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CROWDS of inconsolable Dubliners lined the length and breadth of O’Connell Street, every one of them lost in grief as they caught sight of a perfectly intact Spire monument.

A true emblem of Dublin, which conjures next to no feelings of love in the heart’s of the city’s residents, stood defiant and tall. Utterly bereft, many of them now lighting and carrying candles while singing Dirty Old Town, people were left to curse the tragic twist of faith that saw the Spire completely untouched by fire damage of any description.

“It’s a tragedy, oh God why! Why?” one women said as she collapsed weeping into the arms of a friend or maybe it was a stranger? On days like these we become one. Each face in the crowd was just another mourner circling the drain of ineffable grief.

Young and old united in pain, one father holding back his tears covered his daughter’s eyes pleading “don’t look lovey, don’t look”.

There will be no fire brigades here, no experts examining the scene looking for an explanation, no offering of flowers, no online donation appeal. Instead of fiery embers, in its place, a perfectly resolute phallic monument no one cares for stands strong and unbowed. A complete fucking eyesore.

“The saddest thing is that I pray daily for that call to come in but it never does, it never does,” shared one Dublin fire fighter, who was trying to make sense of the perfectly safe scene.

It might not seem like it now but Dublin will emerge from this horrible chapter in its history, stronger than ever, for its residents are made of the same stern stuff that makes it highly unlikely a fire would have any truly damaging effect on the Spire.