When I first read Irvine Welsh in the nineties, he utterly electrified me. I cleaned out my savings on his novels and short stories: there was nothing better to spend cash on. A combination of smarts, biting prose and tar-black humour is a dangerous thing: distilled into print it’s utterly addictive.
I still haven’t entirely shaken off my Welsh habit. And I don’t want to.
So when I heard that Irvine himself was going to be speaking at the Wheeler Centre, I was always going to be there. With a pen, two books to get signed and a chilled bottle of gin and tonic cunningly disguised as Spring Valley Water, I made my merry way to Little Lonsdale Street and settled in for the show. Continue reading