The Acid House
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Irvine Welsh's scintillating, disturbing, and altogether outrageous collection of stories—the basis for the 1998 cult movie directed by Paul McGuigan.
He is called "the Scottish Celine of the 1990s" (Guardian) and "a mad, postmodern Roald Dahl" (Weekend Scotsman). Using a range of approaches from bitter realism to demented fantasy, Irvine Welsh is able to evoke the essential humanity, well hidden as it is, of his generally depraved, lazy, manipulative, and vicious characters. He specializes particularly in cosmic reversals—God turn a hapless footballer into a fly; an acid head and a newborn infant exchange consciousnesses with sardonically unexpected results—always displaying a corrosive wit and a telling accuracy of language and detail. Irvine Welsh is one hilariously dangerous writer who always creates a sensation.
Don good in the long run. Git him cleaned up. He’ll fucking thank us fir it! I knew, even as I spoke, that it was all pie in the sky. I’d vanish; leave Don to whatever fate befell him. It just made me feel better to go through this scenario. — Yeah, get him cleaned up, Ange agreed. Outside the station there was a group of demonstrators. It seemed like they had been on an all-night vigil. They were protesting about the treatment of young blacks by the local Old Bill, and particularly about Earl
last thing I need your advice on: do you think that Keithy-kins would look better on the other side of the room, next to the CD unit? Val gazed nervously at me. — Yes, I began, noting that the couch was presently positioned directly opposite Keith’s tank, — I think he definitely would. A SOFT TOUCH It wis good fir a while wi Katriona, but she did wrong by me. And that’s no jist something ye can forget; no jist like that. She came in the other day, intae the pub, while ah was oan the
down his throat. They decided to go back to her place for a shag. He didn’t have a place of his own; as his parents did everything for him, he saw little point in getting one. Sitting up in bed, she watched him undressing. Her face hardened in a contemptuous scowl as he removed his purple boxer-shorts. — Who dae ye expect tae satisfy wi that? she asked. — Masel, he said, getting into bed beside her. After the event, she bitterly disparaged his performance with a vitriol which would have torn
blackmailer wis the lowest ay the low, specially wi faimly n that. Eh telt ays this story aboot how this poof eh kent in the army wis blackmailed n the perr wee cunt kilt ehsel. So ah gits leathered n she gits aw this sympathy oafay thum. Fuckin ootay order man, ah’m tellin ye. Ah wis gled whin they took that John Deaf away. Ah hated the radge. Ah’ve nivir been the same since that doin eh gied ays, ah kin tell ye. ACROSS THE HALL Stephanie lay on the bed naked, enjoying the sense of
Violence achieves nothing. — It is satisfying when you see a polisman with his heid burst open though, you have to admit it, I ventured. — No it’s not. There’s nothing satisfying about it at all, she replied. — Naw, c’moan Avril. You’re no tryin tae tell me that you didnae feel good when you saw the pictures of those slimy dead-souls looking shit-scared in that pile of rubble after the Brighton bomb? Tebbit n that? I remember that well. When it came on the telly, my old man said, — Aboot time