Winding Stair Bookshop, North Dublin City Centre

The books stop here.

(11 August 2009)

by: Luke 3 out of 5

Black Books this ain't. Aside from the (arguably out of their hands) irksome smoking ban and the general societal norms prohibiting booksellers from quaffing wine, The Winding Stair suffers from its lack of Dylan Moran, Bill Bailey, and whoever it is that plays the woman. Instead, we are presented with Regan (hardly a real name), Emer (Emer? Eimear? Who gives a fuck?) and Daniel, the last of whom is famously the son of a poet, but aren't we all?

Only last week, I was paying one of my regular visits to the shop wherein I buy nothing but invariably leave my mark (be it a tampered spine, a bit of dick-graffiti on a Joyce, or simply some harmless dog-ears). As one would have expected with modern 21st century multi-culturalism, a familial quartet of Japanese androids/humans/Yeats-enthusiasts stumbled in off the quays looking to spend their Yen on sex and books. Unfortunately for them, The Winding Stair offers no sex to non-regulars (that is not to say it offers any to regulars, wink wink). Suddenly they had over €65 worth of Yeats, etc in their claws and the patriarchal POW-survivor crawled up to the desk, attempting to make a purchase. As is their futuristic wont, the Japanese man reached for a holstered Visa card and proceeded to hand it to the cashier. "Okay," thought the Irish salesman, "I know what I'm doing here."

But he didn't know what he was doing there. He didn't have a clue.

Swiping the card through the machine, he waited and pretended to be deep in thought, as he had seen done on Kurosawa films. Only in those films, they didn't have to contend with electronics or cumbersome book sales. It just wouldn't work. Beginning to panic, he vainly clutched at the wires connecting the charge machine, but it was no use. The Japanese family stared on in disbelief, fascinated by the lack of technological understanding in white man's country.

"I'm sorry," the Irishman seemed to say, "I haven't a clue what to do." Not understanding a word he said, the Japanese man smiled in disbelief, and carefully took his card back from the idiot sitting opposite him. I watched in unbroken captivity as this interplay between east and west unfolded beneath my unslitty eyes.

Then, like the master in Karate Kid, the Chinaman produced a wad of cash from his kimono and offered them to our antihero. The sale was, however, irrevocably crippled, and the shop could only hope for half the profit. 3 of the expensive books were chosen to be left behind, and immediately the sale had diminished to a paltry €30. "Thomas Reade!" cried the shopkeep in his head, "I do beseech your forgiveness." The Japanese returned to Tokyo the next day, never to return to Ireland as long as they lived.

Anyway, as a bookshop, it's quite good. The selection is good and the atmosphere is top notch. Of course, ethically speaking (pfft), we should always try to use these hovels over the bookshop giants as much as possible, but often the prices here are simply uncompetitive relative to the giants or even, say, Books Upstairs. I hear there is a "whopper" gay section here.

Luke would recommend. Luke would use again.

Comments (3) | Recommend this Review | Was this review... +1