Get out the petrol, bottles, rags and sugar, darling

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bookshops with no books. Torching is too good for them. Never mind air rage, and people going bonkers with automatics at work. Never mind that telly is a dumbing down, and that Idiocracy is one of my favourite films, for all the wrong reasons. It makes me laugh an evil I-have-always-known-people-are-idiots-laugh. Or cry.

Bookshops without books. Somebody should get shot.  Heads should roll.

In a corner, behind the massive display of diddle figures, pink pencils, rubber balls, key rings, balloons, wrapping paper, glittering teddy bears, and multi-coloured markers… there’s a small shelf, with a few books. It’s about the size of mine; after I removed 10 boxes and moved here.

They’re seemingly randomly thrown up there, not even alphabetically arranged, and different books and authors stacked in front of others. But they aaaaall have front facing.. the very least, they could have placed them spine out. I stood looking at the shelf for a good seven minutes, trying to wrestle out the system of it. There’s none. Either it was never meant to be a system, or no one is bothered that customers mess around to figure out what is behind.

Or maybe they don’t know the alphabet. Even their limited shelf of audiobooks are not arranged alphabetically.

I wouldn’t be surprised.

And what sort of books is it? I shouldn’t have to say. The DO have a Johan Borgen, the first book of the trilogy (and only that), but that’s just because there’s been an anniversary. And there is a Hamsun there too. Shame I detest him. But you know – standard, awful airport crap, with the embossed names of authors covered in metallic foil. Add a bullet hole/slashing knife/bits of skeletal joints… and titles containing words like “final”, “destiny”, “blood(bath)”, “death” and “midnight”. (in fact, all airports I have ever been to, with one exception, had better bookshops than this university college town.).

I asked for five titles, they had none. All of them solid literature, price-winning, booker nominated, current and translated. Oh, I’m lying. They had one of them, as audiobook. It costs a fortune, and it is not the same. It is not a book. The woman behind the counter had obviously never heard of any of them, and I had to repeat author and title several times. Bless her, she’s probably a certified expert on Diddle-pencils and fluffy key rings.

I’m lying again. They DO have books. Under the title “gift books”. You know, the type full of glossy, gorgeous photos of sunsets, cars, planes, food and as little text as possible. These books often come in folio formats, and take up a good deal of the shelf. So no surprise. They’re beautiful things, usually, but breaks a bookbinders heart more than paperbacks ever could. Don’t say the word “fiber” as you open one of them.
Coffee table books. As if I have a “coffee table”, where I can casually leave out a bunch of exquisite poster-sized books on buddhism, antarctica and cooking with asparagus.

Beauty doesn’t help, if it’s brainfood you want.

And don’t tell me about cost efficiency, the customer-gets-what-the-customer-wants, or any cows dung about majority rules. It’s a f*x%#*! bookshop. It says so on the front.
I’m pissed off and offended. I miss the irish bookshops. The stairs and upstairs in Dublin, Byrnes and Kenny in Galway.

“Stationery’s” is at least a fair name. Or “toys”. Bookshops it ain’t. An offence. A lolly-coloured hell.

Torch them all.

They wouldn’t burn, though. With all that pink fluff, they’ll just melt.