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By Irvine Welsh

An epic novel in regards to the bonds of friendship from the writer of Trainspotting.

the tale of 4 boys starting to be up within the Edinburgh initiatives, Glue is set the loyalties, the reports, and the secrets and techniques that carry buddies jointly via 3 many years. the lads turn into males: Juice Terry, the work-shy fanny-merchant, with corkscrew curls and sticky palms; Billy the boxer, pushed, managed, enjoying to his strengths; Carl, the Milky Bar child, drifting alongside to his personal soundtrack; and the doomed Gally, enormously thin-skinned and liable to disaster at each flip. We persist with their lives from the seventies into the recent century—from punk to techno, from pace to E. Their mutual loyalty is fused in highway morality: again up your pals, do not hit girls, and, most vital, by no means snitch—on someone. Glue has the Irvine Welsh trademarks—crackling discussion, scabrous set items, and black, black humor—but it's also a grown-up ebook approximately transforming into up—about the way in which we are living our lives, and what occurs to us while issues develop into unstuck. "Stocked together with his traditional quirky, sympathetic characters, this rollicking new story glints with the writer's trademark satiric wit. Its heft and narrative breadth should still persuade any closing skeptics that Welsh—now successfully the grand previous guy of in-your-face Scottish fiction—is a author to be taken seriously."—Publishers Weekly starred evaluation

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Ah think a dig in ma ribs. — Dinnae you be shitein oot, Gally, Birrell sais tae ays, ehs voice aw low. Cheeky cunt him yet. — walk on, Birrell. It’s you thit’s fuckin good shitein oot . . . — How am ah . . . . . . — shitein oot ay the plan wi agreed. Wir gaunny fuckin git a pair ay extensive cunts n have them. Wi wir even gaunny git a Huns skerf n put on it fir hide, brain, ah sais. — That wis the plan wi agreed. Billy shook ehs heid. — Ah’m no wearin any Huns skerf. — Fuck that, Terry acknowledged. Carl’s sittin thaire, waitin tae leap in. — Ah’m no stricken aboot wearin one. Ah dinnae wish tae put on a Huns skerf, bit ah broat this, fir camouflage likes, eh sais, pillin a Rid Hand ay Ulster flag ootay ehs plastic bag. Terry appears at ays, then at Billy, who’s correct up n eh’s torn the flag fae Carl’s fingers and pulled oot his lighter. Thir wis clean clicks prior to Carl controlled tae git it again eftir a fight which wis gittin a wee bit nasty. — Cunt you, eh Billy, Carl is going, ehs face as rid because the fuckin hand oan the flag. — Dinnae convey oot a Huns flag in entrance ay me, Birrell says, aw nippy. Carl folds the flag up, keepin it oot ay Birrell’s achieve, yet eh’s no pittin it away. — It’s no a fuckin Rangers flag, it’s a Protestant flag. You’re no even a Catholic, Birrell, what you gittin oan tae ays fir a Protestant flag fir? — reason yir a cheeky milk-boatil-heided Herts wanker and yir gaunny git yir mooth burst, that’s what fir. It’s a wee bit cold the following, Billy’s goat one ay they moods oan um. Terry became away fae the birds and appeared ower at him. — Cool it, Birrell, ya cunt, thir’s aw the Huns on the planet tae pagger wi, dinnae begin fightin one another. — Jam Tart toss shouldnae be right here, Billy is going. — wager ye Topsy n aw yir pals fae the bus thit huvnae gaun away wi Herts’ll be right here wi the Huns, eh sneered. — Ah’m right here wi youse, yet, um ah no, Carl sais again. As eh stated that, ah clocked a crew ay Huns, mibbe aboot oor age or wee bit aulder, come intae the Wimpy. We went quiet. Then they noticeable us, and so they went quiet n aw. Ah may perhaps inform they wir lookin at Carl’s Rid Hand ay Ulster flag and Birrell’s skerf and tryin tae paintings it aw oot. Birrell wis starin again at thum. Terry wisnae , he wis nonetheless lookin at they lassies. — You goat a felly? he shouted ower. The poultry wi the lengthy broon hair n tooth appears to be like um ower. — may possibly huv. What’s it tae dae wi you? Ah’m tryin tae git a wee caricature at her titties bit ye cannae make thum oot less than that toap. — Naw, reason ah’m yes ah observed you wi a felly at Annabel’s one time. — Ah dinnae pass tae the Annabel’s, she sais, yet she’s lookin aw that satisfied n shag-happy wey again at um, n that cunt’s in thaire. — good it wis anyone thit gave the look of you . . . Terry’s up and squeezin in beside her in thair sales space. That cunt isnae shy. a pair ay the Huns begin making a song The Sash. those cunts’ll be as nippy as fuck, reason it wis oan the television tube the opposite day thair that the Pope’s comin tae Scotland. No that ah gie a fuck aboot that. Ah do gie a fuck aboot they wankers gittin aw broad via the following yet.

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