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With the Christmas season upon him, Detective Sergeant Bruce Robertson of Edinburgh's finest is gearing up socially—kicking things off with a week of sex and drugs in Amsterdam.
There are some sizable flies in the ointment, though: a missing wife and child, a nagging cocaine habit, some painful below-the-belt eczema, and a string of demanding extramarital affairs. The last thing Robertson needs is a messy, racially fraught murder, even if it means overtime—and the opportunity to clinch the promotion he craves. Then there's that nutritionally demanding (and psychologically acute) intestinal parasite in his gut. Yes, things are going badly for this utterly corrupt tribune of the law, but in an Irvine Welsh novel nothing is ever so bad that it can't get a whole lot worse. . . .In Bruce Robertson Welsh has created one of the most compellingly misanthropic characters in contemporary fiction, in a dark and disturbing and often scabrously funny novel about the abuse of everything and everybody.
"Welsh writes with a skill, wit and compassion that amounts to genius. He is the best thing that has happened to British writing in decades."—Sunday Times [London] "[O]ne of the most significant writers in Britain. He writes with style, imagination, wit, and force, and in a voice which those alienated by much current fiction clearly want to hear."—Times Literary Supplement "Welsh writes with such vile, relentless intensity that he makes Louis-Ferdinand Céline, the French master of defilement, look like Little Miss Muffet. "—Courtney Weaver, The New York Times Book Review "The corrupt Edinburgh cop-antihero of Irvine Welsh's best novel since Trainspotting is an addictive personality in another sense: so appallingly powerful is his character that it's hard to put the book down....[T]he rapid-fire rhythm and pungent dialect of the dialogue carry the reader relentlessly toward the literally filthy denouement. "—Village Voice Literary Supplement, "Our 25 Favorite Books of 1998" "Welsh excels at making his trash-spewing bluecoat peculiarly funny and vulnerable—and you will never think of the words 'Dame Judi Dench' in the same way ever again. [Grade:] A-. "—Charles Winecoff, Entertainment Weekly
her now too, screaming BRUCE because I care and I’ve won and beaten the bastards but what price victory STACYE PLEASE GOD BE SOMETHING ELSE SOMEONE ELSE . . . Table of Contents Start
seen you before, she says. She’s a fuckin hard wee cow and nae mistake. But that fringe hanging just above those club-mascara eyes and that scarlet red lipstick . . . ya cunt that ye fuckin well are . . . I realise that I’m staring at her and that Drummond might be clocking my leer, but no, that dyke’s looking just as penetratingly at her, probably fancies her as well. – Aye, I’m sure I’ve seen ye, she repeats. – Well as you were in here the other day being questioned by me, that’s highly
like dark alleys where the ambience of such surroundings might incite even a reasonable person to perpetrate an evil deed. The self-indulgent cunt’s on one of his trips the day alright. Thinks that we’re a bunch of fuckin bairns tae be spooked by his bedtime stories. – Now that twisting staircase which is the city’s umbilical cord connecting the Old Town with the New Town is one such place, he says, pausing dramatically. Umbilical fuckin cord! It’s a fuckin stair you fucking clown. S-T-A-I-R.
heightened as I ease her back on to the couch. I loosen my flannels, ignoring a fairly noxious waft and let them fall to my knees. I’m losing weight alright. I’ve got the two belts ready, which I retrieve from under the settee. One goes round her neck, the other round mine. I’m idly finger-fucking her and she’s getting juiced up. She’s a randy hoor awright: her clit’s soon as prominent as Ray Lennox’s cock. I spread her thighs with my hands and push my cock into her. No sense in wearing a condom
smutty lads in front of me, giving it big verbal. One loudmouthed prick is negotiating with this little angel who’d be ideal for me and I want to stove the cunt’s heid in and just dive into the room with her. I walk on, and one girl smiles and winks at me, spacedyke-style, but I go past her as I need to check out the wares. Possibly a bit too old and fat to be a real space lesbian. It’s getting too busy here. I might visit the Pijp tomorrow. A Dutch guy I met here last year put me on to it: a