The Acid House

Without a doubt one of the funniest works anyone will ever read, know it is not for the judgmental or the too terribly sane. The humor and ironies not to mention the writing style and the translation of lower-class Glasgow speech into written text will entertain for hours.The intricately linked stories, really anecdotes, off handed poetry and the genuine angst felt throughout the book, laced with deadpan humor and some of the most uproariously funny situations I can ever recall make for a fantastic escape from the everyday world.The characters are vivid and true to their own characters throughout the book. The local and behaviors exhibited by everyone depicted are delivered with such wry comedy and wit it is no wonder this book was so well received. Again, this is not humor for children or anyone with issues with profanity or adult situations, be forewarned. It is, however, unexpectedly amusing and gritty to an extreme.Enter the world of Eurotrash and gain some insight into the drug-singed minds of those depicted in The Acid House. You will never forget your journey there.

Ah didnae think ah'd like this eht fist...But these stories are pock-marked all over with irony, humour and the infallible bad language and vernacular put into use by Irvine Welsh, author of that classic (which I won't name here). This book should be read without that other book looming behind it with a knife to it's back.This is a good read, and that should be enough. But there's people out there who think it could be better, that Welshie disnae have a grasp of the short story, etc, etc... but they're all missing the point something chronic. How often do we get the lives of Eurotrash thrust into our face? Not many of us get to witness first hand a drug raid, or indeed, a baby with a dirty mind... but herein lies Welsh's appeal. See, it's funny. It's so sick that it's funny...situations we'll never get into ourselves. It'll make you squirm and grin in revulsion. Come on people, admit it to yourself. You only ever read Welsh for the kick. Don't kid yourself about what is deemed to be literature or Booker Prize material or politically correct... just enjoy it and stop your whining.

I loved The Acid House. I've read each of the stories multiple times. Welsh takes you on an amazing journey with each of these stories, as the impossible becomes possible. Anything can happen, no matter how warped it is. Your mind is messed with, especially if you are in a drug induced state. The stories actually talk to you. They come to life. You know exactly what Welsh is talking about, no matter how deep he goes. He goes pretty deep, which makes you feel very intelligent since you understand it. The plot twists are genius, and surprise the hell out of you. This is one hilarious book, full of cynicism, irony, wit, mockery of humanity, and dead on reality. An inspiration to my own writing.

Irvine Welsh is one of our great underdog writers--much of his material is repulsive, has little socially redeemable value,--and is often wholly compelling. He carries on the tradition of an Anthony Burgess when it comes to furiously exact dialect and vernacular. He writes of denizens of a wasted rave generation he both embraces and despises. 'The Acid House' is the perfect sampler of Welsh's twisted world view. The twist of 'Eurotrash' will surprise (or sicken) you; 'Snuff' is one nasty study of isolationism; 'Granny's Old Junk' carries on the tradition of Trainspotting. The collection only really derails during the more highly surrealistic stories such as the title piece, but it hardly detracts. Check this out!

In comparison with the majority of authors, comtemporary or otherwise, whose works I have read, the stories portrayed by Welsh in 'The Acid House' are done so with amazing talent. It was with delight, after despairing of ever again finding a bit of literature to satisfy my boredom or appeal to my senses, that I was suddenly captivated and totally enthralled by Welsh's flair, unpolished diction, perfectly familiar subject matter, clever humour, and wonderfully cynical insight. Here's an example of the language for your discretion: There was a shuddering bang and Whitworth seemed to vanish into the house. For an instant, it was like some kind of theatrical illusion, as if he was never there. In that split second, I thought I'd been the victim of an orchestrated wind-up between Gal and Tony Whitworth. I even started laughing. Then I looked into the lobby. Tony Whitworth's convulsing body lay there. What once was his face was now a broken, crushed mass of blood and grey matter. In any case, to read this book is to take the risk of being drawn into the inescapable trap that Welsh craftily sets for his readers and to be caught in it right to the end of the book, at which point you're left in a sort of withdrawal that can't be any worse mentally than breaking a junk habit.