Explosions that wouldn't look out of place in a Hollywood blockbuster; assaults; rapes; sexual attacks; gunshots; shows of strength; the mocking of suicide victims; the targeting of the Fire Brigade.
Another year, another Twelfth and thank God it's all over until, oops!, I was going to say next year, but of course it'll all take place, if on a slightly smaller scale, at the next big day of Orange parades and bands, which is tomorrow in all probability.
The frightening thing about what happened on the Eleventh night and on the Twelfth is that there wasn't a residents' protest to be seen and the mayhem wasn't sparked by interface tension.
These things all happened in loyalist hinterlands with not an uppity Fenian in sight.
And they happened because the Twelfth is all about tension and testosterone and these will have an out regardless.
If there are Catholics about, all the better; if not, the steam will be released anyway.
Those drums they beat and the pipes they play are implements of war just as surely as pikes and guns. Their intention is not to lift the soul or please the ear, they evolved to heat the blood and race the pulse of men who are about to go into battle, they are designed to bludgeon the senses and muddle the reasoning to the extent that is required to convince human beings to go against their better judgment and walk to their death.
Only a very few of us are brave or foolhardy enough to do that without prompting – the countless thousands more needed to form a battle unit require a little help, which was where the drums and pipes came in all those years ago.
Everyone reading this will have heard the band 'music', either at a distance or on TV.
But you have to be in the middle of a parade to understand the jaw-clenching, heart-pounding, brain-spinning power of those primeval sounds.
I was that toy soldier – I've attended more Orange parades than is sensible or healthy for a West Belfast Catholic, I've experienced first-hand the pounding adrenalin rush, and I've seen for myself the narcotic effect that the ear-shattering noise has on common sense.
Which is fine if you're walking up the Dublin Road at midday live on TV, but when some shaven-headed Scottish kick-the-Pope outfit is giving it the message round the bonfire at three o'clock in the morning with thousands of people falling-down drunk, well... go figure.
And yet I haven't heard one Protestant, one unionist, one Orangeman, saying it's time to stop the madness.
Far from it, there's not even the suggestion of the beginning of a debate of the kind that saw internment anniversary bonfires and their concomitant violence consigned to the incinerator of history.
I've read completely straight-faced reports of how the numbers were up this year, of how Orange culture is in rude health, of how gratifying it was to see the large number of young people getting involved.
Tell that to the owners of destroyed businesses, abused women and victims in intensive care.
Is there no-one in the unionist community willing to stand up and be counted on this?
Or are the savage realities of the Twelfth after dark just another Orange rite that we have to accept and excuse?
