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"Filth," by Irivine Welsh certainly lived up to its name. Pretty filthy, in several ways the word can be used, from beginning to end.

It's told in first person by the main character, Detective Sergeant Bruce Robertson of the Leith Police, who's approaching middle age and is one of the detectives competing for the single available promotion to Detective Inspector. He feels he's entitled to it because he gave up a few years of rank by working in Australia when his wife Carole wanted to live near her Mum down there.

Sometime before the beginning of the story Carole has gone away to spend some time with her Mum, who's back in Scotland, and Bruce is on his own. Unfortunately, he doesn't know how to cook or use the machine to wash clothes and as the story progresses his clothes get filthier and filthier, and with his bachelor lifestyle, that's mud, food, sweat, semen, alcohol and anything else that could possibly spill�

Bruce isn't a very nice guy, either. He's mean, vicious, vulgar, racist, sexist, alcoholic, wasted on cocaine and wants that promotion. He's in charge of a racial murder that's taken place does what he can to put his colleagues in situations to keep them from getting their job done.

For himself, almost every day he starts work late, goes for long, alcoholic lunch breaks and usually knocks off early so he can go shag some woman or watch some adult videos at home. About the most work he seems to do is filling in his overtime pay forms.

At the beginning he's in charge of everything around him, but slowly through the novel everything degenerates. We see, from his eyes, what even he doesn't see himself as he loses control and that his coworkers he considers pathetic are much more on top of things than he is�

Welsh is crude, vulgar, sick and very filthy in this book, and spins out a fantastic tale.