Porno: The Sequel To Trainspotting

Porno: The Sequel To Trainspotting

Paperback | September 23, 2003

byIrvine Welsh

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"Brilliantly written, inventive, funny, appalling, frightening and every bit as good as Trainspotting." --Mail on Sunday
     Ten years on from Trainspotting, Simon 'Sick Boy' Williamson 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 dream of directing and producing a pornographic movie, Sick Boy must team up with old pal and fellow exile Mark Renton and a motley crew that includes the city's favourite ex-aerated-water-salesman, 'Juice' Terry Lawson.

     In the world of Porno, however, nothing is straightforward, as Sick Boy and Renton find out that they have unresolved issues to address, concerning the increasingly unhinged Frank Begbie, the troubled, drug-addled Spud, but, most of all, with each other.

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Porno: The Sequel To Trainspotting

Paperback | September 23, 2003
Out of stock online Available in select stores
$16.25 online $18.99

From the Publisher

"Brilliantly written, inventive, funny, appalling, frightening and every bit as good as Trainspotting." --Mail on Sunday      Ten years on from Trainspotting, Simon 'Sick Boy' Williamson 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...

From the Jacket

The explosive sequel to Trainspotting – ten years down the line.Still scheming, still scamming – it’s ten years later and the boys from Trainspotting are still trying to fight for the first-class seats as the locomotive careers at high speed towards the buffers. Simon "Sick Boy" Williamson is back in his native Edinburgh after a spell ...

Irvine Welsh’s first novel, Trainspotting was among the top ten contenders for the Booker Prize and was made into a successful film. His other books include Marabou Stork Nightmares, The Acid House, Ecstasy, Filth and, most recently, Glue. He lives in London.

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Format:PaperbackPublished:September 23, 2003Publisher:Random House UKLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0099422468

ISBN - 13:9780099422464

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Customer Reviews of Porno: The Sequel To Trainspotting

Reviews

Rated 3 out of 5 by from Eventually Pretty Good The Scottish brogue was tough at times and it was a slow start until about midway through the book before I could connect it to Trainspotting but then watch out. A strong finish. If you are a fan of Trainspotting, then it is worth a read. I had to carry the book in a bag out in public though.
Date published: 2008-02-23

Extra Content

Read from the 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 couldn't sit in here: prison would be better. I'd 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. I've gone three weeks without a cigarette, but I've 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 Williamson's 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 what's 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. - You're 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 we're cagily descending the threadbare stairs, the carpet so worn that it's as hazardous as the side of a glacier. Outside, sleet falls and there's 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 'Hackney's a better manor than Islington, any roads. Islington's 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 it'll do him any good, but simply to stop nonsense like that filtering into the culture unchallenged. - No, it's a step backwards, I say, blowing on my hands, my fingers as pink as uncooked pork sausages. - For a twenty-five-year-old crustie, Hackney's 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, 'Where's the nearest Tube?' - The overland's 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. - It's no fucking awright, I snap, - it's shite. This place'll be the last part of north London ever to get the Tube. Even fuckin Bermondsey's 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, that's well fucked. Croxy's narrow face twitches in a sort of smile and he looks at me through those big, hollowed-out eyes. - You're throwing a right farkin moody today, aintcha, he tells me. And it's 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, don't expect to see me back on this manor full-time. No siree. Bigger plans, matey. And yes, I'm visiting the toilet frequently, but it's invariably to ingest rather than excrete. Even as I'm shovelling it up my hooter, I realise the sad truth. Coke bores me, it bores us all. We're jaded cunts, in a scene we hate, a city we hate, pretending that we're 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 we're doing is feeding that paranoia and disenchantment, yet somehow we're too apathetic to stop. Cause, sadly, there's nothing else of interest to stop for. On that note, rumours abound that Breeny's got a shitload of ching and a fair bit seems to be flying around already. Suddenly it's tomorrow and we're in a flat somewhere hitting the pipe and Stevie's going on about how much it cost to purchase this load he's 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 I'm out into the street. I didn't 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 . . . I'm not your baby . . . - Sorry, doll, I brashly apologise. - I'm 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 it's somebody else, and I see myself through her eyes: a smelly, dirty, purple-tinned jakey. But I've 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 fuck's 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. I'm cursing my lack of knowledge with women. I've known a few, but my knob's 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 I'd actually been home, I'd 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 wasn't 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. They'd resisted at first, but, obviously, I'd 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 that's only because, I rationalise, that the comedown's making those ugly thoughts - that should be fleeting - stick around, clogging up the works, forcing you to engage with them. It's put me right off cocaine - not that I'll be able to afford any again for a while. Which is of no relevance at all when you're on it. I'm on autopilot, but becoming slowly aware that I'm heading downhill from the Angel towards King's 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 there's 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. There's 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. - Haven't seen you down here in ages. I wonder why. - Aye, I'm 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 don't 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 King's Cross station. Tanya whinges something about cigarettes and, aye, I'm trying to stop but no way, needs fuckin must n all and I'm checking my pocket for slummy. I buy some fags, lighting up down the Underground. This fat, puffy, officious white cunt in one of those new light-blue, gay-stormtrooper London Transport uniforms tells me to put the snout out. He points to a plaque on the wall which commemorates the scores of people who died in a fire caused by some doss cunt's throwaway tab. - Are you stupid? Don't you care about that? Who the hell does this clown think he's talking to? - No, I don't fucking well care, the cunts deserved it. You take that fucking risk when you travel, I snap at him. - I lost a good friend in that fire, you bastard! This irate tosser screams. - He'd be a wanker if he had a scumbag like you as a mate, I shout, but at the same time I extinguish the snout as we pile down the escalator onto the line. Tanya's laughing and this Val bird's hysterical, she's doing her fucking nut. We tube it up to Camden and Bernie's pad. - You girls shouldn't be hanging around King's Cross, I smile, knowing exactly why they are, - and certainly not with fuckin niggers, I tell them. - All they want tae dae is get a nice white bird and pimp her oot. The Val lassie smiles at that, but Tanya gets all wide. - How can you say that? We're going to Bernie's. He's one of your best mates and he's black. - Of course he is. I'm no talking about me, that's my brothers, my people. Practically all my mates here are black. I'm talking about you. They don't want tae pimp me oot. Mind you, fuckin Bernie would if he could get away wi it. The wee Val boy-lady giggles again in a strangely fetching way as Tanya pouts sourly. We get up to Bernie's flat, me forgetting for a second which block on this miserable estate it's in, as it's very unusual to get here in the daylight hours. We disturb a solitary jakey, crashed out in his own piss at the bend in the stair. - Morning, I shout in brisk cheer, and the jake makes a noise between a groan and a growl. - That's easy for you to say, I quip, and the lassies smile at that. Bernie's still up, just back from Stevie's himself. He's as wired as fuck, a gold and black mass of chains, teeth and soveys. I smell ammonia and sure enough he's got a pipe on the go in the kitchen and he gives me a hit. I take a long, hard suck, his large eyes full of manic encouragement as his lighter burns the rocks. As I hold and slowly exhale, I feel that dirty, smoky burn in my chest and a weakness in my legs, but I grip the edge of the worktop and enjoy the cool, frazzled high. I look at every crumb of bread, every drop of water in the aluminium sink in compulsive detail, which should sicken but doesn't, as the freeze bangs me, taking my psyche into a cold place in the room. Bernie's wasted no time, he's got another set rocked up in his dirty old spoon and he's laying a bed of ash on the foil and putting the rocks down as gently and tenderly as a parent might lower an infant into a cot. I hold the lighter in place and marvel at the controlled violence of his sucking. Bernie once told me he practised holding his breath underwater in the bath in order to increase his lung capacity. I look at the spoon, the paraphernalia, and think with a detached concern about how it all seems too reminiscent of my skag days. But fuck that; I'm older and wiser and skag's skag and crack's crack. We're talking shite, ranting into each other's faces which are just inches apart, as we hold on to the worktops, like a couple of Star Trek's top boys on the bridge when the enemy beams rock the ship. Bernie's on about women, hoors who have fucked him around, ruined the poor cunt's life, and I'm doing the same. Then we go on to the cunts (masculine) who've fucked us over, and how they'll get theirs. Bernie and I have a mutual dislike of a guy called Clayton who used to be a friend of sorts but who's now burning every fucker down. Clayton's always a good target for us if there's a lull in the conversation. If adversaries like that didn't exist, you'd need to invent them, to give life some drama, some structure, some meaning. - He grows sicker by the day, Bernie says, a strange pseudo-sincere concern in his voice, - sicker by the day, he repeats, tapping his head. - Aye . . . that Carmel, is he still riding her? I ask. Always wanted to give her one. - No, man, no, she fucked off to where she came from, Nottingham or some shit like thaa . . . he says in that drawl which lurches from Jamaica to north London, whistle-stopping at Brooklyn. Then he bares those choppers and says: - That's you, Scotsman, you see a new girl around on the street, you want to know what she's about, who her boyfriend is. Even when you have the nice wife and the child and the money. You can't help yourself. - It's just being public-spirited. I try to maintain an interest in the community, that's all, I smile, looking next door where the lassies are sitting on the couch. - The community . . . Bernie laughs and repeats, - it is good to maintain interest in the community . . . And he's back at the washing-up again. - Keep on rocking in the free world, I chortle, heading next door. As I head through, I note that Tanya's scratching at her arms through her top, obviously going into smack withdrawal, and as if by some ghostly transmission my own eye starts to shiver. I fancy a fuck to sweat out some of the toxins, but I don't like fucking junkies cause they don't move. Fuck knows what that boy-bird Val's on but I grab her arm and half drag her through to the toilet. - What ya doin? she asks, offering neither compliance nor resistance. - Gittin a blow job offay ye, I tell her, with a wink, and she looks at me with no fear, then just a little smile. I can tell that she wants to please me so much cause she's that kind of lassie. The damaged kind, who always just wants to please but never, ever will. Her role in life's theatre: a face to stop some fucked-up cunt's fist. So in we go and I whip it out and the wood comes up. She's onto her fuckin knees and I'm holding that greasy head to my crotch and she's sucking and it's like . . . nothing really. It's awright, but I hate the way her beady eyes rise up to take stock of me, to ascertain whether or not I'm enjoying this, which seems a totally fucking ridiculous concept now. Most of all though, I wish I'd brought my beer through here with me. I look down on that grey skull, the perishing eyes flicking up at me and most of all those big teeth, stuck in gums which have receded back due tae drug ingestion, malnutrition and non-existent dental care. I feel like Bruce Campbell in some out-take of The Evil Dead 3, Army of Darkness, where he's getting gammed by a Deadite. Bruce would just smash that brittle skull to powder, and I've got to get out before I'm tempted to do the same and before my softening dick is torn to shreds on that rank bed of rotting teeth. I hear the front door go and, to my excited horror, one of the voices is unmistakably Croxy's, he's back for another round. Possibly Breeny as well. I think about that beer and I can't stand the thought of some cunt just casually picking it up and drinking it. It's the idea that it would mean absolutely nothing to them as well, whereas to me, right now, it's everything. If it's who I think it is, my beer is fuckin well gone if I don't make a move. I push this Val away and fire through, stuffing it in and zipping up as I go. It's still there. The gear's left me already and I'm crack-hungry again. I slump down into the couch. It is Croxy, looking fucked, and Breeny, looking fresh, but wondering how he's missed out on a session, and they've actually brought some more beer up. Funny, but this doesn't produce any elation. It just makes that particular beer I cherished seem tepid, stagnant and undrinkable. But there are more! So more beers are drunk, more foolhardy deals are concocted and more rocks appear, Croxy knocking up a pipe out of an old placky lemonade bottle to compliment Bernie's activities, and pretty soon we're all fucked up again. This Val lassie's stumbled back in, looking like a refugee that's just been turfed out a fucking camp. Which, I suppose, is exactly what she is. She signals over to Tanya and she gets up and they head off without saying a word. I'm aware that an argument between Bernie and Breeny is getting increasingly heated. We're out of ammonia and have had to move on to bicarb to wash up, which requires greater skill and Breeny's giving Bernie a hard time about his wasting of gear. - You're messin up, ya fughin prick, he says, his mouth half full of semi-broken yellow and black teeth. Bernie says something back and I'm thinking about how I have to work later and should get some shut-eye. As I head down the hallway and open the door, I hear shouting and the unmistakable sound of glass breaking. I consider going back for about one second but decide that my presence would only complicate an already messy situation. I slip quietly out the front door and close it behind me, shutting out the screams and threats. Then I'm out and off down the road. When I get back to the Hackney shithouse, which I must now call home, I'm sweating, shaking and cursing my stupidity and weakness as the Great Eastern from Liverpool Street to Norwich rumbles the building again.

Editorial Reviews

“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