Things are finally coming to a head here in Libya; the end is nigh for the Colonel and his regime. I’m sat watching Al Jazeera’s rolling coverage of events, showing images of people celebrating in Freedom Square on the waterfront in Benghazi juxtaposed with the news that the revolutionaries have taken control of swathes of Tripoli, having even reached Gaddafi’s beloved Green Square.

This was the way it had to end, armed uprising in the capital, the residents liberating themselves, spilling their own blood for the revolution, rather than having to suffer the indignity of waiting to be liberated by their countrymen. Developments have been swift in the last few days; swift and decisively one-sided. Ten days ago talk was of military stalemate, the rebels unable to advance either in the east, or in the Western Mountains, or here in the Misrata enclave. The only solution was a political one; dialogue with the Gaddafi regime. How times have changed.

As I write this Mustafa Abdel Jalil, Head of the National Transitional Council, has just announced the capture of Seif El Islam, Gaddafi’s eldest son and heir apparent. The regime is more than just crumbling, it is about to be swept away.

The turning point came about ten days ago: in the Nafusa Mountains the rebels came down from the mountains, their sights set on the coastal city of Az Zawiya 85km away, which had tasted freedom for two brief weeks at the start of the revolution, the uprising there brutally crushed by Khamees, Gaddafi’s most militarily astute and bloodthirsty son. If they reached the city the war would surely change – not only would they receive support from the population, but also, significantly, they would then be a mere 50km from Tripoli. Gaddafi’s generals knew this, and would surely do everything within their power to prevent the revolutionaries reaching the city.

I assumed that it would take them days, weeks, to advance. Instead it seemed to take no more than hours; the first footage coming out of Az Zawiya showed hundreds of fighters, far more than there had previously been in the Nafusa Mountains. The NTC had obviously been busy over the past two weeks, flying and ferrying combatants from the east into Tunisia and then on into the mountains.

In Misrata too the pendulum had swung in the revolution’s favour. Boats unloading munitions, tanks and weaponry had been docking regularly at the port, for so long the only means of access to the city. The city’s airport, out of action since mid March due to its proximity to the front lines and subsequent risk of rocket attack, had seen massive military planes starting to land on its runway, the word QATAR spelt out in huge letters on their underbellies so nobody was in any doubt as to their origin. They would spend no more than 10 minutes on the runway, enough time to rapidly unload supplies and armaments before taking off once more.

Things were building.

On Thursday 11th August a massive coordinated offensive was launched towards the town of Tawergha, to the south of Misrata. For months Tawergha had been the launching pad for all the Grad rockets fired into Misrata on a daily basis, and for months the rebels had been unable to take it. Yet on the 11th, just ten days ago, it fell within hours. And since then momentum has been building inexorably, exponentially.

Here in the Misrata enclave the town of Zlitan had proved a huge stumbling, block in the rebels’ quest to march on Tripoli, the population unwilling to see their city become a pile of ruins, a new version of Misrata. The fighters had reached Zlitan’s outskirts weeks ago, but had been forced to wait as negotiations took place with town elders on whether they would join the rebels in their fight. Once Tawergha fell, however, it was only a matter of time.

Sure enough on the night of Thursday 18th, just three days ago, the offensive began, continuing through Friday. Almost 40 fighters were killed, many of them friends or relatives of guys in the office. Mohamed, knew two of those killed, one of whom had been an English student of his and was just 19. These aren’t soldiers after all; they’re civilians fighting to rid their country of its hated dicator. Yet Zlitan was liberated.

The rolling news is still playing in front of me; Al Jazeera has announced the capture of Sa’adi, Gaddafi’s son who paid millions of Euros to play for Italian Serie A side Perugia, and who dissolved Benghazi’s Al Ahly football club and destroyed its stadium for allowing a donkey onto the pitch, in reference to his somewhat leaden footed footballing skills. Sa’adi couldn’t take a joke; tonight the joke’s on him.

The end has come so fast; faster than anyone could have hoped for. Gaddafi’s regime, after holding out for so long against the odd couple of armed civilians and NATO jets, has imploded. It’s being reported that hundreds of Misrata’s fighters, with naval support from NATO, were last night shipped to Tripoli using launches to get them into Tajoura, one of the capital’s districts opposed to Gaddafi from the start.

It’s going to be fascinating hearing the stories that come out of Tripoli in the coming days and weeks, as we find out to just what lengths the dear Colonel went to stifle opposition and paint for the world a green-tinted picture of doting devotion to the Brother Leader.

I’ve just been up on the roof, fireworks going off all around the city. They’re interspersed with celebratory gunfire, red tracer bullets blazing crimson trails up into the night sky. They’re beautiful you know, and silent. I think they’d be a welcome addition to Guy Fawkes Night; might petition the government on that one when I get back to the UK.

Tripoli has risen up. The end is hours away. Libya, you’re free.