played dodgems through the city traffic trying to keep up.
Cameramen hung off the roofs of shiny hired cars as the cavalcade made its highly illegal and, er, historic journey to Stormont. Red lights were ignored, motorway lane discipline forgotten as we raced to the closed front gates of Stormont.
Gerry Adams, Martin McGuinness and the other Sinn Fein representatives positioned themselves with their noses to the big closed gates, as cameramen and photographers raced inside to catch the image of elected representatives locked out.
Round one in the photo opportunity contest to the republicans.
But then the Northern Ireland Office produced its surprise performer.
A terribly pleasant yet businesslike young man called Tony emerged from a side gate and asked one of the Sinn Fein delegation, Ms Siobhan O'Hanlon, if he could possibly have a word with Mr Adams.
"Are you refusing to open the gate?" she demanded. "I'm not refusing anything," he replied sunnily. "I'd like a word with Mr Adams. Can he come over here?"
Ms O'Hanlon and a colleague, Mr Terence "Cleeky" Clarke, thought it would be much better if Tony went over to see Mr Adams and had his chat in front of the big gates surrounded by cameras. Tony was polite but firm.
"It looks like a bit of a crush over there. Can he come here. I have a message for him from the Secretary of State."
"There's no crush" said Cleeky, pointing over at the crush surrounding Mr Adams. "It looks like a crush to me," said pleasant Tony."
After what seemed like an age, Martin McGuinness came over to Tony. They greeted each other by their first names. Mr McGuinness made a bit of a speech about the hand of friendship, the 150,000 people his party represents and so on.
Tony listened carefully and then, on behalf of the Secretary of State, invited him and five colleagues of his choice to come into Castle Buildings "where representatives of the British and Irish governments are waiting to meet you".
Martin McGuinness wanted himself and Gerry Adams to be allowed inside the gate to discuss it further. Tony wanted them to come in the side gate. Tony also wanted the names of the six who would follow him in. Martin McGuinness wanted the main gate to be opened.
This intriguing contest continued for 30 minutes. Martin went back to Tony. "It's only a short step," he reasoned. "It is indeed," said Tony. "A short step."
Then the gates opened and the Sinn Feiners and the rest of us poured through. Nice Tony got into his car and headed up the long driveway.
The quota of six was abandoned as seven cars carrying 32 Sinn Feiners followed, circled around Lord Carson's statue and vanished towards Castle Buildings.
Arriving there, Gerry Adams could hardly climb out of his black taxi as the world's press circled around him. Republican toes, encased in their best boots and shoes, were trampled on by the media scrum.
"The press are a bit over the top," confided one Sinn Feiner, "hut it beats the RUC and the Brits hounding us." At first, the Sinn Fein delegates were polite as they tried to make their way to the first gate at Castle Buildings.
"Excuse us please. Could you let us through?" a republican asked the dozens of reporters and cameramen crowded around. But the press weren't budging. They wanted to capture every step and statement that Sinn Fein made.
"Stop bunching in on us," Mr Adams urged. "If you don't move, we're going nowhere. Give us a bit of space." Then he attempted a compromise. "We'll stand still if you move back. We need at least two feet."
It didn't work. So Mr Adams tried trickery. "John Major's just arrived. There he is, standing behind you." Everyone laughed but nobody moved.
Finally, the Sinn Fein president begged. "We want to get to the next stage. The media are the only people blocking Sinn Fein's progress towards all party talks."
Slowly, the press gave way and the republicans inched forward to the gate. One BBC reporter was panicking. She needed speedier action. "We're live. We're on air. We have to get them to the gate. We've only 15 seconds left," she yelled.
At the gate, the Sinn Fein delegation linked arms - like in the old days at protest rallies - and pushed their way in.
All types of political barriers were breaking down. A Stormont security guard was crushed by a film crew. His peaked cap identifying him as a servant of the crown was almost knocked off. "Are you OK?" a Sinn Fein bodyguard inquired.
Mr Adams, always PR conscious, made sure Sinn Fein women were at the front of his group. "Annie, get in there. Walk beside Barry," he told Ms Annie Armstrong.
At the second wire gate, there was a dispute with a Northern Ireland Office official. He wanted Sinn Fein to come into Castle Buildings where a statement from both governments would be read, saying that the party was barred from all party talks until the IRA ceasefire was restored.
Lengthy negotiations ensued. Sinn Fein wanted the statement read outside. A "hardline" government message and nationalists kept at locked gates. No better propaganda.
But the Northern Ireland Office wasn't playing ball. The Sinn Fein delegation stood at the gates for an hour and then withdrew. They climbed into their black taxi and cars and headed home.
It's not often that republicans are denied the opportunity of being the men behind the wire.