SHUTTERED stores, boarded-up windows, padlocked pubs, deserted streets, coppers on almost every corner. Leicester in lock-down, nailed shut, its familiar features carved up by high metal fences and massed ranks of police at every turn.

An elderly lady, crying tears of frustration because her way home has been blocked off, has never seen anything like it, not even in the war.

At 10.30am in Humberstone Gate the tension is palpable. It feels like the city is bracing itself for a hurricane.

What it will get is an ugly, isolated little shower.

The ironies are splinter sharp and there's symbolism everywhere you look on this strange, strange Saturday.

The English Defence League: a protest movement whose destination is a prefabricated cul-de-sac of police and metal at the unlovely end of town. Caught up in their very own persecution complex; isolated, impotent, unseen by most of Leicester and, by the finish, flaring up at one another.

By 3.15pm the EDL is beginning to turn on itself as singer Citizen Steve barks an altered Sham 69 lyric: "England united will never be divided."

"If any ex-soldiers are here, get over here and deal with these idiots," orders the singer, stopping his set to sort out the thugs who try to kick down the fence separating them from the Unite Against Fascism brigade.

The EDL's self-appointed leader, Tommy Robinson, delivers his speech to the backs of hundreds of heads.

Less than half listen to his clarion calls as rumours spread that Muslims are attacking their buses down the road – another fiendish Islamic plot that proves to be totally untrue.

If the devil ever decides to run a day trip from hell it will look a lot like this one.

The EDL's Plymouth division has brought the biggest flag. They've spent five-and-a-half hours in a car to be here today and, oh dear, they've forgotten where they parked it.

They're here to take a stand, says one, clutching a can of Stella, full of beer-blown indignation.

If it wasn't for the EDL, he argues, the Muslims would be blowing up our shopping centres.

Who's going to stop them? The Government? Don't make him laugh.

"Granted, we've got a few idiots with us, but we've got to show the people of Leicester what's frickin' going on in their city."

He's a bit reluctant to give his name. Understandable in the circumstances. Not everyone wants to out themselves as EDL.

"No, it's not that," he insists. "It's just that my name's a bit, um, well, embarrassing."

Embarrassing?

"If I tell you, promise you won't laugh," he says.

Promise.

"My dad was a massive, massive Star Wars fan, so he named me... Anakin, after Luke Skywalker's dad.

"See, I knew you'd laugh. Everyone laughs. It's not easy being called Anakin Allcock."

A man dressed as a chicken is down from Blackburn. He's protesting against the KFC in his home town allegedly starting to cook halal meat.

"It tastes the same, but I don't like the snidey way they did it without giving anyone a choice," he says. "The Muslims are taking over everything.

"I didn't come down dressed like this – I wouldn't have got off my estate dressed like this."

Police with riot shields briefly move in when a shop door is kicked open.

A few stones and cans are thrown. Most hit the EDL's stewards. A smoke bomb hurled in the direction of the cops comes down on their own side.

You couldn't make it up.

If the English Defence League really are all that stands between this country becoming hardline Islamic state, then God help us.

They come here with their extremism, taking over, making nuisances of themselves, driving people away. And yes, perhaps we are prejudiced, but they should bugger off back to where they came from.

That seems to be general mood among the locals as the build-up to all this begins few hours earlier.

The English Defence League will do many things today, but they won't win many new friends.

No one likes being told where they can and can't go in their own home. The police face a bit of flak, but most of the anger is directed at the EDL.

"It's absolutely ridiculous is this," seethes a Syston lady who's turned up at Nottingham Oddfellows Club to find it closed.

"Disgusting," complains her friend. "I don't really understand what any of this is all about, but I know it means we can't play bingo."

And that, as they both say, really isn't on.

Nicola Turner is out walking her dogs at 11am with her daughter, Holly. They live above a nearby pub.

"It's like a ghost town. I can't ever remember it this quiet," says Nicola. "We're getting out before the idiots arrive.

"Then we're battening down the hatches until they've all gone. It's so unfair. The EDL say they're here to keep things on an even keel. They're not doing that, they're just creating animosity.

"I'm old enough to remember the riots of the 1980s. I'd have liked to think we would have all learned our lessons from that."

Ian Stephenson is the first smiley face to be seen.

He's come down from Bradford with his wife and young son, and is a "police vehicle enthusiast".

You've heard of trainspotters, well Stephen has the hots for cars and vans that go nee-na.

"It's brilliant this," he beams, taking photographs of anything with a siren. There are 12 to 15 police forces here today and they've all brought their vehicles.

"You might think I'm mad, but I've been called a lot worse. "We'll be long gone before the protesters arrive."

Eric Mackness stands outside Primark watching the police get organised.

"My missus normally comes with me into town on Saturday. Not today," says the 76-year-old from Braunstone. "She's scared stiff about what might happen.

"We were by the Clock Tower yesterday for the peace thing. That was real nice, brilliant, full of people having a nice time. It's the National Front's turn today, isn't it? That's what they are, you know, really. And it's all wrong."

Eric knew what he would be walking into today. Quite a few didn't, it seems.

A policeman in High Street is explaining the situation, yet again, to the latest bemused face.

"Unbelievable," sighs the cop, shaking his helmeted head. "Do these people not read the papers or watch the news?"

It's eerily quiet in Leicester Market at 11.30am. Most of the stall-holders have stayed at home.

Fruit and veg traders Simon and Jane Wilkes are among the few who've decided to to work.

"It's a funny old day," says Jane. "We've had old dears come up who've said they couldn't remember this much disruption in World War Two."

For Jane and Simon it comes down to simple economics. They can't afford to shut up the stall for a day.

Kate Chamberlain, who sells pet supplies, is taking her stand on a point of principle.

"We live here all year round with all these different people," says the 59-year-old. "We know them and we know they're good people.

"I'm not a brave person, I cry at any sadness, but I'm not going to be bullied or scare-mongered into closing. This is England, right here."

Another member of the protest group in Hotel Street is pouring lager down his neck like there's no tomorrow. It's early afternoon and the EDL are out in force.

Pint glasses are hoisted high and chants of "E-E-EDL" and "Ing-er-land, Ing-er-land" fill the air as the police at either end of the street edge ever closer behind their Plexiglass shields.

Things will get uglier and the chants will get nastier, but for now, things are relatively good humoured.

"Eighty nine per cent of the people here aren't out to cause trouble," says an ex-serviceman from Nottingham. "We just want to be heard."

"You are being heard," laughs a copper. "I've not been able to hear myself think for the last hour."

Wendy "Woo", of Earl Shilton, cutting quite a dash in her England cowboy hat and England top, is on her first EDL protest.

"I believe in what they stand for and what they stand for is England, at the end of the day," she says. "Instead of building all these mosques why don't they build houses and schools? "I can't get on the council housing list, so I believe in what the EDL have to say."

"Slug" and "Snail", a couple of builders from Leicester, are on their first protest, too.

They're called Slug and Snail, says Slug with a wink, because they like to take their time on a job.

Slug shows a picture on his mobile phone of the two of them dressed up as Osama bin Laden by an extension they built for a Muslim customer. Both seem to think that's pretty funny.

"We're all for multi-culturalism, but it's gone too far," says Snail. "When it gets dark at night, I want my family to feel safe. We're on the front line today."

On the front line and well dug in. When it comes to boarding the buses to Humberstone Gate, both decide to stay in the pub and have a few more beers.

"To be honest with you, mate," admits Slug, "I just want to get bellied up."

Back in Humberstone Gate, the atmosphere is decidedly more congenial on the UAF side of the iron curtain.

Well, mainly.

Davinder Singh is not looking for a fight, but he won't be backing down if trouble does come over the barricade.

"I'm a Sikh and I live in an area that's 95 per cent Muslim," says the 43-year-old from Highfields. "Leicester is an all right place to live.

"It p***** me off that the EDL are here trying to create a rift between people."

Martin Lynch and his friend, Ursula Walker, are here from the West Midlands.

"It's time the EDL was seen off," says Martin.

"If all these people like us weren't here, they would have had free rein through the city. Telling us to stay away was, in my opinion, badly misguided.

"It's not true that the UAF are looking for a scrap. This is a peaceful, but determined gathering."

Those walls will keep any maniacs from either side well apart. They can't even hear one another above the ever-present chudder of the police helicopter, let alone get the chance to fight.

It's a success, certainly from a policing point of view. The city won't tear itself apart. If anything, Leicester feels more together. So why does it seem like a hollow victory?

After all the hype and hullaballoo, it all feels strangely pointless, an expensive exercise in futility.

"Tell me about it," says one man who got himself accidentally penned in with EDL.

"I've been stuck here about an hour and I only came out to buy a pint of milk."