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"He's never apologised for it, he has just completely owned it throughout the whole process which I kind of really respect. Some of it's really tame and naive and sweet, and then other bits, you're like oh my god. "People have obviously said it's disgusting, but then we'd all agree with that, " adds Levine. What next for these blossoming comedy stars? Alongside Levine's radio show, she's completed a Channel 4 Shorts series, 'My Pop-Up Restaurant', with her partner in food Laura Jackson. But for now, and particularly since the feverish success of Sarah Koenig's thrilling Serial podcast, the format looks set to be the medium of choice for a while. http://tubetria.mobi/ "I'm obsessed with podcasts at the moment, " says Levine. "I love that feeling of not wanting to listen to them all, like if you've got a journey coming up you want to save them for. "I think what people like about it, is that it's quite intimate and feels like a dirty little secret. I think people like being tucked away with it on the tube and giggling to themselves or trying not to laugh, " says Cooper. "It's also creatively completely ours, " says Morton. "We can do whatever we want. We all work in telly and are used to making things for other people, but this is just for us and for our fans now. "Dad's got big plans for the Belinda Blinked series. I'm not sure how far along that road we can go along with him.
But we are going to do a series two. I just don't want to be reading my dad's porn every week of the year. Before then, they've pledged a special episode to be released on Christmas Day, in which the presenters will read out Rocky's answers to questions from his adoring, if bemused, followers. For now, I'm saving the final episode for my train journey home. Note to self: triple check earphones are plugged in BEFORE pressing play. My Dad Wrote a Porno can be accessed via the Acast ) platform. Begbie's back. Begbie's back. Saturday 24 August 2002 02. 02 BST First published on Saturday 24 August 2002 02. 02 BST. Porno by Irvine Welsh 484pp, Cape, ВЈ10. Irvine Welsh is back on form with his new novel. That's what most of the reviewers will be saying, because that's what they say about Welsh every time he brings out a new book, as if it's somehow surprising that the book is good, or that the man-monster who brought us the amorality of the Leith underclass, the seamy underside of the druggy Edinburgh rave generation and possibly the nastiest literary rape and dog-torturing scenes of the 20th century can actually write. But Welsh is not a monster or a conundrum; he's a literary stylist, pure and simple, and Porno is his latest examination of one of his favourite subjects, the addictions of our baser natures. The thing about Welsh is that he always delivers. It could be said that he has never quite delivered with the same rawness of energy as he did with his debut, Trainspotting, in 1993. It became the most shoplifted book of the decade and re-energised the contemporary potential of language, literary voice and novelistic shape with its interconnective communal form and with its starburst of unapologetic urban Scots. It had an authenticity of voice inherited from west-coast writers like Alasdair Gray, 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, 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.

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