Ireland’s first dedicated Lego shop opens tomorrow, on Grafton Street, where Topman used to be. I’m getting in early for a look-see. Anyone who is a Lego fan — and many people remain fans into adulthood — will be hightailing it there to check out what’s on offer.
To remind punters they’re in Dublin, the store features various show pieces. There’s a giant camogie player who has slightly scary computerised eyes that blink, and who says things like “Up the Dubs!” and “What sport do you play?” when you wave a hand in front of a sensor. There’s a model of the Poolbeg chimneys — sadly, not available to buy as a set — created by Kevin Hall, all 5,789 pieces of it. There’s the Aviva Stadium, plus two musicians who might also be Vikings.
Natali Stojovic, who’s at the store as head of Lego retail, is talking about “the immersive brick-based experience”. She means the Lego. It has to be the fanciest description of the famous bricks I’ve ever heard. Speaking of bricks, why build a bricks-and-mortar shop in the era of the internet, when people buy so many things online? “It’s very important to have a physical store,” she says — and hurrah for that, when so many shops are closing their doors and becoming digital-only entities.
So what’s in the shop? Everything, frankly. There are many themed sets: Star Wars, Marvel, Harry Potter, Frozen. There’s a model of Titanic for €630. There’s the Colosseum. The Taj Mahal. The International Space Station. The Back to the Future car. The set of the apartment in Friends. A blue Vespa. A Viking ship. A Lamborghini. Tractors. Diggers. Garages. Hotels. Flower bouquets. There are pirates and princesses and dragons and science-fiction things I didn’t know the names of.
There are simple sets for €10 or so, and elaborate sets whose prices range into the hundreds for the 18+ age group, aka adults. The woman beside me is buying the blue Vespa. The man in front is buying quite a large campervan, one you could definitely fit hamsters or kittens into, should they want to go on their holidays. These people aren’t buying the Vespa and campervan for children; they’re buying them for themselves.
Upstairs is a Mini Figure assembly factory. Personalisation is big these days, so you can personalise your own little Mini Figure. Obviously, I make a version of myself, because who doesn’t want a Mini-Me? You choose what colour and pattern of shirt you want, and what name you want to give your Mini Figure, and while that’s being done in some class of printer, you choose other things.
“Pick out what kind of legs you’d like,” the Lego man instructs me. I pick out a pair of legs, and a head, plus some red hair in a ponytail. “And one accessory.” I’m hoping to find a typewriter, but a parrot is the next-best thing. I’ve always wanted a parrot, and now I have a little blue one. It doesn’t sing, alas, but there’s a limit to what the €12 price of a Mini Figure kit will buy you.
The shop opens to the public on Thursday, when the ceremonial ribbon will be cut with a pair of Lego scissors. No, I don’t know how that’s possible, but if Lego can make a model of the Taj Mahal, it can surely create a pair of scissors that actually cuts.
