T2 Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh (English) Paperback Book

Description: T2 Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh Now a major film directed by Danny Boyle reuniting the cast of TrainspottingYears on from Trainspotting Sick Boy is back in Edinburgh after a long spell in London. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description Renton, Sick Boy, Begbie and Spud are back - now a major film directed by Danny Boyle reuniting the cast of TrainspottingNow a major film directed by Danny Boyle reuniting the cast of TrainspottingYears on from Trainspotting Sick Boy is back in Edinburgh after a long spell in London. Having failed spectacularly as a hustler, pimp, husband, father and businessman, Sick Boy taps into an opportunity which to him represents one last throw of the dice. However, to realise his ambitions within the Adult industries, Sick Boy must team up with old pal and fellow exile Mark Renton. Still scheming, still scamming, Sick Boy and Renton soon find out that they have unresolved issues to address concerning the unhinged Begbie, the troubled, drug-addled Spud, but, most of all, with each other.T2 Trainspotting was previously published as Porno. Notes A new edition of the sequel to Trainspotting, published to tie in with a new film adaptation, T2. The film is directed by Danny Boyle, features the same cast as the first Trainspotting movie, Ewan McGregor, Robert Carlyle, Ewan Bremner and Jonny Lee Miller, and is due to hit the cinemas in January. Author Biography Irvine Welsh was born and raised in Edinburgh. His first novel, Trainspotting, has sold over one million copies in the UK and was adapted into an era-defining film. He has written thirteen further novels, including the number one bestseller Dead Mens Trousers, four books of shorter fiction and numerous plays and screenplays. Crime and The Long Knives have been adapted into a television series starring Dougray Scott as Ray Lennox. Irvine Welsh currently lives between London, Edinburgh and Miami. Review Funny, appalling, frightening * Mail on Sunday *A brilliant satirical study of the ugly dynamic which draws together predators and prey * Sunday Telegraph *Not for the fainthearted... Highly entertaining * Sunday Times *Funny and eloquently obscene * Daily Telegraph *A worthy sequel... A touching love song to the possibilities and limits of friendship. Charming, funny and sly, Porno is a good poke at all kinds of pretence and moral tidiness * Evening Standard *Captures and celebrates the hangover of youth * Observer *It was brilliant * Observer * Promotional Renton, Sick Boy, Begbie and Spud are back - now a major film directed by Danny Boyle reuniting the cast of Trainspotting Review Text Funny, appalling, frightening Review Quote "The poet laureate of the chemical generation." -- The Face "Welsh writes with a skill, wit and compassion that amounts to genius. He is the best thing that has happened to British writing for decades." -- Sunday Times "A pure writer, producing staggering feats of storytelling… the skill of a master." -- Independent Promotional "Headline" Renton, Sick Boy, Begbie and Spud are back - now a major film directed by Danny Boyle reuniting the cast of Trainspotting Excerpt from Book 1 Stag 1 Scam # 18,732 Croxy, sweating from exertion rather than from drug abuse for once in his life, struggles up the stairs with the last box of records as I collapse on the bed, gaping through a numb depression at the cream woodchip walls. This is my new home. One poky room, fourteen foot by twelve, with an attached hallway, kitchen and bath-room. The room contains a built-in wardrobe with no doors, my bed, and just about space for two chairs and a table. I couldnt sit in here: prison would be better. Id fucking well go back up to Edinburgh and swap Frank Begbie his cell for this frozen hovel. In this confined space the stench of old fags from Croxy is suffocating. Ive gone three weeks without a cigarette, but Ive passive-smoked about thirty a day just from being in his proximity. - Thirsty work, eh, Simon? You coming down the Pepys for one? he asks, his enthusiasm seeming like a gloat, a calculated sneer at one Simon David Williamsons reduced circumstances. On one level it would be sheer fucking folly to go down Mare Street, to the Pepys, so that they can all snicker, Back in Hackney, Simon? but, aye, company is whats wanted. Ears must be bent. Steam has to be let off. Also, Croxy needs an airing. Trying to give up fags in his company is like trying to come off gear in a squat full of junkies. - Youre lucky to get this place, Croxy tells me, as he helps me unload the boxes. Lucky my fuckin arse. I lie down on the bed and the whole joint shakes as the express train to Liverpool Street hurtles through Hackney Downs station, which is about one foot outside the kitchen window. Staying put in my state of mind is even less of an option than going out, so were cagily descending the threadbare stairs, the carpet so worn that its as hazardous as the side of a glacier. Outside, sleet falls and theres a dull aura of festive hangover everywhere, as we make our way towards Mare Street and the town hall. Croxy, with absolutely no sense of irony, is telling me that Hackneys a better manor than Islington, any roads. Islingtons been facked for years. You can be a crustie for too long. He should be designing websites in Clerkenwell or Soho, rather than organising squats and parties in Hackney. I put the cunt wise to the ways of the world, not because itll do him any good, but simply to stop nonsense like that filtering into the culture unchallenged. - No, its a step backwards, I say, blowing on my hands, my fingers as pink as uncooked pork sausages. - For a twenty-five-year-old crustie, Hackneys fine. For an upwardly mobile thirty-six-year-old entrepreneur, I point at myself, it has to be Izzy. How can you give a class bit of fanny in a Soho bar an E8 address? What do you say when she asks, Wheres the nearest Tube? - The overlands orlroight, he says, pointing up to the railway bridge beneath the turgid sky. A 38 bus chugs past, spewing its toxic carbon. These fucking London Transport cunts, they whinge on in their expensive pamphlets about the damage the car causes to the environment as they blooter in your respiratory system at will. - Its no fucking awright, I snap, - its shite. This placell be the last part of north London ever to get the Tube. Even fuckin Bermondseys got it now, for fuck sake. They can build it out tae that stupid fuckin circus tent, which nae cunt wants tae go tae, and they cannae do it here, thats well fucked. Croxys narrow face twitches in a sort of smile and he looks at me through those big, hollowed-out eyes. - Youre throwing a right farkin moody today, aintcha, he tells me. And its true. So I do what I always do, drown my sorrows in drink, tell them all in the pub - Bernie, Mona, Billy, Candy, Stevie and Dee - that Hackney is just a temporary switch, dont expect to see me back on this manor full-time. No siree. Bigger plans, matey. And yes, Im visiting the toilet frequently, but its invariably to ingest rather than excrete. Even as Im shovelling it up my hooter, I realise the sad truth. Coke bores me, it bores us all. Were jaded cunts, in a scene we hate, a city we hate, pretending that were at the centre of the universe, trashing ourselves with crap drugs to stave off the feeling that real life is happening somewhere else, aware that all were doing is feeding that paranoia and disenchantment, yet somehow were too apathetic to stop. Cause, sadly, theres nothing else of interest to stop for. On that note, rumours abound that Breenys got a shitload of ching and a fair bit seems to be flying around already. Suddenly its tomorrow and were in a flat somewhere hitting the pipe and Stevies going on about how much it cost to purchase this load hes washing up and grudging crumpled notes come out as the stink of ammonia fills the air. Whenever that horrible pipe hits and blisters my lips, I feel sick and defeated until the toke sends me into another corner of the room: cold, iced, content, full of myself, talking shite, hatching plans to rule the world. Then Im out into the street. I didnt know that I was back in Islington, wandering around, until I saw the girl struggling with the map at the Green, trying to open it through her mittens, and reacted with a sleazy Lost, baby? But the weeping tones of my voice, pregnant with emotion, expectation, and even loss, staggered me. I reeled back as much from the shock of this as from the hit of the purple tin I was holding. What the fuck was this? Who put this in his hand? How the fuck did I get here? Where are they all? There was a few moans and departures and I walked out into the cold rain and now . . . The girl went as stiff as the stick of fleshy Blackpool rock in my troosers and snapped: - Fuck off . . . Im not your baby . . . - Sorry, doll, I brashly apologise. - Im not a doll either, she informs me. - That depends on your standpoint, sweetheart. Try looking at it from my angle, I hear myself saying, like its somebody else, and I see myself through her eyes: a smelly, dirty, purple-tinned jakey. But Ive a job to do, birds to see, even a bit of money in the bank, better clothes than this stained and smelly fleece, this old woolly hat and gloves, so what the fucks going on here, Simon? - Piss off, creep! she says, turning away. - I suppose we just got off oan the wrong foot. Never mind, the only way is up, eh? - Fuck off, she shouts back over her shoulder. Chicks, they can be a bit negative. Im cursing my lack of knowledge with women. Ive known a few, but my knobs always got in the way, come between me, them and something deeper. I start to think back, attempting to recolonise my warped and overheated mind, stretching it out and breaking it down into units of perspective. It came to me that Id actually been home, Id got back to the new pad depressed that morning, having blown the last of the coke and started sweating and jerking off to a newspaper picture of Hillary Clinton in a power suit running for Senator of New York. I was giving her the old line about never mind those Jews, she was still a beautiful-looking woman and Monica wasnt in her league. Why, Bill needs his head looked at. Then we made love. After, as Hillary slept contentedly, I went next door to where Monica was waiting. Leith met Beverly Hills in a tasteful fuck of post-alienation. Then I got Hillary and Monica to get it on together while I watched. Theyd resisted at first, but, obviously, Id talked them round. Sitting back on that threadbare chair Croxy gave me, I relaxed to enjoy the show with a Havana cigar, well, a slim panatella. A police car wails down Upper Street in a hunt for a slow civilian to maim as I shudder back into reality. The bland but sordid nature of the fantasy causes me a bit of distress, but thats only because, I rationalise, that the comedowns making those ugly thoughts - that should be fleeting - stick around, clogging up the works, forcing you to engage with them. Its put me right off cocaine - not that Ill be able to afford any again for a while. Which is of no relevance at all when youre on it. Im on autopilot, but becoming slowly aware that Im heading downhill from the Angel towards Kings Cross now, inherently a sign of desperation if ever there was one. I hit the bookies in Pentonville Road to see if I can see any faces, but theres nobody I recognise. The scum turnover is high these days with vigilant polis everywhere around the Cross. They zoom about like powerboats through a swamp of sewage, only dispersing and displacing but never treating or eradicating the toxic waste. Then I see Tanya come in, looking skagged. Her shrunken face is ash white but her eyes burn in recognition. - Darlin . . . she puts her arms round me. Theres a skinny wee guy in tow with her, who I realise is actually a bird. - This is Val, she says, in the archetypal nasal whine of the London skag-bag. - Havent seen you down here in ages. I wonder why. - Aye, Im back in Hackney. Temporary, likes. Been hittin the pipe a bit this weekend, I explain, as a squad of crackpot niggers jerk in: tense, rangy and hostile. I wonder if any cunt bets in this place. I dont like the vibe so we exit, that weird, anaemic-looking Val cow and one of the black cunts sniping something at each other, and head to Kings Cross station. Tanya whinges something about cigarettes and, aye, Im trying to stop but no way, needs fuckin must n all and Im checking my pocket for slummy. I buy some fags, lighting up down the Underground. This fat, puffy, officious white cunt in Details ISBN1784704733 Author Irvine Welsh Pages 496 Publisher Vintage Publishing Year 2017 ISBN-10 1784704733 ISBN-13 9781784704735 Format Paperback Publication Date 2017-01-12 Media Book Imprint Vintage Place of Publication London Country of Publication United Kingdom Series Trainspotting DEWEY 823.92 Replaces 9780099422464 Edition Film Tie-In Language English UK Release Date 2017-01-12 AU Release Date 2017-01-12 NZ Release Date 2017-01-12 Edition Description Media tie-in Alternative 9781407019901 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. 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