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Tom Leonard and James Kelman, transferred by Welsh with shocking impact to the usually staid and snobbish east coast. As it passed its narrative from voice to voice in an unforced democracy of idiolect it shattered expectations of what literature was and who its heroes or owners were. Welsh's theme was impotence, especially moral impotence. Trainspotting, elegiac yet electrically alive, set the Welshian double standard: it was a book that used the lies people tell to reveal an existential honesty; a book so up and pulsing that the strange festival of grief at its heart, the "big, BLACK HOLE like a clenched fist in the centre ay my fucking chest", was startling and deeply revelatory. Welsh's second novel was another exploration of numbness, the more self-consciously experimental Maribou Stork Nightmares (1995), the story of a man in a coma, mentally suspended between a fantasised jungle expedition and a gang-rape he took part in, http://tubetria.mobi the latter described in sickening detail and bringing the first of a raft of troubled critical reactions (of the type that likes to assume the writer approves of or colludes with the actions of his characters). Was this a foul celebration of this horrific sexual violence rather than a study of contemporary manhood. After this came the farcical masterpiece on double standards, Filth (1998), in which Welsh's most bigoted, filthy-mouthed, sexist, racist, and degraded creation, Detective Sergeant Bruce Robertson, in an ingenious device for providing a back story, shares the place of novelistic hero with the worm in his own gut, and is eaten alive by his own abused insides. Glue (2001) was stylistically much less excitable, a local epic about how the world changed between the pre-Thatcherite 1970s and the new century.
Though gentler than its predecessors, it was well tuned to the adolescent turn-on of power when it comes to both sex and violence: "Ah cannae stoap takin the blade oot tae look at it, " as one of its boys says, in quiet wonder. Glue is a book about boys; Welsh's world is typically a male-centric one, horrifying yet self-parodying, almost pantomimic at its most extreme moments. Filth's Bruce Robertson sits in the men's toilets looking at the graffito he has just written, accusing another member of the force, with whom he's in competition for promotion, of being gay. "I'm sitting there looking at it for a while. I start chuckling and my sides ache. Then a depressed feeling digs in, followed by a steady outrage. " Welsh's novels work by this internal balance of self-made farce and rage. The overwhelming feeling is rage, Robertson says. "We hate ourselves for being unable to be other than what we are. Unable to be better. It's a world of everyday schadenfreude, where robbing your friends is the norm and where "women are like tetrapacks: it isnae what's inside that's important, the crucial thing is tae get these flaps open"; where consumerism eats people, where abuse will breed abuse, sadistic things will happen to dogs, bees, rabbits and people and, most importantly, the tables will turn. They always turn: Welsh is incomparably moral as a writer, as chillingly and unexpectedly righteous as the Lou Reed song "Perfect Day", which enjoys its brief druggy haze while telling its listeners not to forget that we'll reap what we sow. With Welsh, similarly, what you live by, you'll inevitably die by. But the latest novel has a lightness new to Welsh and a ludicrous, joyfully spelled-out plot. Porno revisits the narrative of Trainspotting nearly 10 years after the book and, crucially, six years after the film; if the film of that novel cartoonised the book's characters, then Porno - which begins in scruffy fag-end London, passes through newly upmarket Leith and ends up at the exclusive Cannes (Adult) Film Festival - traces what it's like to watch yourself become two-dimensional for money. When it comes to who's going to screw whom, Porno isn't about sex or even pornography so much as about Welsh's redefinition of what is truly pornographic. "That's the thing with sex work, it always comes down to the most basic of formulas. If you really want to see how capitalism operates, never mind Adam Smith's pin factory, this is the place to study. Utterly cynical Sick Boy Simon Williamson comes back to help gentrify 21st-century Leith by taking over a pub, the Port Sunshine, and filming stag movies there after last orders. He decides to make his fortune making a porn film, Seven Rides for Seven Brothers. Ruptured penises unexpectedly feature. Meanwhile it's payback time, literally, for Renton, who ran off with the money at the end of Trainspotting; Spud, the innocent, has decided to write a book; and Begbie, the psychopathic monster of the original, is out of prison looking to kill whoever it was who sent him "poof's porn" through the post while he was inside. Other characters turn up from other books (most welcome is Dianne, the lovingly fantasised underage schoolgirl of Trainspotting, now an equally fantasised clever girl who loves good sex and is writing a thesis about sex-workers. The new addition to the usual suspects - the worm in the innards of Porno - is the voice of the game porn star and failed gymnast Nikki Fuller-Smith, pert, beautiful, English, film studies student by day and (inevitably) sex-worker by night. Nikki, of course, is a two-dimensional creation herself, an upmarket Welshian exercise in stereotyping, desperate for sexual satisfaction and fame as a means of control, happy to have her cake and throw it up, as Welsh puts it, to keep herself in the sexual running. The novel takes a while to get going and only really comes alive 100 pages in, when Begbie re-enters the drama; as with the Dodger and Fagin in Dickens's Oliver Twist, the bad bastard is the life and rotted soul of the novel. In fact, the force of Begbie blows the two-dimensional boys and girls away.

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