Filth is not your average police procedural. It is a torrent of scatology, degrading sex, loathing (self and other) and irresolvable corruption. It is decidedly not for the faint-hearted. It is also quite decidedly brilliant writing. Whether the exercise of Irvine Welsh's manifest gifts should be admired has divided critics, but I fall categorically on the side of the the Scot's admirers.
Stick with the project - at first you fear that you are in the middle of a dark, unlovely and tedious black comedy that intends to overstay its welcome. You would be wrong. The novel builds atrocity upon atrocity and ends cataclysmically. Not for everyone, but for those with the stomach, brilliant.
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