Irvine Welsh's latest leaves you fiending for a bath

By Robby O'Connor

COURTESY W.W. NORTON & CO. 'Filth' lives up to its name.

Irvine Welsh's newest novel, Filth, is exactly that. It's a trashy book about trashy people, and you're a snob if that doesn't appeal to you at least a little bit.

Set in Scotland during the Christmas season, Filth tells the sordid tale of Bruce Robertson ("Robbo" to his friends), a bigot cop with eczema spreading across his nether regions and an intestinal parasite. He spends his time juggling a cocaine habit, a crumbling marriage, a slew of extramarital affairs, and a high-profile homicide case. All the while he keeps his eyes on the prize, the coveted promotion to Detective Sergeant.

Repulsive as Robbo is, the worst part is that we actually like him. He's despicable and entirely amoral. He's the id. He's self-indulgence incarnate. He does what our consciences won't let us even fathom doing, and we find ourselves envying him. I'm not just waxing psychological here. I swear, I actually felt disgusted with myself. I was disturbed by how much pleasure I took in Robbo's psychopathic shenanigans.

Fortunately, we can reconcile these feelings when we see Robbo's sick facade begin to crack, but this too is disturbing and bittersweet. It had seemed that by dispensing with his own humanity, Robbo had found the secret to eternal happiness, albeit a shallow and egocentric one. We might even have considered following in his footsteps if we hadn't seen his world come crashing down on him in the end. No one can escape himself, and to try is to fail.

Depressing and emotionally draining as it all sounds, Welsh makes the descent into hell a pleasant ride for the reader. Robbo narrates the majority of the novel and recounts every detail of his day-to-day antics with such hedonistic pleasure that we can't help sharing in his childish glee. For example, one of his most enjoyable and particularly fiendish pasttimes is ruining his friend Bladesey's life. His assaults range from near-innocent (crushing Bladesey's eyeglasses which he is all-but-blind without), to wicked (planting cocaine on Bladesey as they pass through customs), to outright criminal (prank-calling and sexually harassing Bladesey's wife, framing Bladesey for the whole thing, and then seducing the wife while Bladesey rots in jail). Robbo may be a sadist, but at least
he's the best.

Welsh hands some of the narrator's privileges over to the worm in Robbo's intestines, which provides us with an alternate take on his character. As the parasite grows, it becomes increasingly aware of its host's existence and haunted past, revealing the one thing that Robbo will never admit exists--weakness. It's an interesting twist that I doubt has ever been tried before, but it doesn't work entirely. We're supposed to accept not only that the worm can think, but also that because it's so deeply embedded inside Robbo, it can tap into his subconscious, accessing his long-suppressed memories and providing us with insight into his character.

Welsh, who first gained international fame with his freshman effort, Trainspotting, has made a career out of portraying drug addicts, derelicts, and sociopaths as humorous and touchingly human. His other works, whether under the guise of a novel (Marabou Stork Nightmares) or not, often read like short stories due to Welsh's affinity for loose plot structures and narration that jumps between characters. In many respects, Filth is Welsh's first attempt at writing a traditional novel--that is, one complete with a single protagonist and a linear plot.

Unfortunately, his inexperience shows. While the idea of a worm narrating from the bowels of the main character sounds interesting in theory, it oversimplifies Welsh's task as an author, creating a division of labor between the two narrators. Robbo tells us about the outside world and his superficial beliefs while the worm reveals his host's innermost fears in a tone so flat it might as well be stage direction. Rather than as a clever twist, it comes off as a tool to allow Welsh to escape the difficulties of three-dimensional character development.

While the book is not without its perfect moments and humorous touches, its language poses a difficult barrier to a first-time reader. While it's fun to read Scottish fiction written in a truly Scottish voice/tongue, words and phrases like wee bairn (which means "small child"), ken, and kent (which mean "know" and "knew") will throw anyone unfamiliar with Scottish slang for a loop. Someone who has never read Welsh, or any Scottish fiction, before would be better off starting with Trainspotting, which includes a glossary in the back to help the reader achieve fluency in the language of Thick-Scottish-Brogue spoken by all of Welsh's protagonists.

Or you could just rip out the glossary and read Filth. That's what Robbo would do.

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