![]() ![]() Photograph: Reg Innell/Toronto Star via Getty Images Maeve Binchy has been suggested for the writers’ room at the National Waxworks Museum Dublin. This lot of writers obviously had quite a night of it the previous night, and have drunk the bar dry. Brendan Behan is at the bar, but he’s out of luck, because all 19 bottles of whiskey and tequila on display are empty. So who has made the cut? There’s Samuel Beckett, standing by a window, looking stern. The room has many windows, and they all overlook O’Connell Bridge and the Liffey a view fine enough to inspire any writer, even one made of testosterone and wax. It’s a lovely room, where the nine waxworks of Irish male writers are located. (I had told him not to include the dead bodies hanging upside down in the Hotel of Horrors display in the count.) In fact, according to Paddy Dunning, who is the owner of the museum, less than a third of all the waxworks are of women. ![]() It might have plus in the title, but there are no plusses for the complete absence of any women writers represented here. ![]() I’m in the Writers’ Room of the latest incarnation of the National Wax Museum Plus, which recently moved from behind the Bank of Ireland at Foster Place, to Westmoreland Street. His face is bright orange, as if he recently came out of an unlicensed tanning salon. He's sitting over there in the corner, reading an out-of-date Evening Herald. I'm a bit concerned about the state of Pat. Sure, where else would they be, especially dead male Irish writers? No, excuse me, one of the nine is poet Pat Ingolsby, and he is very much alive. ![]()
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