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Although some might consider me to be a goody goody, I definitely have a wild side that can be a lot of fun. If you want to try it, great.

P rimitive people do not pounce upon their visitors. They let them into the encampment, then leave them alone to acclimatise before attempting any form of verbal intercourse. But I have been civilised in the petit-bourgeois mould. Somebody comes in and I twitter myself stupid all over my own territory. Look at my garden!

The cat's name's Brian! All code, I dare say, for, "I know you think I'm a stupid cow. A person of primitive instincts. I only meant look at my garden through the window.

But primitive people know how to look after themselves. He takes himself out of the babble, into the garden, and walks slowly and silently through every inch of it, returning to set about acclimatising me to his presence in my space. It is, he says, a nice garden. And it was interesting to walk down my street. Because he used to live here. Four, five doors up.

When it was a squat. A long time ago. I remember those lads, their bullet heads and quiet eyes, their regional accents, their pragmatic courtesy, how equably they accepted my gash china and petrol-coupon cutlery, their junkie passivity, the incurious kindness with which one of them helped me break into my house when I'd locked myself out.

I don't remember Irvine Welsh, my former neighbour. Nor does he remember me. We are not exactly strangers, though. It had not been easy for me to read his books. Initially it felt like being led down a dark alley and assaulted by demented aliens with no faces, which problem turned out to be more one of aural failure on my part.

In the ordinary way I must tune in laboriously to heavy Celtic accents, and when they're written down the effort to comprehend is doubled because I have to translate the spelling into voices that I can hear in my head. Get past that one and you find there are more voices, different voices, as many voices as there are characters, layer upon layer, by-passing, interlocking, each as ruthlessly individual as the next.

As though life wasn't hard enough. I say something along these lines to Welsh; code for look at me, I've done my homework. The last thing I expect is empathy. He says he has a similar problem, which he solves by not reading what he's written.

Not for pleasure, anyway. Of course, he does have to read his proofs, when he has to filter the spellings back through his mind for the sounds that live there in the first place; the language of his childhood, much of which doesn't directly relate to the Scottish language "as such".

It's more lowlands Scots with Gypsy stuff thrown in. This is because he grew up in a north-west Edinburgh housing estate, and in Edinburgh they always built such estates next to Gypsy encampments. He doesn't know why. Because it's cheap land nobody wants? Because it's a way of keeping everyone they don't want in the city out of the city? Anyway, all these families who'd lived in the old, condemned tenements where he was born were moved into prefabs and from prefabs into these new estates of what they called "maisonettes".

There was nothing wrong with them. The walls were a bit thin and it was a bit out of the way, but at the time everyone thought they were sort of futuristic. There was a car park, too, a concrete square, but since nobody owned a motor car, it was where the kids congregated.

Where fledgling Scots and Gypsies learned to express themselves. Now that you can buy an Irvine Welsh novel in an airport bookshop in the section marked "Scottish literature", alongside Walter Scott and Robert Burns, earnest academicians have tried to intellectualise his language. He is sanguine about this, in a bored sort of way. He doesn't require to be legitimised by toffs and, besides, he already knew about Basil Bernstein, the Marxist linguist and sociologist who died a couple of years ago and put his two penn'orth in long before Welsh picked up a pen.

Bernstein reckoned working-class kids have two distinct vocabularies, the restricted and the elaborated. The restricted is the one they're taught, the one they're supposed to have; the elaborated is the one they make up, the one they evolve in the course of their own social lives. And that is all it is; if you want to be posh about it, it's his street-life language. Now that his books are in the process of being translated into at last count 33 languages, things can get complicated.

The poor sods come to him asking for explanations. It got fairly knackering, recently, when he'd gone on a trip to America with a couple of mates from the estate, being shadowed by a reporter from the New Yorker. He'd had to use one language for his mates, another for the New Yorker guy, and it all got pretty confusing, what with him being up all night and being highly intoxicated into the bargain.

Then there is the vexed question of the filthy language. This is all quite mystifying to Welsh. One critic, apparently, opined that he overused swearwords, thus destroying the effect of a more sparing usage. If he has to think about it - and he does, briefly - Welsh counts himself as a man who is against swearwords.

You've got to accept, he says with the air of a man who is convinced but quite happy for you to please yourself, that the meaning of words changes through use and abuse, and becomes something else.

For instance, so far as he is concerned, fuck and cunt are not swearwords. Should he say,"What a fucking lovely day", he is merely emphasising the loveliness of the weather. Similarly, if he says, "I got completely cunted in the pub last night", it means he got plastered rather emphatically.

The point is, where he comes from it would be offensive to use the term to mean female genitalia. Apart from that, it's a good, blunt word, a cosh of a word. Unlike prick, which is so insubstantial, it flies away in the air. But none of these words is used to shock. They're just emphatics, nothing to get alarmed about. Just another way of saying "very". Not that he'd stand at, say, a theatre bar effing and blinding at the top of his voice, because that wouldn't be appropriate.

Nor has he employed any beefy synonyms for "very" in our conversation so far. He understands that middle-class people find it difficult to deal with working-class anger. They have no way of understanding how ordinary it is, how banal, to be able to see another world out there that is impossible for them to access.

The working classes see they are denied the educational and social tools to get out of their poverty trap. There's not even any point setting themselves goals because they already know they are going to be frustrated. And it has been Welsh's lot, over the past decade, to chronicle the coping mechanisms of the culture that spawned him, and by so doing incur the fear and loathing of those who would famously prefer to "just say no". As though drugs were merely illegal banes indulged in by the wicked and foolish, rather than cheap prescriptions for altering the parameters of repressed consciousness and escaping into some kind of recreative joy.

What is so disturbing about Welsh's accounts of drug culture, it seems, is that from time to time his protagonists do realise themselves through illegal banes, do manage to excavate the buried treasure of their own spirit from beneath the rubble of conformity that has flattened their integrity, do manage to fly. Does this glorify the drug culture? Hardly, since it is set against the downside construct of the scene in Trainspotting where our hero dives into a sewer for a nub end of skunk or some fine thing.

Welsh is nothing if not balanced. For instance, I have a couple of bottles of a rather pleasant Sancerre in the fridge. But Mr Welsh does not want a drink. He's not the sort of man who has "a drink". He's the sort of man who decides to go to the pub for lots of drinks, then on to a club for more drinks, then get some drugs and go back to his place and go on all night and the next day and the next night, until he's either off his face or recovering from being off his face for a fortnight.

He can't go out for a few drinks and get up next morning with a bit of a hangover and get on with his work. He's an all or nothing man. An addictive personality, if you like. Only now, he's addicted to writing. Once something kicks in, he has to carry on to the bitter end. All his life, he says, he's been good at wasting time; now he writes, and discovers that nothing is wasted.

Every good thing he's ever done, every stupid thing, every fucked-up thing can be reproduced in some way.

He can stare into space and call it research. He thinks of all the crap jobs he's had, laying paving slabs, shuffling papers in a council office, and wanting, trying, to do something creative. Mucking around in rock'n'roll bands, hoping to find some way of making his hobbies pay. That was the quest, if you like. He's not letting go of it now. At first, when the hobby started to pay, he came off the drugs, came off everything. He got himself fit as a butcher's dog, ran the London marathon, went to the gym, went to the park and did that oriental posturing thing to balance his karma.

Then he sort of came off coming off and, well, he did the marathon again this year and finished 40 minutes slower. Which goes to show Giving up is hard. Every time he finishes a book, he makes a song and dance about being fed up with it, making all these protestations about never writing another book.

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He was charged with 30 felony counts of lewd acts with a child under 14, one felony count of using a minor for sex acts, one felony count of distributing pornography to a minor, one felony count of possession or control of child pornography, with a sentencing enhancement for substantial sexual conduct with a child under 14 years old and committing lewd acts upon multiple victims.

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These fresh spots are worth checking out. And that is all it is; if you want to be posh about it, it's his street-life language. Now that his books are in the process of being translated into at last count 33 languages, things can get complicated. The poor sods come to him asking for explanations.

It got fairly knackering, recently, when he'd gone on a trip to America with a couple of mates from the estate, being shadowed by a reporter from the New Yorker. He'd had to use one language for his mates, another for the New Yorker guy, and it all got pretty confusing, what with him being up all night and being highly intoxicated into the bargain.

Then there is the vexed question of the filthy language. This is all quite mystifying to Welsh. One critic, apparently, opined that he overused swearwords, thus destroying the effect of a more sparing usage.

If he has to think about it - and he does, briefly - Welsh counts himself as a man who is against swearwords. You've got to accept, he says with the air of a man who is convinced but quite happy for you to please yourself, that the meaning of words changes through use and abuse, and becomes something else. For instance, so far as he is concerned, fuck and cunt are not swearwords.

Should he say,"What a fucking lovely day", he is merely emphasising the loveliness of the weather. Similarly, if he says, "I got completely cunted in the pub last night", it means he got plastered rather emphatically. The point is, where he comes from it would be offensive to use the term to mean female genitalia.

Apart from that, it's a good, blunt word, a cosh of a word. Unlike prick, which is so insubstantial, it flies away in the air. But none of these words is used to shock. They're just emphatics, nothing to get alarmed about. Just another way of saying "very". Not that he'd stand at, say, a theatre bar effing and blinding at the top of his voice, because that wouldn't be appropriate. Nor has he employed any beefy synonyms for "very" in our conversation so far.

He understands that middle-class people find it difficult to deal with working-class anger. They have no way of understanding how ordinary it is, how banal, to be able to see another world out there that is impossible for them to access. The working classes see they are denied the educational and social tools to get out of their poverty trap.

There's not even any point setting themselves goals because they already know they are going to be frustrated. And it has been Welsh's lot, over the past decade, to chronicle the coping mechanisms of the culture that spawned him, and by so doing incur the fear and loathing of those who would famously prefer to "just say no".

As though drugs were merely illegal banes indulged in by the wicked and foolish, rather than cheap prescriptions for altering the parameters of repressed consciousness and escaping into some kind of recreative joy. What is so disturbing about Welsh's accounts of drug culture, it seems, is that from time to time his protagonists do realise themselves through illegal banes, do manage to excavate the buried treasure of their own spirit from beneath the rubble of conformity that has flattened their integrity, do manage to fly.

Does this glorify the drug culture? Hardly, since it is set against the downside construct of the scene in Trainspotting where our hero dives into a sewer for a nub end of skunk or some fine thing. Welsh is nothing if not balanced. For instance, I have a couple of bottles of a rather pleasant Sancerre in the fridge. But Mr Welsh does not want a drink. He's not the sort of man who has "a drink".

He's the sort of man who decides to go to the pub for lots of drinks, then on to a club for more drinks, then get some drugs and go back to his place and go on all night and the next day and the next night, until he's either off his face or recovering from being off his face for a fortnight. He can't go out for a few drinks and get up next morning with a bit of a hangover and get on with his work. He's an all or nothing man.

An addictive personality, if you like. Only now, he's addicted to writing. Once something kicks in, he has to carry on to the bitter end. All his life, he says, he's been good at wasting time; now he writes, and discovers that nothing is wasted. Every good thing he's ever done, every stupid thing, every fucked-up thing can be reproduced in some way. He can stare into space and call it research. He thinks of all the crap jobs he's had, laying paving slabs, shuffling papers in a council office, and wanting, trying, to do something creative.

Mucking around in rock'n'roll bands, hoping to find some way of making his hobbies pay. That was the quest, if you like. He's not letting go of it now. At first, when the hobby started to pay, he came off the drugs, came off everything. He got himself fit as a butcher's dog, ran the London marathon, went to the gym, went to the park and did that oriental posturing thing to balance his karma. Then he sort of came off coming off and, well, he did the marathon again this year and finished 40 minutes slower.

Which goes to show Giving up is hard. Every time he finishes a book, he makes a song and dance about being fed up with it, making all these protestations about never writing another book. But then there's the money. He wouldn't want to give up being able to jump on a plane and vanish, or just sit still working something out in his head. Had he been more careful with his finances, he'd never have to work again, but he knows himself, knows everything he's ever had has been what he calls "squanderable".

We run around like headless chickens looking for the next cultural fix to spiral around in before it gets appropriated somewhere else and becomes something it never was. There's this sort of one-upmanship in the underground. You want to be the first person to find something, then the first person to say it's shit. Welsh is a Hibernian supporter. This is a good thing; an old industrial activity. All week you work your bollocks off at some humiliatingly crap job, then it's Saturday and you go to the footie and release your frustrations.

It's a great thing to do. You basically shout at the players and at the opposing supporters. It's an accomplishable task. Then, after it's over and the Hibs have won or lost, you want to keep it going. It's like the world we live in has become quite safe in a lot of ways, and it has become harder to genuinely transgress.

But the desire to transgress is a real feeling. Where you've got a lot of people conforming, you also have people who are positioned in this kind of transgressive mode who, like Bruce Willis, suddenly start playing the game by their own rules. Yet they're still conformists. So, for real people to try to become transgressive means their behaviour is going to be almost more brutish and antisocial than ever.

Here we are, grasping for the full loutishness and not being able quite to get it in the last struggle to break away from the banality of everyday life. And that becomes a banality in itself. Welsh's strong association with his favourite rock band, Primal Scream, Glaswegian, post-punk, all Che Guevara T-shirts and leftwing political correctness, who stayed up later and took more drugs than anyone else, doubtless puts him in precisely this bind.

In , Primal Scream wrote music for the film version of Trainspotting. Music is the ecstasy and the rapture. Well, perhaps not quite always. But it was a good idea at the time. Jigging about all night to the tirelessly pulsating rhythms made possible by the invention of the drum machine and the sequencer, usually with the assistance of artificial stimulants, can induce ecstatic, trance-like states and spiritual reawakening, maaaaan, much as music has done in the past for neolithic shamans, whirling dervishes and so on.

If you hadn't tried it, you'd be a fool to knock it. The world and his sibling discovered that they, too, could simulate the sounds of soul-frenzy in their own back rooms. Hence what was once so esoteric became mainstream, standardised, commercialised, banalised, and if you fancied yourself at the cutting edge circa , you'd have to be the first to say it was shit.

Time to move on to the next thing. Pornography, it seems, became the new rock'n'roll while Welsh wasn't looking. It seemed that while his back was turned, everyone he knew had gone through a process of disinhibition that had passed him by.

All the old clubs are now sex clubs. You don't go back to your place for more drugs and loud noises any more, you go back to your place to get your kit off, shag everyone in sight, film everyone shagging everyone in sight, then sit about watching the film of you shagging everyone in sight from your last night out.

You can buy a knock-off digital camera for a few hundred quid and make your own porn. They even get quite precious about it, talking about proper scripts and storylines and production values Since then, Welsh has tried to work out how he feels about pornography. Initially, he had himself down as a don't know. He tried to define pornography and couldn't. He argued with himself that perhaps a crude porn movie is more honest than an art-house film with porn in it, since the one offers to engage your pornographic imagination while the other tries to exploit or subvert.

They call it "eroticism", he thinks, to make the middle classes feel better about porn. His ambivalence about the matter remained in free-float.

He can remember being a kid, looking at open-beaver shots in his friend's dad's Penthouse magazine. He thought that was pretty good on the whole. At least it taught him what female genitalia looked like, which was a sight more demystifying than the wall charts of human plumbing they gave them at school by way of sex education. Then, when he grew up, pornography seemed somehow remote, boring, repetitive, turn off-making, designed, he felt, for saddos who probably do no harm and are welcome to such consolation as they can find.

His stance remains ambivalent, though more puzzled. When the opportunity arose, he found he'd as soon shag someone in the same room as his best friend as he would in front of his mother. And he had certainly never felt the need to sit in a pub watching his own spotty arse going up and down on a screen.

He has to concede, however, that this disinclination puts him in a minority of roughly one. Back there among the underemployed and unemployed working class, they can't get enough of it. They want to see themselves framed, love handles, beer guts, hairy backs, immortalised for ever in the act of copulation. And, after that, they want everyone else to see them. Think, he says, of Big Brother. Porn, he says, is like karaoke. When it's karaoke night down at the pub, nobody wants to get up first.

Then, when it gets going, you're fighting for a turn. This is something he understands only too well. Apparently, the reports of how he smashed up an entire bar, the karaoke machine, the pub piano and anyone who stood in his way were not exaggerated. He desperately wanted to sing a song. Maybe it was just a kind of control thing, having hold of the microphone.

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