Spike Magazine

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for making obscene phone calls. Conspicuous by their
absence are the wit and invention that characterised
Welsh’s earlier novels, like the foul-mouthed baby in
The Acid House or Sick Boy and Spud in Trainspotting.
Weighed down by the expectations of his audience,
Welsh has produced a book that fails on every single
level: a comedy that isn’t funny, a police procedural
that can’t be bothered with the details, a tale of redemption
without any trace of warmth or sympathy for any
of the characters and a closing plot twist that’s visible
from the first chapter.
There’s a tradition in reviewing where you make
sure you don’t give away the ending of a novel for
fear it will prevent people from reading it. Hopefully,
then, the news that Robertson committed the brutal
murder he’s supposed to be investigating throughout
BUY Irvine Welsh books online from and
the book and then kills himself at the end should prevent
people from wasting their hard-earned cash on
this pathetic attempt at a thriller. Maybe then Welsh
will stop recycling past novels and will attempt to
write something that’s actually worth reading. To
describe Welsh as the greatest writer in Scotland
is a huge insult to talented writers such as Jeff Torrington,
William McIlvanney, James Kelman, Iain
Banks and Janice Galloway who produce novels
which combine well-drawn characters with empathy
and social conscience.
Although the title works on several levels – Filth as
slang for policemen, or as a description of the world
in which Bruce Robertson lives – the publisher was
too restrained. A more fitting title for this shambolic,
scatalogical mess of a book would have been Shite. �
555
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