Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

This the sequel to 'Trainspotting' and in many ways, it surpasses it. I can sum up the novel in two phrases culled from it: "Nobody except destructive exploiters...have any passion." and "We live in an anal society."
Two things are made apparent: 1) the novel is a snarky-as-fuck indictment of pretty much everything our culture stands for and 2) it's about sex. Don't be fooled, though, by my curious bifurcation. The two are hardly separable and that's the point. Welsh's genius lies in his ability to break down everything that is wrong with our world and embody it in his characters, Dostoevskyian-style. The Trainspotting crew is all here to fill this need: reformed Renton, psychotic Begbie (out of jail and on the hunt for Renton), wayward Spud (who's trying to write a history of Leith and get himself killed), and, most importantly, Sick Boy.
Sick Boy is the novel's main focus and you will never read about a more charming, anti-anti-hero, anti-villain shit-ass son of a bitch. He wants to make a porno movie and reap the benefits of our consumer culture. Only Welsh can scold our culture through a Sick Boy diatribe involving the second quote above where the film auteur argues that anal sex is part and parcel of our capitalist, globalized culture.
I don't want to get too jargony or smarmy, but it is what it is. And frankly, it's goddamn funny. The novel might make some uncomfortable, whether because of its blatant and often explicit sex scenes or as a thinly-veiled crotch-kick at everything we stand for, I'll let other readers decide.
Why is it better? It's tighter, more character focused, and the scumtafucks we loved in Trainspotting get a lot of room to develop.
Nowt but ta recommend.