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Glue is a novel by Scottish writer Irvine Welsh. The four main characters are Terry Lawson (Juice Terry), Billy Birrell (Business Birrell), Andrew Galloway (Gally), Carl Ewart (DJ N-Sign). By the same author fiction Trainspotting The Acid House Marabou Stork Nightmares Ecstasy. Author: Irvine Welsh Irvine Welsh - Trainspotting · Read more Irvine Welsh Trainspotting IRVINE WELSH works, rests and raves in Edinburgh. He has had a . Irvine Welsh was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, the scene of his first book: the hugely successful Trainspotting. That book shot Welsh to fame, precipitated further.

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PDF | On Jan 1, , Ana-Karina Schneider and others published Irvine Welsh in Sibiu. Se desarrollará en un barco, en un crucero que navega desde Miami por todo el Caribe La vida sexual de las gemel Essentials of Ecology. The subcultural enfant terrible of devolutionary protest and rebellion, Irvine Welsh is now Read Online · Download PDF; Save; Cite this Item To fully appreciate the impact of Irvine Welsh's work on contemporary British culture and the.

Robert Munro International Journal of Scottish Theatre and Screen Volume 7 Number 2, Irvine Welsh and the Adaptation Industry: Filth, a case study Robert Munro, Queen Margaret University, Edinburgh Introduction The release of Filth Baird , an adaptation of the Irvine Welsh novel of the same name, in the summer of provides a clear example of the way in which adaptations can be read as indicators of the cultural, social and political discourses of their era. It also provides an example of how Scottish national identity is negotiated on screen and in print during this quickly evolving or perhaps devolving era of national movement in Scotland. This article will also explore the specific national identities explored by the book and film of Filth in terms of their complex negotiations with Scottishness, its historical connotations and its contemporary appropriations. Simone Murray and the Adaptation Industry To anchor this discussion of Filth, and its processes of adaptation, it is first necessary to outline a methodological approach to the study of adaptation. The history and trajectory of adaptation studies is too lengthy to discuss here in great detail for detailed introductions to the history of adaptations studies see: Aragay and Hutcheon ; therefore, this article will focus primarily on the approaches taken by Simone Murray whose influential study The Adaptation Industry: The Cultural Economy of Contemporary Literary Adaptation offers fresh perspectives on the discipline, although its focus on the book industry has not been without its detractors see Cattrysse There may seem a tension in extending this approach to a consideration of Scotland, which remains part of the United Kingdom. However, Scotland has had a degree of autonomy over its cinema production for quite some time, through agencies such as Scottish Screen and, latterly, Creative Scotland. The industry-led, production-based approach taken by Simone Murray, can be aligned with the approach to the study of national cinemas detailed by Hjort and Petrie, who call for: […] the study of national cinemas [to transform] into the study of cinema and its relation to national phenomena, the ultimate goal being to grasp the specificity of various contemporary and historical conjunctures rather than imposing a necessarily reductive or homogenising framework of national identity upon the complexity of particular cultural, spatial and political conjecture.

London: Penguin. Edinburgh Evening News [online]. Edinburgh, 10th February [Viewed 10th March ]. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ferrebe, A. Welsh and Tradition. In: B. Schoene, ed. The Edinburgh Companion to Irvine Welsh. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, pp. Ford, M. Irvine Welsh: The 'unfilmable' Filth finally makes it to the big screen. Independent [online], London, 11th September [Viewed 10th March ].

The Limiting Imagination of National Cinema. In: M. Hjort and S. Mackenzie, eds. London: Routledge. Hjort, M. The Cinema of Small Nations. Holden, S. A Dirty Cop. Hampshire: Ashgate Publishing.


Hutcheon, L. A theory of adaptation. Kelly, A. Irvine Welsh. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Leadbetter, R. Twin Piques. Lyall, S.

March, C. Manchester University Press: Manchester. MCCrone, D. Understanding Scotland: The Sociology of a Nation. Morace, R. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

Munro, R. Murray, J. Murray, S. Phantom adaptations: Eucalyptus, the adaptation industry and the film that never was. Adaptation, 1 1 , pp. New York: Routledge. Nairn, T. After Britain: New Labour and the return of Scotland. London: Granta. Naremore, J. Film adaptation. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Petrie, D. Screening Scotland. London: British Film Institute. Contemporary Scottish fictions: film, television and the novel. Trainspotting, the Film. Toronto Star [online], Toronto, 14th June.

Schoene, B. In: E. BELL and G. Scotland in Theory: Reflections on Culture and Literature. Squires, C.

Filth - Irvine |

Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan. Stam, R. Beyond fidelity: The Dialogics of Adaptation. In: J. Film Adaptation. Stam and A. Oxford: Blackwell. Approximately A Festival Atmosphere. Air-brush It An Urban Myth. The Bitterest Pill is Mine to Take.

Young Cunts. Heathrow Airport, London, England 6. Git Her Slacks Oaf. The Golden Era. The Man of the House The sun rose up from behind the concrete of the block of flats opposite, beaming straight into their faces. Davie Galloway was so surprised by its sneaky dazzle, he nearly dropped the table he was struggling to carry. It was hot enough already in the new flat and Davie felt like a strange exotic plant wilting in an overheated greenhouse. It was they windaes, they were huge, and they sucked in the sun, he thought, as he put the table down and looked out at the scheme below him.

Davie felt like a newly crowned emperor surveying his fiefdom. The new buildings were impressive all right: Bright, clean, airy and warm, that was what was needed. He remembered the chilly, dark tenement in Gorgie; covered with soot and grime for generations when the city had earned its 'Auld Reekie' nickname. Outside, their dull, narrow streets nipping with people pinched and shuffling from the marrow-biting winter cold, and that rank smell of hops from the brewery wafting in when you opened the window, always causing him to retch if he'd overdone it in the pub the previous night.

All that had gone, and about time too. This was the way to live! For Davie Galloway, it was the big windows that exemplified all that was good about these new slum-clearance places. He turned to his wife, who was polishing the skirtings. Why did she have to polish the skirtings in a new hoose? But Susan was on her knees, clad in overalls, her large black beehive bobbing up and down, testifying to her frenzied activity. That's the best thing aboot these places, Susan, Davie ventured, the big windaes.

Let the sun in, he added, before glancing 4 over at the marvel of that wee box stuck on the wall above her head. The flick ay a switch. Susan rose slowly, respectful of the cramp which had been settling into her legs. She was sweating as she stamped one numbed, tingling foot, in order to get the circulation back into it. Beads of moisture gathered on her forehead. It's too hot, she complained. Davie briskly shook his head. Naw, take it while ye can get it.

This is Scotland, mind, it's no gaunny last. Taking in a deep breath, Davie picked up the table, recommencing his arduous struggle towards the kitchen. It was a tricky bugger: Like wrestling wi a fuckin crocodile, he thought, and sure enough, the beast snapped at his fingers forcing him to withdraw them quickly and suck on them as the table clattered to the floor.

Irvine Welsh

He never swore in front of women. Certain talk was awright for the pub, but no in front of a woman. He tiptoed over to the cot in the corner. The baby still slept soundly.

Ah telt ye ah'd gie ye a hand wi that Davie, yir gaunny huv nae fingers and a broken table the wey things are gaun. Susan warned him.

She shook her head slowly, looking over to the crib. Surprised ye dinnae wake her. Picking up her discomfort, Davie said, Ye dinnae really like that table, dae ye? Susan Galloway shook her head again. She looked past the new kitchen table, and saw the new three-piece suite, the new coffee table and new carpets which had mysteriously arrived the previous day when she'd been out at her work in the whisky bonds.

What is it? Davie asked, waving his sore hand in the air. He felt her stare, open and baleful. Those big eyes of hers. Where did ye get this stuff, Davie? He hated when she asked him things like that. It spoiled everything, drove a wedge between them. It was for all of them he did what he did; Susan, the baby, the wee fellay. Ask no questions, ah'll tell ye no lies, he smiled, but he couldn't look at her, as unsatisfied himself with this retort as he knew she would be.

Instead, he bent down and kissed his baby daughter on the cheek. Looking up, he wondered aloud, Where's Andrew? He glanced at Susan briefly.

He was hiding again, hiding behind the bairns. Davie moved into the hall with the stealthy caution of a trench soldier fearful of snipers. Andrew, he shouted. His son thundered down the stairs, a wiry, charged life-force, sporting the same dark brown hair as Susan's, but shorn to a minimalist crop, following Davie through to the living room.

Here eh is, he cheerfully announced for Susan's benefit. Noting that she was studiously ignoring him, he turned to the boy and asked, Ye still like it up in yir new room? Andrew looked up at him and then at Susan. Ah found a book ah never had before, he told them earnestly.

That's good, Susan said, moving over and picking a thread from the boy's striped T-shirt. Looking up at his father, Andrew asked, When can ah get a bike, Dad?

Soon, son, Davie smiled. You said when ah went tae school, Andrew said with great sincerity, his large. Ah did, pal, Davie conceded, and it's no long now. A bike? Where was the money coming from for a bloody bike? Susan Galloway thought, shivering to herself as the blazing, sweltering summer sun beat in relentlessly, through the huge windows.

Terry Lawson. They were looking over the fence at the bottom of the yard, down the steep bank, contemplating the ducks in the Water of Leith. Within a few seconds awe turned to boredom; you could only look at ducks for so long, and Terry had other things on his mind. It had been his first day at school and he hadn't enjoyed it. Yvonne would go next year. Terry said to her that it wasn't very good and he'd been frightened but now he was with their Ma, and their Dad was there as well, so it was okay.

Their Ma and Dad were talking and they knew their Ma was angry. Well, they heard her ask him, what is it yuv got tae say? Terry looked up at his Dad who smiled and winked at him before turning back to address the boy's mother. No in front ay the bairns, he said coolly. Dinnae pretend tae care aboot thaim, Alice Lawson scoffed, her voice rising steadily, implacably, like a jet engine taking off, yir quick enough tae walk oot oan thaim! Dinnae pretend that! Henry Lawson shuffled around to check who'd heard.

Met one nosy gape with a hard stare until it averted. Two old fuckers, a couple. Interfering auld bastards. Speaking through his teeth, in a strained whisper, he said to her, Ah've telt ye, they'll be looked eftir. Ah've fuckin well telt ye that. Ma ain fuckin bairns, he snapped at her, the tendons in his neck taut.

Henry knew that Alice was always driven to believe the best in people. He fancied that he could summon enough controlled outrage, 7 enough injured innocence into his tone of voice to suggest that her audacity in believing that he for all his faults, of which he'd be the first to admit could leave his own children unprovided for, was overstepping the mark, even accounting for emotions running high in the break-up of their relationship.

Indeed, it was just those sort of allegations that had practically driven him into the arms of Paula McKay, a spinster of the Parish of Leith. The fine Paula, a young woman of great virtue and goodness which had repeatedly been called into question by the embittered Alice. Was not Paula the sole carer for her father George, who owned the Port Sunshine Tavern in Leith and who was stricken with cancer?

It would not be long now and Paula would need all the help she could to get through this difficult time. Henry would be a tower of strength. And his own name had been continually sullied, but Henry was graciously prepared to accept that people tended to say things they didn't mean in emotionally fraught times. Did he not also know the pain of the breakdown of their relationship?

Was it not harder for him, he being the one who had to leave his children? Looking down and across at them Henry let his eyes glisten and a lump constrict his throat. He hoped Alice caught that gesture and that it would be enough.

It seemed as if it was. He heard burbling noises, like the stream below them, he fancied, and he was moved to put his arm round her shaking shoulders.

Please stay, Henry, she shuddered, pressing her head into his chest, filling her nostrils with the scent of Old Spice still fragrant on his cheese-grater chin. Henry was not so much a five-o'clock-shadow man, as a lunchtime-shadow man, having to shave at least twice a day. There, there, Henry cooed. Dinnae you be worryin. We've got the bairns, yours n mine, he smiled, reaching over and tousling young Terry's mop of curls, considering that Alice really should take the boy to the barber's mair often.

He was like Shirley Temple. It could cause the laddie to grow up funny. Ye never even asked how he got oan at school. Alice sat up straight, fused with a new bitterness as she focused again on what was happening. You never gave me the chance, Henry retorted in tetchy impatience.

Paula was waiting. Waiting for his kisses, for that comforting arm that was now round Alice. Crying, puffy, sagging Alice. What a contrast with Paula's youthful body; tight, lithe, unmarked by childbirth.

There really could be no contest. He gret his eyes oot. This angered Henry. Terry was older than the rest of his class, missing a year's schooling due to his meningitis. He should have been the last one to cry. It was Alice's fault, she spoiled him, still treated him like a baby because of his sickness. There was nothing wrong with the boy now. Henry was about to mention Terry's hair, about how she had him looking like a wee lassie, so what else could she expect from him? But Alice was now staring at him, her eyes blazing in accusation.

Henry looked away. She stared at his jawline, his heavy growth, and then found herself looking at Terry. The laddie had been so ill just eighteen months ago. He'd barely survived. And Henry was walking out on all of them, walking out for her: She let the savage realisation just throb in her chest and didn't try to cower and brace herself for it. Surely the next pulse of racking sickness wouldn't be as bad as that one BANG When would it get better, when would the horror abate, when would she, they, be somewhere else BANG He was leaving them for her.

And then the anchor of his arm was gone and Alice was drowning in the void of the space around her. In her peripheral vision she could see him, swinging Yvonne in the air, then gathering up the children and huddling them together; whispering important but encouraging instructions, like a school football coach giving his players a half-time pep talk.

See how upset Mum is? Henry didn't see Alice first sit up rigid, then slump in defeat at his. That means you two have tae help her out. Terry, ah don't want tae hear any mair nonsense aboot you greetin at the school. That's for daft wee lassies, he told his son, making a fist and pressing it under the boy's chin.

Henry then fished in his trouser pockets, producing a couple of two-bob bits. Crushing one into Yvonne's hand, he watched her expression stay neutral while Terry's eyes went wide and wild in anticipation. Mind what ah sais, Henry smiled at his son, before giving him the same treatment. Will ye still see us sometimes, Dad? Terry asked, eyes on the silver in his hand. Of course, son! We'll go tae the fitba. See the Jam Tarts! This made Terry's spirits rise.

He smiled at his dad, then looked again at the two-bob bit. Alice was behaving so strangely, Henry considered, checking that his tie was straight as he planned his exit. She was just sitting there, all buckled up.

Well, he'd said his piece, given her every reassurance. He'd be round to check on the kids, take them out, a shake at the Milk Bar. They liked that. Or chips at Brattisanni's. But there was little to be gained in talking further to Alice. It would only antagonise her and be bad for the kids. Best just slip off quietly. Henry nipped past the tables. He gave the old cunts the eye again.

They looked back at him in contempt. He stole up to their table. Tapping his nose, Henry told them with a cheery coldness, Keep that oot ay other people's business, or yi'll git it fuckin broke, right? The old couple were speechless at his audacity. Holding his stare for a second, Henry gave a beaming smile, then headed through the back door to the pub, without stopping to look at Alice or the kids.

Best not cause a scene. Bloody nerve, Davie Girvan shouted and stood up, making to follow Henry before being restrained by his wife Nessie. Sit doon, Davie, dinnae git involved wi rubbish.

That's just trash, that. Davie reluctantly took his seat. He didn't fear the man, but he didn't want to make a scene in front of Nessie. In the bar, on his way out the front of the pub, Henry exchanged a few nods and 'how's-it-gaun's. Old Doyle was there, with one of his 10 laddies, Duke he thought, and some other nutter. What a clan of gangsters; the old boy, bald, fat and twisted like a psychotic Buddha, Duke Doyle with his wispy, thinning hair still teased up, Teddy-boy style, his blackened teeth and the big rings on his finger.

Giving Henry a slow, shark-like nod as he passed. Aye, Henry considered, the best place for that crowd was out here; the scheme's loss was the toon's gain. The reverence the other drinkers had for the men at that table hung heavily in the air, with more money changing hands for a casual game of dominoes than most of them made at the local building sites and factories in a month.

This had been the pub Henry had used since they'd moved out here. Not the nearest, but his preference. You got a decent pint of Tartan Special. But this would be his last visit for a long time. He'd never really liked it out here, he thought, as he headed out the door; stuck in the middle of. Back outside, Nessie Girvan was recalling the images of Biafran famine on the telly last night. They wee souls, it would break your heart.

And there was that rubbish, and there were loads like him. She couldn't understand why some people had kids. That bloody animal, she said to her Davie. Davie was wishing he'd reacted quicker, had followed the bastard into the pub.

The man had been a real rogue mind you; olive-skinned, with hard, shifty eyes. Davie had taken on a lot harder before, but it was all some time ago.

If our Phil or Alfie had been there, he wouldnae have been so bloody smart, Davie said. When ah see rubbish like that ah wish ah wis younger maself. For five minutes, that's aw it wid take.

Davie Girvan stopped in his tracks, unable to believe his eyes. The wee kids had got through a hole in the wire fence and were scrambling down the bank towards the river. It was shallow at this stretch, but it had a sloping gradient and the odd treacherous pocket of depth. She saw them standing halfway down the 11 steep bank. C'mere, she pleaded with as much composure as she could. Yvonne looked up and giggled. BANG Terry had a stick. He was lashing at the long grass on the bank, chopping it down.

Alice implored, You're missin aw the sweeties n juice. Thir's ice cream here! A light of recognition filled the children's eyes. They scrambled eagerly up the bank and through the fence towards her. Alice wanted to batter them, she wanted to thrash them she wanted to thrash him Alice Lawson exploded in a sob and hugged her children in a crushing grip, anxiously kneading at their clothes and hair. Whaire's the ice-cream but, Ma, Terry asked.

Wir jist gaunny git it, son, Alice gasped, wir jist gaunny git it. Davie and Nessie Girvan watched the broken woman stagger away with her children, each one gripped firmly by the hand, as jerky and full of life as she was soundly crushed. Carl Ewart. The Works The particles of filed metal hung in the air, as thick as dust. Duncan Ewart could feel them in his lungs and nostrils. You got used to the smell though; it was only when it had competition that you became aware of it.

Now it was duelling with the more welcome scent of sponge and custard which wafted through the machine shop from the canteen. Every time the swing doors of the kitchen flew open Duncan was reminded that lunch was closer and that the weekend was approaching. He worked the lathe deftly, cheating a bit by lifting the guard slightly, to get a better edge on the metal he was turning. It was perverse, he thought, but in. Risk losing some fingers for a bonus for a bunch of rich shareholders living in Surrey or somewhere?

Fuck that, he was mad. But it was the job, the process of actually doing it. It was your own world and you lived almost exclusively in it from nine till five-thirty. You strived to make it better, in every way. A blur pulled into focus from the edge of his sight-line as Tony Radden walked past, goggles and gloves off.

Duncan glanced at his new space-age watch.

What the fuck was that? Nearly ten-to. Almost lunch hour. Duncan considered again the dilemma he faced, it was one he'd encountered many Friday mornings. The new single from Elvis, The Wonder of You, was out today. It had been constantly previewed this week on Radio One. Aye, the King was back bigtime.

In the Ghetto and Suspicious Minds were better, but they'd both peaked at number two. This one was more commercial, a sing-along ballad, and Duncan fancied it to go to the top spot.

In his head he could hear people drunkenly singing along with it, see them slow13 dancing to it. If you could make the people sing and dance, you were on a winner. Dinner hour was sixty poxy minutes, and the Number One bus to Leith and Ards record shop took fifteen minutes there and the same back. Sufficient time to download the record and get a filled roll and a cup of tea from the Canasta. It had been a straight choice between download of the single or the leisurely enjoyment of a pie and pint up at Speirs's Bar, the nearest pub to the factory.

But now the teasing canteen smells announced that it was Friday, and the big nosh was coming into the picture. They always made a special effort on a Friday, because you were more inclined to go to the pub at dinner time then, which made high productivity and the final afternoon of the week uneasy bedfellows. Duncan clicked the machine off. Elvis Aaron Presley. The King. No contest. The record it would be.

Looking at his watch again, he elected to head straight out in his overalls, impatiently punching the clock and sprinting to catch the bus outside the factory gates. Duncan had negotiated with the management to provide lockers, so that workers could travel in 'civvies' and change into their working gear. In practice, few, including himself, bothered, except if they were heading straight out into town on Friday after work.

Settling down upstairs at the back and recovering his puff, Duncan lit up a Regal, thinking that if he got a copy of The Wonder of You he'd play it tonight up the Tartan Club with Maria. The purr from the engine of the vehicle seemed to echo his own contentment as he basked in the warm fug. Aye, it was shaping up to be a good weekend. Killie were over at Dunfermline the morn and Tommy McLean was fit again.

Mathie and that other young guy, McSherry they called him, they both looked promising players, Duncan had always liked going to Dunfermline, considering them a sort of east-coast version of Kilmarnock: These bloody buses are useless, an old guy in a bunnet, puffing on a Capstan shouted over at him, breaking his thoughts, Twenty-five minutes ah've waited.

They should never huv taken oaf the trams. Aye, right enough, Duncan smiled, easing slowly back into his anticipation of. Nivir huv taken oaf the trams, the old guy repeated to himself. Since his Edinburgh exile, Duncan generally divided his Saturday 14 afternoon time between Easter Road and Tynecastle.

He'd always preferred the latter, not for convenience but because it always brought back memories of that great day back in when, on the last game of the season, Hearts only had to draw with Killie at home to win the championship.

They could even afford to lose one-nil. Kilmarnock needed to win by two goals to lift the flag for the first time in their history. Nobody outside Ayrshire gave them much of a chance but when Bobby Ferguson made that great save from Alan Gordon, Duncan knew it was going to be their day. And when he stayed out drinking for three days after they won, Maria didn't complain. They'd just got engaged, so it was out of order, but she took it well.

And that was the marvel of her, she understood that, knew what it meant to him without him having to say, knew that he wasn't a liberty-taker. The Wonder of You. Duncan thought of Maria, how touched by magic he was, how blessed he was to have found her. How he'd play the song to her tonight, her and the wee man. Alighting at Junction Street, Duncan considered how music had always been the fulcrum of his life, how he always throbbed with a child-like excitement when it came to downloading a record.

It was Christmas morning every week. That sense of anticipation; you didn't know if what you wanted would be in, or sold out or whatever. He might even have to go up to Bandparts on Saturday morning to secure it. As he headed towards Ards shop, his throat began to constrict and his heart pounded. Pulling on the door handle, he got inside and made for the counter.

Big Liz was there, thick make-up and helmet of stiff, lacquered hair, her face lighting up in recognition. She held up a copy of The Wonder of You.

Thought ye might be lookin for this, Duncan, she said, then whispered, Ah kept it back for ye. Aw brilliant, Liz, yir a genius, he smiled, eagerly parting with his ten-bob note.

That's a drink you owe me, she said, raising her eyebrows, a serious underlay to her flirty banter. Duncan forced a non-committal smile. If it gets tae number one, he replied, trying not to sound as disconcerted as he felt.

They said you always got the come-on more when you were married, and it was true, he reflected. Or maybe you just noticed more. Liz laughed far too enthusiastically at his throwaway line, making Duncan all the more keen to leave the shop. As he went out the door he heard her say, Ah'll remind ye aboot that drink! He thought about Liz, but even here, just in the street outside the record shop, he couldn't remember what she looked like.

Now he could only see Maria. But he'd got the record. It was a good omen. Killie would surely win, although with these power cuts you didn't know for how long football would be on as the nights would start to draw in soon.

It was a small price to pay though, for getting rid of that bastard Heath and the Tories. It was brilliant that those wankers couldn't take the piss out of the working man any longer.

His parents had made sacrifices, determined that he wouldn't follow his father down the pit. They insisted that he was apprenticed, that he got a trade behind him. So Duncan had been sent to live with an aunt in Glasgow while he served his time in a machine shop in Kinning Park. Glasgow was big, brash, vibrant and violent to his small-town sensibilities, but he was easy-going and popular in the factory. His best pal at work was a guy called Matt Muir, from Govan, who was a fanatical Rangers supporter and a card-carrying communist.

Everybody at his factory supported Rangers, and as a socialist he knew and was shamed by the fact that he, like his workmates, had obtained his apprenticeship through his family's Masonic connections. His own father saw no contradiction between freemasonry and socialism, and many of the Ibrox regulars from the factory floor were active socialists, even in some cases, like Matt, card-carrying communists. The first bastards that would get it would be those cunts in the Vatican, he'd enthusiastically explain, right up against the wa' wi they fuckers.

Matt kept Duncan right about the things that mattered, how to dress, what dance halls to go to, who the razor-boys were, and importantly, who their girlfriends were and who, therefore, to avoid dancing with. Then there was a trip to Edinburgh, on a night out with some mates, when they went to that Tollcross dancehall and he saw the girl in the blue dress. Every time he looked at her, it seemed that his breath was being crushed out of him.

Even though Edinburgh appeared more relaxed than Glasgow, Matt claiming that razors and knives were a rarity, there had been a brawl. One burly guy had punched another man, and wanted to follow up. Duncan and Matt intervened and managed to help calm things down. Fortunately, one of the grateful benefactors of their intervention was a guy in the same company as the girl Duncan had been 16 hypnotised by all night, but had been too shy to ask to dance. He could see Maria then, the cut of her cheekbones and her habit of lowering her eyes giving an appearance of arrogance which conversation with her quickly dispelled.

It was even better, the guy he befriended was called Lenny, and he was Maria's brother. Maria was nominally a Catholic, though her father had an unexplained bitterness towards priests and had stopped going to church. Eventually his wife and their children followed suit. None the less, Duncan worried about his own family's reaction to the marriage, and was moved to go down to Ayrshire to discuss it with them.

Duncan's father was a quiet and thoughtful man. Often his shyness was confused with gruffness, an impression accentuated by his size he was well over six foot tall , which Duncan had inherited along with his straw-blonde hair. His father listened in silence to his deposition, giving the occasional nod in support.

When he did speak, his tone was that of a man who felt he had been grossly misrepresented. Ah don't hate Catholics, son, his father insisted, Ah've nothing against anybody's religion.

It's those swines in the Vatican, who keep people doon, keep them in ignorance so that they can keep filling thir coffers, that's the scum ah hate. Reassured on this point, Duncan decided to keep his freemasonry from Maria's father, who seemed to detest masons as much as he did priests.

Duncan was worried about an Orange, or even a Red speech from Matt Muir, so he asked his best pal from school back in Ayrshire, Ronnie Lambie, to do the honours. Unfortunately, Ronnie had got pretty drunk, and made an anti-Edinburgh speech, which upset some guests and later on, as the drink flowed, precipitated a fist-fight.

Duncan and Maria took that as their cue to head off to the room they had booked at a Portobello guest house.


Back at the factory and back at the machine, Duncan was singing The Wonder of You, the tune spinning in a loop in his head, as metal yielded to the cutting edge of the lathe. Then the light from the huge windows above turned to shadow. Somebody was standing next to him. He clicked off the machine and looked up. Duncan didn't really know the man. His next book, Ecstasy: Three Tales of Chemical Romance , became his most high-profile work since Trainspotting, released in the wave of publicity surrounding the film.

It consists of three unconnected novellas : the first, Lorraine Goes To Livingston, is a bawdy satire of classic British romance novels , the second, Fortune's Always Hiding, is a revenge story involving thalidomide and the third, The Undefeated, is a sly, subtle romance between a young woman dissatisfied with the confines of her suburban life and an aging clubgoer.

A corrupt police officer and his tapeworm served as the narrators for his third novel, Filth The main character of Filth was a vicious sociopathic policeman. The novel was adapted to a film with the same name in Glue was a return to the locations, themes and episodic form of Trainspotting, telling the stories of four characters spanning several decades in their lives and the bonds that held them together.

Having revisited some of them in passing in Glue, Welsh brought most of the Trainspotting characters back for a sequel, Porno , in In this book Welsh explores the impact of pornography on the individuals involved in producing it, as well as society as a whole, and the impact of ageing and maturity in individuals against their will. The book is set just after the opening of the new Scottish Parliament. In Crime, Ray Lennox from Welsh's previous work, Filth is recovering from a mental breakdown induced by occupational stress and cocaine abuse, and a particularly horrifying child sex murder case back in Edinburgh.

The story takes place in Florida. In Welsh published a prequel to Trainspotting, titled Skagboys. Given as a series of linked short stories, the book is also interspersed with brief commentaries on contemporary British politics. In particular, the consequences of the destruction of industry in the northern cities are drawn for the young working class. Welsh's tenth novel, released in April , is titled The Blade Artist , and centres around a seemingly rehabilitated Francis Begbie now living in California with a wife and children.

He co-authored Babylon Heights with his screen writing partner Dean Cavanagh.