Counter terror police are assessing a video reported to be from a concert by Irish rappers Kneecap.

A social media clip of the hip hop trio on stage appeared to show one member of the group shout “up Hamas, up Hezbollah”.

The footage was posted online by Danny Morris from the Jewish security charity, the Community Security Trust.

He said it was from a gig last November at London’s Kentish Town Forum.

A Metropolitan Police spokesperson said: “We have been made aware of the video and it has been referred to the counter terrorism internet referral unit for assessment and to determine whether any further police investigation may be required.”

Hamas and Hezbollah are both proscribed as terrorist groups in the UK. Under Section 12 of the Terrorism Act 2000, it is an offence to express “an opinion or belief that is supportive of a proscribed organisation”.

Sky News has contacted Kneecap’s management for comment.

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It comes after TV personality Sharon Osbourne called for Kneecap’s US work visas to be revoked after accusing them of making “aggressive political statements” including “projections of anti-Israel messages and hate speech” at Coachella Music and Arts Festival.

In November last year, Kneecap won a discrimination case against the UK government after former business secretary Kemi Badenoch refused them funding.

How to describe the moment when you see the open coffin of Pope Francis? 

How to sum up an experience that was shared with many, but which felt so intimate? Fortunate, memorable, touching, and emotional. Above all, unique.

Well, let’s start at the beginning.

We, along with other members of the global media, were invited into the basilica by the Vatican in order to see the lines of people filing past the coffin; to bear witness to the emotions, the sounds. To this demonstration of faith.

As we start to walk over, we know we are the lucky ones.

The queue to get into the basilica stretches into the distance – there are people waiting eight hours for the chance to see the coffin.

By contrast, we are ushered in through a side door. We round a corner, walking against a tide of people, until we enter the huge, soaring chamber in which the Pope’s coffin lies in state.

A beam of sunshine is lighting up an imposing statue, created by the genius of Bernini and now looking down upon the Pope.

I can see Francis’s hands crossed on his chest. His coffin is large, resting on the floor, but it is not ostentatious. You can see the red cloth of his vestments.

It is one thing to be told that the Pope has died, but quite another to witness the proof. Perhaps that is why so many are queuing for this moment – to bring closure, as much as to offer thanks.

Setting glistens with gold

The setting is extraordinary.

St Peter’s Basilica is a simply astonishing building that glistens with gold and whose domed ceiling rises to the sky.

Francis wanted to eschew the extravagance of previous papal funerals, but there is no avoiding the splendour of his surroundings.

By his coffin, soaring up, is the huge canopy known as St Peter’s Baldachin, which covers the altar.

Beneath it, so Christians believe, is the tomb of St Peter. This is one of the holiest places in Christianity, and the Pope lies alongside it.

Around his coffin are four soldiers from the Swiss Guard, dressed in their familiar red, blue, and yellow uniforms.

No sense of rush

A rope runs around the coffin, marking off the area. There are a few seats on one side for notable dignitaries to use when paying their respects. On the other side is a space for senior members of the Catholic church to pray and give thanks.

As we watch, there are two cardinals using this space, including the Italian Matteo Zuppi, a contender to be the next pope. I can see his mouth moving in prayer, his head bowed.

The chamber is thronged with people, but there is no sense of rush.

The queue of people runs round the edge of half the room, but it is orderly, shuffling ever forward. And there is such a blend of people – nuns and priests, but also families dressed for a day in the sun, teenagers in football shirts, grandparents in their finery. Some come in black, others in suits, some in scruffy old T-shirts.

I see three nuns come past, followed by a young woman in jeans and a T-shirt. The nuns are smiling; the woman is sobbing. We learn it’s impossible to predict who will be affected most.

You do not get to linger long at the front – maybe a few seconds – but it is an opportunity that divides.

Phones are a constant sight

Some make a cross; some offer a prayer; some take a selfie. Mobile phones are a constant sight. At any given moment, I can see dozens of them held in the air, capturing photos of the scene.

It’s hard to say whether these phones damage the mood, bruising the sombre sense of intimacy, or whether they add to the idea that this is as much about celebrating life as it is about bemoaning death. Maybe both can be true.

It is an emotional experience, whether you have faith or not. What is remarkable here is not the sight of Pope Francis’s coffin, not the hands arranged on his chest, nor the ceremony around St Peter’s.

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What is extraordinary – and what will live with me – is that so many people are prepared to queue for hour after hour in the beating sun to quietly offer thanks to a man that hardly any of them had ever met, but many felt they knew.

Like the Queen before, what really matters is not the scene that people will see, but rather the fact that they are so desperate to come.