by Irvine Welsh

If you're easily offended or have a weak stomach, forget it. This book does its level best to live up to its title in every way. However, if you can cope with the strong language, get to grips with the Scottish dialect, and ride the very violent prologue, you will meet a quite unforgettable and messed-up person, who may not be quite what he seems.


The job. It holds you. It's all around you; a constant, enclosing absorbing gel. And when you're in the job, you look out at life through that distorted lens. Sometimes, aye, you get your wee zones of relative freedom to retreat into, those light, delicate spaces where new things, different, better things can be perceived of as possibles. Then it stops. Suddenly you can see that those zones aren't there anymore. They were getting smaller, you knew that. You knew that some day you'd have to get round to doing something about it. The zones got smaller and smaller until they didn't exist, and all that's left behind is the residue. That's the games.

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