Colin Burnett (2021) A Working Class State of Mind.

I bought a copy of A Working Class State of Mind because I like Colin Burnett’s writing. I’m an editor on ABCtales and some of his fiction appeared online. Most of the other editors are English. Whisper it, we’ve even got an American. But he recognised the moron’s moron Trump as the narcissistic psychopathic puckered lips organism that he proved to be. I got nudged towards Colin Burnett’s work because as the resident Scot it was my domain. And Colin Burnett writes in the Scottish dialect of Leith as did Irvine Welsh in Trainspotting.

It’s a risky venture, because it limits the number of potential readers in a market saturated with fiction, and everybody shouting and nobody listening. But hey, even Rabbie Burns needed the helping hand of the Masons to become an international icon. The Scottish language promotes intimacy, and in getting closer to the language you get to closer to yourself and your class, or so James Kelman would have us believe. What resonates within us is who we are. And if you’re one of those that declare I’ve no interest in politics then you’ve not been paying attention. Politics is about power. And we the working class lost the propaganda war by the early seventies. The narrator in the first story, ‘A Working Class State of Mind’ puts it this way.

The greatest trick those in power ever pulled wis gittin the workers tae believe we aw huv equal opportunities. Fae the moment we first open our eyes and until the time finally comes tae close thum. Oor lives huv been mapped oot fur us by they’m fae the cradle tae the grave. In this country ‘cash is class’. When yur born intae a family wae a bit ae money and the right postcode, you’re oan the home straight while the rest ae us are jist warmin up fur the race.

A trio of characters run like Edinburgh rock through the stories. In the last story of the collection their backstory becomes the story. Dougie is about to go to Secondary School, the infamous Ainslie Park, but he’s got company, his wee mate Craigie is going to the same school. Dougie’s mum is trying to convince him it won’t be that bad.

‘That wis until ma faither decided tae inject himself intae the conversation.

“Son” he said, while lowerin his newspaper.

“Jist remember, eh? snitches git stiches.”’

The reader is already familiar with Aldo. Adlo is the ballast that makes most stories work; he appears as a wee skinny Asian kid with a kick-ass attitude. He’s a familiar figure in any working-class community. The hardman that takes nae shite. But he’s also funny, but not deliberately so. And he has a heart. In ‘Lost and Found’, for example, he rescues a stray puppy tossed like a hot dog from a car. We learn that Aldo had to split up from his one true love because he found out she was a Tory. I know the feeling well, having a big sister I slotted into that category, but there’s no divorcing her. The irony is there’s nobody more capitalist in his approach to the business of drug dealing than Aldo.  

In ‘House of Horrors’, for example, gambling is just a casual breeze.  ‘He didnae need the money as he made maire fae sellin snow than a doactur did fae savin lives. Still there wis aloat ridin oan this fuckin horse. Ma two grand, and Aldo’s yin.’

From ‘Wuhan to Leith’ and ‘Lost and Found’, Aldo’s innate capacity for violence is harnessed to indirectly help the community. But usually not in term of labour exploitation.

‘Business hus plummeted cos ae this virus. Ah’ve loast a lotae fuckin money, that’s fur sure. None ae ma runners will pick up or droap oaff fur me in case they catch it. Deep doon ah jist wish ah wis still dain ma community service cos nuttin wid deter they retards fae dain business. Thanks largely tae the fact that none ae thum are playin wae a full deck. Been buzzin oot ae ma nut maist ae the day. Oan coke and heavy bevyin.’

The weakest story in the collection is ‘Sebastian the Great’, possibly because there’s no Aldo. Here the narrator is Callum. He’s sipping watered down lager as he attends a literary even in Edinburgh. I guess we’ve all been there. I labelled them Americans. When asked what they have written they rhyme of a staggering amount of bullshit. And they’re hooked into the Scottish literary establishment. One guy I met had, like our friend Sebastian the Great, a grant from the Scottish Book Trust to write a book and was late by two years—but unconcerned. I read his book and it was shite, but hey, that’s my opinion. Everybody loved him, as does the middle-class in this story. The problem with the story isn’t in the facts. We know the publishing industry is dominated by the middle classes and mainly women. The problem with the story is it become a bit of a rant. Better if Aldo bust it up.

I’m becoming predictable too.  I hate the Tory scum. And what we’ve become. That’s my rant. But Colin Burnett puts it more eloquently. Read on.   


Noticed this about [adrenalin] andreline pumpin through yur veins, p14

Jeremey Kyle who wis convinced his cat wis the antiChrist. It wis summit tae dae wae the cat sittin oan his phone and diallin 666  (p16).

Ah guess General Custard must huv said the


same hing at Little Bighorn. And we aw ken what

turned up there, another load ae irate Indians [overwriting]

Ah feel like Leith’s answer tae Dr Dolittle 21

 And when the time comes tae draw oor final

breath, we’ve accumulated enough debt that our

creditors will be hoadin a seance. 24

The greatest trick those in power ever pulled wis gittin the workers tae believe we aw huv equal opportunities [all in it together] 24

Story about a spider. Robert the Bruce, Bannockburn.

The greatest trick

those in power ever pulled wis gittin the workers tae

believe we aw huv equal opportunities. Fae the

moment we first open our eyes and until the time

finally comes tae close thum. Oor lives huv been

mapped oot fur us by they’m fae the cradle tae the

grave. In this country ‘cash is class’. When yur born

intae a family wae a bit ae money and the right

postcode, you’re oan the home straight while the rest

ae us are jist warmin up fur the race. 24

House of Horrors.

ah’m oan yin ae

they zero­hour contracts. Ken, the hings where yae

dinnae ken if yur gonnae earn a quid or a livin wage

fae month tae month. And that’s why the bookies 28

As ah enter the shoap flair the young

cashier Megan wis chattin tae Auld Tam at the coonter.

Yince she cloacked ma presence in the shoap ah’m

suddenly bein cawed oor by her.

“Dougie” she says. “Come oor here fur a

second. Yae kin settle this argument fur us.” 29

A puny boay cawed Paul

who ah kent fae the boozer hud jumped oantae a till.

He wis a small guy wae prickly black hair and a

tangerine complexion, due tae his love ae the sunbeds.

Aldo knoacked this boays front teeth oot wae yin


Ah couldnae understand why Stevie hudnae

mentioned Aldo wis involved in the mayhem. Probably

thoat it went withoot sayin. Ah love the guy, ken? but

Aldo scares the shite oot ae me.

“Fur fuck sake” ah says. “Anywey, why are yae

whisperin? Aldo’s no even here” ah add as ah take a

casual peek aroond the room, jist tae be shaire.

ah’ve no seen Aldo in

here fur nearly a week.


mother and faither own and run a popular Indianoan

Portobello High Street. Aw his faimily are hard workin,

law abidin citizens, and they didnae ever toil fur

money. So there really wisnae any excuses fur Aldo

and the borderline insane wae the wey he’s turned oot. ‘A Little Taste of India’


might be a lunatic but he’s oor lunatic, 36

Now ah kin feel ma hert skippin a beat

and ma blood pressure seems tae huv went up a notch

or two efter aw that excitement fae the race. The hing is

though yae kin ask any seasoned gambler and they’ll

tell yae what ah’m aboot tae say: “A gid start doesnae

add inches tae yur dick.” 37

“How yae doin ya willy


Fae that remark ah didnae need tae be

Columbo tae ken who it is: Aldo. He alweys makes

the same stupid joke anytime ah see him


must be aboot 6ft 2 wae a muscular build oan accoont

ae bein a weightliftin and droid enthusiast. He hus

these tribal tattoos covered acroass his bald heid, which

doesnae make him look any less ae a looney tune.

Ah’m a haime help.”

This is the first time in

months ah’ve been anywhere near a win.

He didnae need the money as he made maire fae

sellin snow than a doactur did fae savin lives. Still there

wis aloat ridin oan this fuckin horse. Ma two grand,

and Aldo’s yin.


probably only gits tae see boays like this oan the telly.

Someboady who wis born wae a silver

cock in his mooth. Tae ma shock and the posh cunts

nerves, Aldo seems tae take in what ah jist said tae

him and he gestures wae his hands that he is ready tae

forgive the boay fur winnin by remarkin: “Yur right,


Sebastian the Great. 47


night ae networkin as a writer at yin ae these fancy

theatres in the centre ae Edinburgh. Aye ah goat

invited through makin the shoart list fur a playwritin


Maist ae the folk in here emit that

unmistakeable smell ae private education.

Cos ah’m someboady who

doesnae believe the middle classes own a patent fur a

wee hing cawed ‘imagination’. In other words ah’m the

great, big, dirty pink elephant in the room.

“Ah’m, Callum” ah tell him. Before takin

another sip ae ma watered doon pint.

“So, Callum,” he says “how long have you been


“The past five year” ah say “what aboot yursel,


“Oh, fifteen years or, so.” He says. “Writing’s

been good to me, you know?”

“Naw ah dinnae fuckin ken.”

“Ah’ve been peyed only the yince” ah tell

him. “And that particular commission wis jist

enough tae keep me in beans and toast fur a week.”

This sends him intae an unrestrained fit

“That’s Melvin Andrews, the playwright. The

Scottish theatre fund has just handed him twelve

thousand pounds to write a play about why his last one

was so bad.”

“But if his last yin wis sae bad” ah say “Then

why are they commissionin him again?”

“He’s one of the chaps,” he tells me

reassuringly. “You don’t question the credentials of one

of the chaps. Better to just write a cheque.”

lits be real. We kent as many astronauts as we

did writers when we wur growin up.

comin fae behind me: “I haven’t missed Sebastian

Wolfston’s talk, have I?”

Oot comes a middle aged elegant looking boay

wae readin glesses pushed tae the edge ae his nose.

Grinnin fae ear tae ear, so he is. He’s goat long and

shiny luxourious black hair. Which is only bested wae

his Colgate smile and a yellow scarf draped roond his

neck like some Eton educated disciple.

“I know a lot of you are just starting out on your

writing career,” he says. “But just remember one

important thing. Your first commission is likely to be

no more than five thousand pounds. But don’t worry.

Eventually you still start to make real money …”

Though, of course. Ah dinnae scream anyhing.

Ah jist sit there smilin and applaud back at him.

Along wae the rest ae these performin seals.

Or, mibbie,

even a new symptom ae the virus itself. Fuck

knows, likes. But what ah do ken fur sure is

ah’m self isolatin until ma beautiful English

mother tongue starts workin again.

“It wis inspired by ma hatred fur Boris Johnson

and of course ma own personal loathin fur the Tories.”

Sebastian stares wary intae ma eyes. Before he

bursts intae a high pitch fit ae hysterical laughter.

seat ah cannae

help but hink that ah’ve played aw ae these posh cunts

at their haime groond and actually won. 58

The Sleeping Giant 59

Ah said “Yae cannae

jist throw awey sivin year like a yaised rubber,

Cool as you like “Silly me, Douglas” she said “I

forgot you’re a student of Shakespeare.”

“Come on!” she hud said “Let’s make an

appointment at RBS.”

Choosin tae furget, inexplicably, mind you. The

yin fact aboot me that her and the entire world kent.

That ah um a degenerate gambler.

the mere suggestion ae shared finance is

insanity. And wis pretty much the same hing as handin

me a loaded gun.

how she earns twice as

much as me when she’s oot there teachin snotty nosed


ah meant tae ken that the selfish bastard

ah’d backed that day wida went and snapped his neck

efter failin tae sail oor the final fence.

ma plan wis tae huv the money back

in the accoont before she wid even notice.

last week

ah wis suspended fae ma joab pendin an investigation

“He was your responsibility, you were his

carer” she says. As if ah didnae hear enough ae that fae

Brian’s daughter and the rest ae his enraged family.

This wis a boay who survived the might ae the Third

Reich and a Japanese POW camp but in the end it wis a

simple peanut who cawed his number.

Aldo come tae inject


his ain lethal dose ae misery intae ma awready shitty

existence. Sure as shite tae. As ah answer the door ah’m

faced wae the steroid induced psycho that he is.

“Ah bumped intae Justine yisterday at that posh

coffee shoap in the centre ae toon ‘Sicilia’. She wis wae

some flash cunt cawed, Mario.”

“She wis wae Mario?” ah snap “that fuckin

chippy owner?”

“Ah ken this cunt is probably geein yur burd

her medicine the noo. 64

“Either that cunt Mario hus grown a third airm

fae somewhere or he’s goat a big cock” Aldo explains

tae me. 65

Ah only came tae invite yae fur a pint wae me

and Craig themorra doon at The Carousel. Craig’s goat

a new tart he wants us tae meet, true love apparently.

Aw and its quiz night tae. And as it happens wur

shoart ae a boay n aw.”

She went tae yin ae they places where they check yur

parents bank balance before agreein tae lit yae step

inside. St Johns Academy wis cawed. Nae doot yuv

heard ae it but in case yae huvnae then “We Are All

Posh Cunts” is actually the school motto.

Ah stroll through The Kirkgate. A wee shoartcut

taewards The Carousel. The place appears tae be

unusually quiet.

Justine wis alweys whingin in ma ear aboot how

ah shouldnae be best mates wae Aldo. Anytime his

name came up in conversation aw ah wid git fae her

wis “I don’t know how you can be friends with him.

He’s a stain on society.” Ah mean, dinnae git me

wrong, she hinks Craig is a fanny tae but at least she’s

marked him doon as a loveable yin. 69

“Savin the Kids” ah laughed. “Wur talkin aboot

Aldo here, no fuckin Bono. He jist hus a strict zero

tolerance policy oan cunts stealin his customers.”

Which jist so happened tae state the sentiments

ae maist ae the folk here: ‘Hibee Til I Die’.

“Fur fuck sake” ah crack. “Is there anycunt in

Edinburgh who doesnae ken?!” [no exclamation mark after a question mark, you  can have your own language, but not punctuation.

“Aldo, take it easy man” ah say. “The fuckin

hing is finished noo, anywey.”

“Naw, mate. We’ve been cairyin that cunt since

primary. He’s alweys been a doughball. Dozy prick

nearly drooned dookin fur apples yin year. He’s been a

fuckin liability fae day yin.”

“Aw” says Aldo. Before he shouts acroass the

room tae the lassie: “Excuse me love?! kin yae move

oot ae the wey, eh? Ah’m tryin tae cloack a tidy burd

and yur blockin the view!”

Craig seems tae be in a state ae utter disbelief.

“That is her ya prick. Caroline?! Wur oor here,


Aldo bursts intae a fit ae laughter.

“That’s her? Fuck me, Craigy son” he scoffs.

“Aw that snow really hus fucked up yur eyesight,

But Aldo hus decided he’s hayin none ae it. He’s

clearly grown tired ae ma depressed mood. And every

five or ten minutes he’s offerin me an E. He takes a

small yelly tablet fae his jean poacket. Huddin it up

intae the light. As if he wur apprasin a diamond.

“See this wee hing, eh? it’ll take awey aw yur

problems, Dougie.”

The pair ae us aw teary eyed and

moved. Well, try and live through ten year ae the

Tories ya middle class ersehole. That’ll gee yae suttin

tae really greet aboot.

These workin­class hero thoats disappear when

the voice comes in though. A female, familiar voice,

which isnae Justine.

“What the fuck are yur dain here?!” ah ask her,

in a terrified, panicked state.

Sheep without a Shepherd 85

Yae see ah come fae a corner ae

Edinburgh cawed Leith. A place that wisnae known fur

it’s vibrant art scene or welcomin personality. Insteed,

it’s moment in the spotlight came fae the exploits ae it’s

skagboays and high levels ae social deprivation. Ma

name’s Steven Scott, by the wey. Ah’m thirty year auld

and ah’ve hud maire dreams than opportunities.


kicks in the baws fae life than ah care tae remember,


Ma minutes and hours oan this planet wur

programmed tae be spent in some soul destroyin

callcentre fur a pittance oor minimum wage.

When ma faither wis a young man. Back when

he wis aboot ages wae me now. He worked doon at the

world famous Henry Robb shipyaird.

The shipyaird closed in ’84, likes. Efter ma dad

and his mates marched fae the gates. Aw the wey

acroass tae the auld state cinema in Great Junction

Street. A revolt which ultimately failed as a final stand

against the establishment. 87

huddin up a sign which read “Dinnae bring back the


Whether yae went

tae graft oan the shipyairds or doon the pits it gave yae

a life long sense ae camaraderie. Thatcher took that

birth right awey fae future generations.

tae. But only if yae wur willin tae die fur Queen

and capitalism “Here’s a rifle, son. Go oot and shoot


watch ma dad slip awey wae lung cancer.

And then ah hud tae sit and watch ma mum go capma mum passed awey wae cardiac

arrest. 91

Ma weapon ae

choice wisnae a rifle or a chisel, it wis a library caird.

It suddenly dawned oan me that education is indeed

power. And there’s nuttin maire dangerous in this

country than a workin man wae a library caird who

isnae afraid tae use it.

“Mr Scott” it says. “We are delighted to inform

you, that you have an unconditional offer to study BSc

(Hons) Public Sociology at Queen Margaret University

in Musselburgh.”

The world really is ma

oyster. 93

Glory Hunter 95

Aldo wis never a supporter ae Leith Star and he wis

never yin fur keepin his thoats oan the matter tae

himsel. Then there wis me and Craig who huv follaed

thum religiously since we wur auld enough tae wipe

oor ain erses.


since the majority ae thum are local lads and they

wid spend their weekends boozin doon at The

Carousel, jist like everyboady else. But when yur

talent’s bein cawed intae question by a six­fit two,

coked up, steroid induced mountain. 96

Fur oor big trip

oor tae face the dangerous Bonnyrigg Rose in the

Scottish Cup. This game is huge fur us, likes. As the

winner gits Clyde at haime in the nixt roond. And no

only that, but the match will be televised live oan

BBC Alba.

“Loast did they” he asked. Aw gloatin and

confident that this wis jist another glorious failure fur

the club. “Useless Motherfuckers.”

“Naw” ah telt him. “We fuckin won!!”

wearin a Leith

Star strip. And he kept mutterin the same words, oor,

and oor again “Wur in this taegether, lads”.

Honestly, it wis fuckin ootrageous. 100

Three supporter’s buses left fae

the Carousel at aroond quarter tae two. Bonnyrigg is a

wee workin class toon oan the ootskirts ae Edinburgh.


the opium ae these posh cunts is the blood, sweat and

tears ae the workin class. And the opium ae the workin

class is anyhin that blanks oot the realisation ae kennin

wur a mere slave tae the capitalist machine.” 102

“Excuse me, pal?!” he shouts oor tae the barman,

who is busy servin customers.

“Ma Granny coulda hit that baw harder ya fat

usless cunt, git yur erse in gear!!”

“Well, it’s cos he’s goat four fuckin fingers, ya

thick cunt!!” 107

This cunt is actually makin sense

fur yince. It’s no like playin by the rules hus goat me

anywhere before. This win wid set the the club up fur a

gid few years tae come. And lit’s be honest. Huvin

morals isnae what it’s aw cracked up tae be. 108

“Fur fuck sake, Aldo.

Yae jist cawed him the Jimmy Saville ae Scottish fitbaw.

Yae even tried tae pin an unsolved murder oan him fae

five year ago. He’s no taken the bait, ah hink its oor

noo.” 109

Aldo’s masterplan tae fuck wae Bonnyrigg’s

keeper hus proved tae be nuttin shoart ae a

masterstroke. 111

“Ah’m standin here wae a supporter who hus

follaed his team through the gid times and the bad.

What’s yur name, sir?”

“Aldo” he answers aw gleefully.

“Well, Aldo. Why don’t you tell me how proud

you are ae these players? This is a great achievement

fur yur club.”

“Aye, that’s right, Jim” Aldo tells him. There’s nuttin like the feelin ae community

spirit. And kin ah tell ma missus suttin, who’s back at

haime watchin?”


“We did it, baby! And you owe me ma hole

when ah git back!”

Ordinary Criminals 115

“Tommy, ah’ve goat suttin fur yae the dae” it


Ah thoat tae masel as ah turned roond: “Please,

God, dinnae lit it be this cunt” ― but sure as shit ah

wis faced wae this gleeful Postman Pat.

“Aw, that’s great, Gary” ah sais.

“Ah hope it’s gid news, Tommy” he tells me. 117

Accordin tae this glorified fish wrapper ma

Joabseekers Allowance hus been stoaped because ah

only managed tae apply fur fourteen joabs this week

instead ae the thirty these cunts wanted. Thirty joabs a

week? dinnae make me fuckin laugh, that’s maire the

Tories huv created since they miraculously goat intae


Ah goat tae

ma appointment at the Joabcentre oan Commercial

Street fur half ten in the mornin. Ma advisor wisnae

meant tae be seein me til ten tae eleven

Yince yur in this place that invisible Britain yae

only hear whispers aboot or see oan a thirty second

BBC news bulletin becomes clear as water. Aye, we’re

aw ordinary criminals in this place that’s the yin hing

that bounds us aw taegether. 123

“Sally, have you got the

vouchers for the Edinburgh North East foodbank


Ah must huv been standin aboot here fur at

least half an hour until ma name is finally cawed, “Mr

Cooper” a voice says.

Ah’m no messin likes, this wanker

looks like he’s yin cauld awey fae blowin his brains oot

. This [full stop on top line.]

Class Treason 129

Aldo and Craigy, are baith sat oan the vomit­worthy,

cream leather couch. Craigy looks sober, likes. But its

clear yae cannae say the same hing aboot, Aldo.

He then looks up at us aw teary eyed “Lads,

they’re the best runners ah’ve ever hud.”

Ah pause. Understandin what he meant but

hopin tae fuck ah wis in fact mistaken.

“Please tell me you’ve no goat thum droappin

oaff gear fur yae, Aldo?”

He smirks, pleased as you like. “Of course. Ah

git cheap labour and they git tae finally serve a purpose

in society. Everboady’s a winner.”

Yae could cut the atmosphere in the room wae a

knife. Ma hert’s still beatin like a Cherokee drum due

tae the rush ae adrenaline. Craig tries tae engage me in

conversation “Where the fuck hus Aldo goat tae?”

“That”s fuckin right” he barks. “Yur a middle

class wannabe. The dregs ae society.”

“Look in the fuckin mirror” he explains. “Since

yae goat wae her you’ve become a middle­class

wanker. Fur fuck sake, yae dress like a banker noo”

“She’s goat gid fashion sense, that’s aw. Only

makes sense tae git her advice.”

“Sure” he says, wae a grin. “Then there’s this


“What’s wrong wae it, likes?”

“It looks like a fuckin showroom.

Aldo continues oan wae his tirade. “A couple’s

night?” he tuts. “If ever there wis three words that

didnae belong taegether in the same sentence. Ah bet

yae went tae some posh theatre or suttin. Tae watch

some tart greetin fur an hour cos she’s loast her shoe”.

ootburst ah never really gave any ae this

any thoat. But as much as it pains me tae admit it, eh?

he’s actually goat a point.

Aldo wis speakin

sense and that ah really huv become a middle­class

prodigy withoot even realisin it.

From Wuhan to Leith 139.

Business hus plummeted cos ae this virus.

Ah’ve loast a lotae fuckin money, that’s fur sure. None

ae ma runners will pick up or droap oaff fur me in case

they catch it. Deep doon ah jist wish ah wis still dain

ma community service cos nuttin wid deter they

retards fae dain business. Thanks largely tae the fact

that none ae thum are playin wae a full deck.

Been buzzin oot ae ma nut maist ae the day.

Oan coke and heavy bevyin. Yae could argue it’s a

normal day fur me but ah hink it’s a mindset hing wae

the boredom n that, ken? Started oan the gear earlier

and ah’ve jist been chillin oot. Listenin tae a few tunes,

ever since. It’s no the same as bein doon The Carousel

Lost And Found.

ah’m surprised wae what ah

find inside. Insteed ae a white brick ae gold ah’m

huddin this tiny puppy in ma airms. And it’s starin at

me wae its huge baby seal eyes. Jesus, he looks at me.

Before he lits oot a tired yawn and he seems content.

Which astonishes me, tae be honest ­ seeins how he’s

jist been chucked oot a motor.

He’s lovin the attention tae. A proper

showman so he is. Lyin sprawled oot oan his back as he

takes in her beautiful Hollywood smile.

“He’s so cute” she squeals.

“Aye, he’s awrite” ah tell her.

“What’s his name?”

ah mean his name,


Thank fuck ah’d watched Die Hard last night

Will yae look at this, eh? this wee hings a fanny

magnet. Ah mean, she’s practically goat her mooth

wrapped aroond ma cock as we speak.

He droaps doon oan the couch a depressed and


defeated dug. He stares up at me and gees me a soft

whimper. Ah try tae make him understand ah’m dain

this fur him:

“Listen, you’ll love it there and in nae time

you’ll be wae yur new family.

The drive up tae the ‘Paws Dog Sanctuary’ oan

the ootskirts ae the toon hus been hard fur aw


“Aye, yae kin, mate” ah tell him. “Ah’ve broat

ma dug Bruce here tae be re­haimed.”

He smiles at me “You must be Mr Ali?

“Oh, god no” he tells me. “He’ll be a new

member of doggy heaven.”

“Lower yur fuckin voice, you!” ah scream. “He’s

goat a gid grasp ae English!”

“Bruce, dae yae ken that guy, eh? Talk tae me,

son?” He replies in barks which grow increasingly

louder. It’s a clear “Oh, ah ken that bastard, awright”

if ever there wis yin.

“Did you throw this dug fae oot that motor a

couple ae weeks back, daft cunt?”

He smirks knowingly, as if in appreciation ae a

cherished memory. “Oh, that?” he says. “That mut’s jist

lucky ma petrol wis oan the rid. Or he wid huv been

gone fur a swim doon the docks.”

“Bruce, son” ah say “cover yur eyes, pal. This is

gonnae be fuckin messy.”

And believe me, eh? It wis.

Funny Money

Fur Dalhousie Castle is

almost certainly yin ae the plushest venues in the hale

ae Scotland’s central belt.

So, yae kin imagine ma surprise when ma

beautifully decorated invite droapped through the

letterboax. Especially when yae consider this particular

delivery wis sent fae someboady who lives oan sixty

quid a week dole money.

Ah instantly felt obliged tae share the excitin

news wae wee Brucie. Who wis busy enjoyin his

mornin munch.

“Brucie, son” ah said “Yur uncle Craigy is huvin

an enagement pairty”

The little man’s steyin wae Mrs Henderson fae

acroass the wey. Ah couldnae ask Christina tae look

efter him since we hud finished oan such unpleasant

terms. She hates ma guts. But ah’ll no bore yae wae the


distinctive lack ae talent

walkin up and doon the room. In fact, tae be honest

wae yae. Ah’ve no seen this many dugs assembled in

yin place since ah watched a hunner and yin

dalmatians in the 90’s. A reality which is as depressin

as it is demoralisin. Cos ah came along here wae much

enthusiasm and high hopes ae pullin. And that’s

exactly why ah pit oan ma best Ben Sherman shirt.

cloack the unlucky

bride standin there, as well. She’s the lassie wae the

animal print ootfit. Lookin every bit as if she’s a blond

beehive awey fae winnin a Lily Savage lookalike comp.

Ah’m startin tae question whether ah should git

up oaff ma erse and go in search ae the elusive, Dougie.

An unwanted physical approach

which startles me tae ma core.

“Awrite, Aldo” whispers a monstrous, ugly

voice, direct in ma ear.

And as ah turn tae reveal the soonds identity ah

see that it’s a vile lookin boay who’s wearin an equally

mignin burgundy cap. He’s also sportin a jaundice

coloured zippy which jist aboot pits him oan a par wae

Dougie fur the maist overstated fashion sense at this


“Dae ah fuckin ken you?” ah ask

“Nah” he says. “But…”

Ah stoap him midsentence “Well, ah dinnae

hink that needs tae change” ah say. Before ah wave him

awey like the bad smell he is.

Dougie responds wae a playful smile.

“So” he says, leanin forward. “Ah wis meanin

tae ask. What happened between you and Christina?

Ah thoat yae might go the distance?”

“That’s personal stuff, mate” ah tell him

“Widnae be right discussin it wae yae at a piss up. It

wis true love, me and her.”

Ma emotions git the better ae me and the pain ae

losin ma yin true love sets oaff the waterworks. Ah

bang ma fist oan the table “Ah cannae even say it”

“What did she dae, mate?” squeals Dougie.

“She wis a fuckin Tory” ah tell him, whist

greetin hard intae the tablecloth.

“A Tory?” he says “Ah dinnae fuckin believe

you sometimes, Aldo”

“Ah kept seein that Theressa May cunts puss,

when we shagged. Sometimes ah couldnae even git it


“Jesus” he says “That’s fucked up, Aldo”

“Well, it’s the fuckin truth” ah tell him.

Fur a brief moment we sit back in oor comfy

seats. Enjoyin the company as what we are. Two auld

generational mates. Nae naggin burds tae contaminate

the unspoken bond we share, either. Although he does

enjoy the company ae his missus, eh?

“Dougie, Aldo, what are you two dain here?”

it’s Sally, eh? a plump lassie wae a surprisin fizzy

personality. Her dress code resembles suttin yae wid

find doon Leith docks.

“That useless motherfucker” she announces tae

us. “He left us wae no a pot tae piss in. Ah hud the

choice ae pittin Peter in care or lookin efter him. Easiest

fuckin decision in ma life”

“So, what happened?” ah ask fakin fur the sake

ae fake interest. “Wur the social full?”

Dougie gazes acroass tae me “She means keepin

him wis the easy choice.”

“Really?” ah says. Starin at her aw shocked, n


“Of course, that’s what ah meant. Cheeky

bastard” she cracks.

“That’s, Leanne” She says “Marco’s sister. She’s

goat nae self­respect that lassie. Shags anyhing.”

“Eh, ah’m here tae see ma mate, Craig

Robertson” ah tell her “He wis broat in earlier.”

Even his fuckin eyes are jist lifeless slits. He’s clearly in

a bad wey.

“What the fuck happened!?” ah roar. 179

Dougie instantly springs up fae his seat. Lookin

absolutely shattered and pathetic “It wis the great


Ah pause fur a second “A great white did this?”

pointin tae Craigy’s unrecognisable puss. “Wis he at

Portabelly beach, or suttin?”.

Dougie explodes “Are you stoned, or what?!” he

screams “No an actual fuckin shark” he says, almost at

a murmur “It wis Mikey Hood”

“The loan shark?” ah ask.

“Fur fuck sake, Aldo. Aye” his teeth grindin

taegether as his temper escalates.

“How dae yae ken that?” ah say.

“Caroline filled me in oan how Craig came intae aw

that money fur the pairty”

“Right, and?” ah growl.

“He’s been passin funny money aboot. And the

daft cunt wis pumpin five grand worth ae notes

through Mikey’s clubs.

“Ah’m gonnae be seein that

bastard, Mikey. Real soon”

“Yae cannae” Dougie says, aw frantically.

“How the fuck no?” ah ask him.

“He said if you goat involved, or the polis. Then

this wid seem like a friendly warnin.”

“Listen, ah’ll square him up wae what Craigy’s

due. If that pits this shit tae bed. And Craigy will pull

through, eh? stronger than ever”

Ah kin feel the relief in his voice “You’re a gid

mate, Aldo” he tells me.

Ah noad in agreement. “Craigy kin dae some

chores fur me. Yince he’s back up oan his feet. What’s

the docaturs sayin?”

Ah’m riddled wae guilt. Hence ma offer tae pey the

five bags tae clear the debt. Still, better tae keep his SOS

call quiet fae Dougie.


ah’ve goat it oan gid authority that he’s in a boozer oot

Granton wey cawed ‘The Highlander’. No jist himself

though. He’s goat his muscle wae him tae. There

should be nae maire violence though. Oan accoont ae

no wantin tae make hings worse fur Craig ah’m gonnae

pey the cunt oaff and jist leave it at that. By the time ah

make ma wey back in the room. Suttin’s evidently

ratteld Dougie’s cage yince maire.


Highlander is a notorious boozer in Edinburgh and it’s

a name that rings oot far and wide. It doesnae take us

long tae arrive there. Largely oan accoont ae the traffic

no bein that bad. Ah git the driver tae park aroond the

corner fae the pub and as soon as ah jump oot the rains

starts hammerin doon. This pub kindae takes me back

tae Saughton, likes. Wae it’s run doon appearance and

steel bars acroass it’s windaes.

Ah slam it doon oan the bar “What’s this?”

Mikey asks puffed up.

“That’s five grand” ah tell him “That’s Craigy

square wae yae, right?”

“Okay” he says, quietly.

“So, we’re gid?” ah ask him.

Tae which he smiles and taps oan the envelope

“The debt’s been peyed, aye. We’re cool”

A chorus ae laughter erupts fae him and his

entourage. And they’re too much in love wae

thumselves tae even notice what ah dae nixt. Ah walk

up tae the front door and begin boltin the place up.

As ah walk up back taewards they’m Mikey’s

still grinnin awey tae himsel. And he jist cannae fuckin

wait tae bait me some maire “Look aroond yae” he

says. Gesturin tae his five goons. “You might be a crazy

fuck, Aldo. But you’re oot gunned here, ah’m afraid”

“Lads!” ah shout. Ma eyes dinnae flicker fae

their direction. The hale place seems tae stand up in

unison. Instantly sendin the bar staff cowerin fur cover.

“Dinnae mind they’m” ah tell him, noaddin

behind me. “They’re only here tae make sure you cunts


Takeover 185

That wis

until ah came acroass this auld photo ae me and

Craigy. A snap taken before we embarked oan oor first

day there. We looked like a pair ae scared fuckin

rabbits. Ah came acroass the hing while ah wis helpin

the missus tae clear oot the attic.

That wis until ma faither decided tae inject

himself intae the conversation.

“Son” he said, while lowerin his newspaper.

“Jist remember, eh? snitches git stiches.”

“Joe!” ma mum snapped. “Leave the laddie


“Ah’m jist sayin” he tells her “Naeboady likes a


“Well” ma mum quips. “That school is different

fae when you wur there.”

Then a welcomed distraction appeared

ootae naewhere. In the form ae a knock at the front

door. It wis ma saviour, Craigy.

infamous Ainslie Park. A

proper school ae hard knocks. The buildin auld and run

doon. A neglected concrete Victorian memory.

Miss Robertson wandered in. And she wis

accompanied by a young skinny Asian boay who

looked shy and extremely timid.

She then gestured tae the mysterious

south Asian boay.

“I have someone I would like you all to meet.

This is Aldo and his family recently moved to the area.

He’ll be joining the class today and I expect that you

will all make him feel welcome.”

“Listen up” he announced. “Every Friday ah

want a quid fae every yin ae you’s. And dinnae go

runnin tae yur mummy and daddies and start tellin

tales. Or tae that bitch in heat who jist left the room. Cos

ah will find yaise. And believe me. It willnae be poetic.”

Craig chips in “The hardest boay

at the school. Far as ah ken, mate. Is a laddie called

Mark Thompson. Him and his mates deal green, n aw.

But he’s a right horrible bastard.”

“Soonds like a kindred spirit. Ah’ll need tae

meet him tae set up some new hoose rules.”

“Dougie, son” he said. “C’moan oot, mate.

There’s money tae be made.”

“Aldo” ah said quietly. “How did yae git ma

address? Ah ken fur a fact ah never telt yae it.”

“School records never lie, mate” he said, wae a


“He’s ma new mate fae school, mum” ah telt her

“His name’s, Aldo.”

She wis walkin oan water wae his compliments.

He hit aw the markers, likes. Everyhing fae her hair

style. Tae how she could pass as ma sister. He even hud

ma dad eating ootae the palm ae his hand. Laughin at

ma faither’s terrible patter and he even insisted oan

dain the dishes. Jist his wey ae shamin me in front ae

ma folks. And the nixt words oot ae ma dads mooth left

me paralysed

“Ah wish ah hud a son, like you, Aldo” he said.

“Aye, but ah pit the bin oot last night dad” ah


“Aye, the wrong fuckin bin, though.

“Dinnae you go swallowin yur tongue, Markie. Ah’ve

been meanin tae huv a catch up wae yae. Listen, eh?

you work fur me now. A fag gits selt fur fifty pence in

the playgroond? ah want ma cut. Ah’m a reasonable

man. Caw it a hunner per cent. Your reign ae terror

ends theday. And mines hus jist begun. Spread the

fuckin word.”

Ah realised that

naeboady at the school wid even dare try and mess wae

us ever again wae Aldo by oor side. It wis the first day

ae a friendship that wid stand the test ae time. And that

day wis truly yin tae remember.

unwriterly advice

In the bestseller written by Elizabeth Strout called My Name is Lucy Barton, the protagonist idealises another writer called Sarah Payne. That’s a long sentence. I’ll break it down.

Elizabeth Strout is Lucy Barton is Sarah Payne. ‘All life amazes me,’ is the last line in the book. And in the Buddhist world we all are each other (until we reject the illusion of Suchness and reach the shore of Nirvana, which isn’t really a shore and isn’t really Nirvaha, but the Great Void, which isn’t nothingness, or much of suchness either).

Elizabeth Strout >Lucy Barton> Sarah Payne (all writers, fictional and real).

Here’s the advice from one of them, or all of them. Take it with a lump of suchness.

‘And I think sometimes of Sarah Payne…how exhausted she became, teaching. And I think how she spoke of the fact that we only have one story, and I think I don’t know what her story was or is.’  

Writers that teach aren’t writers that write. In a way they’re second class. Writers that can’t write, teach, sutra.  More than that, teaching leaches the goodness out of Sarah Payne’s (pain’s) soul, so she can’t write. Discuss?

In terms of economics that’s true. The economic cost of doing something is not doing something else. When we do one thing, we can’t do the other. Although, of course, our bookshelves groan with learned professors. Lutwidge Dodgson (Lewis Caroll), C.S Lewis, J.R.R Tolkien and  Umberto Eco, for example, that teach and write. That’s the exception to the rule argument.

Is it an exception or is it a rule?

Nobody has asked me to teach and nobody asks me to write. But usually when I read a novel in which the protagonist is a writer or librarian (Stephen King’s protagonists are often writers) then I groan.

This ties in with the one story I continually write and rewrite. And in these fictional worlds none of my protagonists are writers. For a good example of a writer that continually writes the same story, his characters having different haircuts – think Irvine Welsh after Trainspotting. And he’s not even Welsh. He’s Scottish like me and tends to write about characters that think writers are well up themselves and should come down and get fucking at it. And I’m not even a fan of Irvine Welsh, I prefer Stephen King. And I’m not a fan of him either. The problem of being a writer talking about writing is to most folk it’s fucking boring and shows a lack of imagination. I’m a connoisseur because all I do is write and read stuff. I’m an exception to the rule, which isn’t a rule.  

The historian and writer Robert A. Caro nailed it when he was talking about writing and farming and how you need to pick up the vocabulary and live it to appreciate it fully. There are two ways of learning, lived experience or reading about it. I tend towards the latter. Writers have their noses pressed against a keyboard. If you want to talk about  The Snow Leopard live it like Peter Matthiessen and your vocabulary will be rich as buffalo shit, or watch David Attenborough and leave extreme environments to other writers that are less desk-bound.

If we only have one story, I’ve not perfected it yet. Maybe I never will, not in this lifetime. The secret of good writing is the secret of bad writing. You need to keep repeating the same mistakes again and again until you move on to a higher plane and realise none of it matters. And you must carry this secret into your next story.

Here’s Lucy Barton pondering the nature of time.

I think of Jeremy telling me I had to be ruthless as a writer. And I think how I did not go visit my brother and sister and my parents because I was always working on a story and there was never enough time. (But I didn’t want to go either.) There was never enough time, and then later I knew if I stayed in my marriage I would not write another book, not the kind I wanted to, and there is that as well. But really, the ruthlessness, I think, comes in grabbing onto myself, in saying: This is me…

The ultimate truth in Buddhahood is understanding and appreciating the permanent nature of eternity. The starting point is self. Arthur Miller was willing to concede that Timebends and all things may fall away, but he was going to write about them anyway. His one true story, was many storied.  

‘What writer makes money?’ Lucy Barton asks.

Certainly not me. Or 99% of other writers. I guess it’s an occupation that’s not an occupation, that’s doomed to failure for the masses.

‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad/They may not mean to but they do.’ Philip Larkin writes This Be The Verse.

Lucy Barton writes about writing about her family. ‘I kept thinking how the five of us had had a really unhealthy family, but I saw them too how our roots were twisted so tenaciously around one another’s hearts. My husband said, “But you don’t even like them.”

Any writer knows, nice people are boring. Their great secret is they’ve got nothing to hide. Molla tells Lucy Barton what we already know. For every Jesus we need a Judas.  

‘You’ll write your one story many ways. Don’t ever worry about your story. You only have one.’

Molla hasn’t got a secret. Lucy Barton has, she’s a writer.

A writer’s job is the same as Buddah’s, to hold every moment and to let it go, simultaneously. Here is Lucy Barton watching her dad, inhabiting him.

I remember only watching my father’s face so high above me, and I saw his lips become reddish with that candied apple that he ate because he had to…

And I remember this: he was interested in what he was watching. He had an interest in it.

Pay attention. Here’s Sarah Payne the writer giving Lucy Barton some advice about writing what you want to write, but the real advice comes at the end after rallying against stupid people that fail to understand.

‘Never ever defend your work.’   

It seems counterintuitive, but even a fool you don’t like can point out you’ve got your shoes on the wrong feet. In my writing it happens to me all the time. Insight is not a closed gate, but a gate you must leave open. Pay attention to your faults. Then with good karma you may not repeat them indefinitely. It’s nothing personal.

At the end of all lifetimes is the question a disgruntled admirer asks Sarah Payne.

He said, “What is your job as a writer of fiction?”

And she said that her job as a writer of fiction was to report on the human condition, to tell us who we are and what we think and what we do.

Amen. Go forth and multiply words.  

Clydesider’s Cuppa with Irvine Welsh, Issue 1, Summer Edition.


I liked Charlie Sherry’s interview with Irvine Welsh, and I talked about it with him on my mobile. I’m not a great man for phones.  Boy can Charlie talk. Irvine Welsh probably never got a word in.  But one thing stuck with me the last few days and it’s not the Renton quote from Trainspotting, which I’ve some sympathy with, ‘It really is shite being Scottish.’ Nor is it Welsh’s upbeat message, ‘Scots now have a positive can-do attitude which bodes well for the future’.  That’s the equivalent of telling your granny, ‘you’re looking great’, when you know she’s going to peg it at any minute. What struck with me was Welsh’s aphorism ‘it’s not so much what they’ve done, but what they’ve destroyed’.

‘I don’t think you can be a real crofter unless you have the Gaelic’ says Donald MacSween a crofter from the Hebridean island of Ness, in Joanna Bigg’s,  All Day Long, A Portrait of Britain at Work.

Similarly, I don’t think you can be a Tory unless you’re a selfish cunt. Dress it up as Theresa May type  lamb in sheep’s clothing when they start talking about caring and compassionate Conservatism. Look at the honours list: George Osborne. I’m all for law and order, take mummy’s money away, daddy’s money away,  horse whip him and send his children to live in Ferguslie Park, in perpetuity, for the damage he’s done to the poor and sick of this nation.  I’ve a nephew that I found out was gay. Nobody asked my opinion. If they did I’d have said I don’t care what you do with your fiddly bits. But when I heard he’d voted Tory, well, that really did disappoint me.   It shows an indecent lack of imagination, a lack of empathy.

Britain is a good place to be rich. Eton educated, Lord Summerlayton, Hugh Crossley, a hereditary lord, who inherited a 5000-acre estate in Suffolk agrees. He tells you how hard he works, the estate wasn’t profitable and how difficult it is being part of Britain’s cultural industry. What he doesn’t mention is what subsidies he and his father and his father and his father before him received and continue to receive. But one great positive from Thatcherism on was the ability to tell us how it is and being able to talk about ‘welfare junkies’.

‘We don’t have savings’ (we do have debts), says Rachelle Monte, a care worker in Newcastle. ‘Anybody can walk into a job in home care’. In the 1980s local authorities contracted out care and the big three equity firms, Allied Health, Care Watch and Care UK brought in their own ideas of flexible working. Check out Sooz’s diaries. They detail exactly how it works from the management perspective.  Minimum wage is the maximum wage. Overtime is mandatory, but unpaid. Travelling time is unpaid. Keeping a car on the road is unpaid. Mobile phones are unpaid. But you do pay for your uniform. It’s a lifetime ago when my mum was something called a home-help, remember then? Three hours a day with a particular client and there was an out roar when that was cut to two.  Four percent of the population, almost four million people, rely on carers every day.

Tres Cosas campaigned for three things we have outsourced to firms like Balfour Beatty, who have moved sideway, vertical integration, from building houses to the profitable business of acting as a middle man and hiring out cleaners to institutions such as the University of London: ‘sick pay; pensions; paid holiday’.

Who wins? Rich folk.

Who loses? Poor folk.

Who pays for it? All of us.

Renton was partially right. It really is shite being poor. And Irvine Welsh is right, ‘it’s not so much what they’ve done, but what they’ve destroyed.’ Privatisation of schools, hospitals, libraries and health care is a sure way to keep us in our place and knowing our place in the world.

James Kelman (1998) How Late it Was, How Late

How Late it Was, How Late won the Booker Prize on its publication in 1994. It was a controversial verdict. Rabbi Julia Neauberger one of the judges is quoted as saying, ‘Frankly, it’s crap’ and threatened to resign from the panel if it won. Written in Glasgow dialect and telling the story of Sammy who did a bit of stealing, did a bit of time and has become blind after taking a hammering from the cops that arrest him, I don’t think it’s crap, but without knowing what else was up for the prize that year I wouldn’t have voted for it. I started reading it a few times, the language is familiar to me, as are many of the places, but I couldn’t really get into it. But I did finish it at the third attempt and I don’t want you to think it was a chore, because it wisnae, but neither was it a joy.

‘Yeah know the auld saying: life goes on. Sammy made it across the flats; it wasnay a scoosh case; he battled it out; he went for it and made it. So there you go and that’s that. Plus Helen hadnay come back. He knew it as soon as he stepped out of the lift. The fucking wind blowing in from the corridor as usual.’

Helen works as a barmaid in Quinn’s Bar and is Sammy’s partner. Sammy’s already been married and has a son Peter, who appears with his pal Keith to take some photos of the injuries Sammy suffered at the hands of the police or ‘sodjers’. That was Ally’s idea, he’s on a third of whatever compensation Sammy might win from the Sight Loss Department of Central Medical. Ally is an unofficial welfare right’s officer, the kind that many of us knew in the late eighties, a know-it-all that for a wee bit would help people fill in forms and get what they were entitled to and frequently werenae. He’s an expert in the system and humanity, bit of a pest and Sammy plays along with him even when he turns up at Helen’s flat at 5 am because he figures Sammy is one of those people that doesn’t sleep much, who lives on their nerves, much as Ally does when he starts washing Sammy’s dishes because it gives him something to do and helps him think. Sammy had to tell Ally to fuck off, but even that doesnae work. The threat of violence wouldnae work either, so Sammy plays canny and just lets Ally get on with it, even though he’s no intention of playing along. That’s the best way to get rid of him. Knowing people like Ally and knowing how the buroo worked as social satire it also just doesnae work, but I’d give it an A for effort, even though effort begins with an E.  Finding Helen with a H is an entirely different kettle of fish. She might just turn up. Then again she might not. When he goes to Quinn’s Bar to find out what might and what might not have happened, he’s flung out and is none the wiser. Being blind is most folk’s biggest fear. Sammy doesn’t let it get him down. He just soldiers on, regardless.

It takes immense courage to write in dialect and the number of rejection letters from publishers would be exponential to yer ordinary, proper English dialect. Kelman, Alasdair Gray, and more recently Irvine Welsh, to name a few, have taken on the establishment and won. Like Sammy they have shown immense courage rooted in who they are and who they arenae, for those that don’t like them, like Rabbi whatever the fuck, fuck them. The iconoclasts are better men than me, but I’m a better man for having read them.


Filth, Film4, 10.40pm (Jon S Baird 2013)

I didn’t watch this film all the way through. I got to the bit where Detective Sergeant, Bruce Robertson, (James McAvoy) of Lothian Police force looks in the mirror and sees the image of a pig.  Pig, filth, black comedy. Gettit? I turned the telly over and watched the end of the Liverpool game. That was exciting. The truth is I don’t know what truth is. But I don’t really need to see the end of the film to know what happens. Writers have a tendency to write the same thing over and over and over again. Some of them get rather good at it. They win prizes, they win awards, they become rich. Irvine Welsh is I guess a rich man (compared to me most men are rich, those that aren’t tend to shop at the foodbank). This film had four different blocks of producers flashing up on screen flinging money at the same old, same old shite.

Let’s go back to Trainspotting. ‘The sweat was lashing oafay Sick Boy; he was trembling…Ah tried to keep ma attention oan the Jean-Claude Van Damme video.’

Drug taking [tick]

Violence [tick]

Sex [tick]

Black comedy, what the fuck does that mean, yah stupid radge cunt? Just fuck off out of my face [visage] or I’ll stick the heid on yeh.

There was something gallus about Trainspotting. Irvine Welsh knows his music and he knows his drugs and he knows he’s slightly dyslexic and he knows he’ll not get published because nobody publishes shite in the common argot of arsehole from the lowest place on the planet, a junkies arse.

So Mark Renton/Rentboy has got his hit, but it’s not injectable form he’d hoped, but an opium suppsitory. Anyone that had seen the film knows what happens to Ewan MacGregor next. ‘Ah whip oaf my keks and sit on the wet porcelain shunky. An empty my guts, feeling as if everything; bowel, stomach, intestines, spleen, liver, kidneys, heart, lungs and fucking brains are aw falling through my arsehole intae the bowl.’

It’s not often that the film is better than the book. Ben Hur is an epic example of that. I’d guess Trainspotting the film is better because Irvine Welsh wasn’t the screenwriter. In Filth, there’s a little in-joke the Chief Inspector doesn’t do any police work because he’s too busy in his office writing screen plays. Gettit? Shite.

Trainspotting was a phenomena and cash cow.  Ewan McGregor got to fucking play with lightsabers in Star Wars and the force was with him and to a lesser extent Robbie Carlyle is Begbie and Kelly McDonald is Kelly McDonald. Peter Mullan was a bit part player in the film but no plastic bronze medal, Hollywood for him too. Closer to home Spud, Ewen Bremmer, got to play a cop in Line of Duty. Gail, Shirley Henderson, seems to be in every Irvine Welsh production since then. In Filth, she’s not so much an object of lust, but an object of dirty phone calls from Detective Sergeant Robinson that has been called into to deal with the dirty phone calls, and dear old Shirley Henderson, who plays the same slightly deranged character in each play/film/movie is called to revel in the lust and take the sting out of it by rolling in the dirty with the dirty cunt that’s phoning her and thereby unmanning the man. Gettit. Shite. I’ve not mentioned Sick Boy yet, Jonny Lee Miller. Sick Boy in Trainspotting ‘It seemed, for women, that fucking was just something you did wi Sick Boy, like talking of drinking tea wi other punters’. Sick Boy was played by Jonny Lee Miller. And as we all know his cast off, and former spouse was Angelina Jolie. What a brilliant piece of casting by Danny Boyle. But it was Trainspotting rather than the critically acclaimed Shallow Grave that made his reputation.

Now we’re getting a Trainspotting 2. Shite. Back to Filth. No, I’ll not bother. You watch it if you want. But if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.