Read the opening chapter from Men in Love by Irvine Welsh

When Irvine Welsh burst onto the literary scene in 1990, he didn't just arrive - he revolutionised it. His debut novel, Trainspotting, was instantly hailed as a classic and a defining cultural moment, a legacy that continues to inspire and provoke artistic creation to this very day.

In this highly anticipated sequal, Men in Love follows Renton, Sick Boy, Spud and Begbie as they fill their days with sex, romance amongst the 90s club scene.

The Penguin Podcast will be in conversation with the author at Latitude festival. Find us on Sunday 27th July at the Listening Post, where we will explore the vibrant landscape of youth culture through the decades and nuances of defining a generation through the arts.

Plus, you will have the opportunity to bring your book dilemmas and leave with the perfect book recommendation from our host Rhianna Dhillon, Irvine Welsh and Penguin content producer and award-winning author, Derek Owusu.

MY NAME IS SIMON DAVID

WILLIAMSON

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

– Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The man, in his mid-twenties and a stranger to the group, rises from his chair of tubular black metal and moulded red plastic. His bearing strong and confident. Unlike most of the others in the functional room of this north London community centre, located in a nondescript backstreet off a main shopping thoroughfare, he is persuasively dressed, sporting a long Burberry overcoat. His hair is cut in mod revivalist fashion, with hooked pseudo-sideboards. Strip lights above dazzle a magnesium flare on the leather uppers of Italian shoes, handmade by a Milanese cobbler in Shoreditch. His eyes, a fiery blaze of luminous sepia, stand out in the sea of dulled trepidation around him. Perhaps the only clue of any residual trauma lies in a faint shading beneath them, and the gauntness of his pallid face.

As all eyes fall upon him, he lets the silence hang. Picks his moment.— My name is Simon David Williamson and I’m a drug addict, he announces in strident authority. From the eight other occupants, the respondent chorus,— Welcome, Simon, ranging from grudged mumbles to enthusiastic salutations, bubbles through the room.

— There. Got your attention. Williamson tosses his head back.— That keeps us in that comfortable world of absolutes. Sobriety is essential. Intoxication is the devil’s work . .. Philip Carter, a skinny, angular man in faded jeans and grey polo-neck sweater, scrunches his features in disbelief. Chairing such groups means attesting to all sorts of evinced behaviours. This, disturbingly, hints at something new.

— . . . the only problem being it’s absolute bullshit. Williamson thrusts his jaw forward.— Most people are here because, let’s face it, he looks around the perplexed faces in pitying contempt,— they’re either inherently mentally ill, or somebody, some butt- fucking stepfather or uncle, has made them that way. Drug abuse? Just the manifestation of this. His words set off gasps of shock, bemusement and scorn. One burly, shaven-headed man springs up, pointing at him, declaring, to the cheers and applause of others,— You don’t know nuffink abaht my loife! Don’t tell me abaht my loife! Simon David Williamson sits in calm defiance, chin visibly extending further.— You’re telling me all I need to know, right now! The skinhead takes a step forward.— Who are ya, you cahnt? He’s restrained by another man, who fastens a grip on his wrist.— Don’t rise to his bait, mate.

— Thank you, Len, Mickey. Philip Carter waves them down, urging calm. Perhaps embarrassed by his loss of control in contrast to Williamson’s demeanour of sharkishly cool satisfaction, Mickey, the skinhead, complies, lowering himself back into his seat, settling for training a malevolent glare on his antagonist.

Carter pauses to let the heat leak from the faces around him. Then he addresses Simon David Williamson.— Well . . . Simon . . . seeing as you have it all figured out, why are you here? Simon David Williamson, known as Sick Boy in his home town of Leith, Edinburgh, Scotland, glances at the blonde haired girl opposite him in the semicircle. The one he’d seen in the street earlier, and had followed into this hall. After her golden mop had demanded a second glance, the lacy gloves she wore had further intrigued him. The next hook was her unbowed, upright posture, as she moved in an untroubled glide through that door. A dramatic contrast to the hunched, furtive, beaten look normally evidenced at such venues. For this was Sick Boy’s modus operandi: hanging around rehab group meetings, waiting till he saw a desirable woman go into one. The woman, early twenties, around five six, with dark, hypnotic eyes, regards him with interest. She is dressed in what he judges as a combination of expensive boutique, high-street chain and second-hand-store chic, but blended with the aesthete’s care. Yes, he has her attention. Time to show his human side, and dispense what they crave.— Forgive my presumption . . .Sick Boy begins, in suddenly penitent tones,— I’ve had ma issues wi drugs, he corrects himself,— my issues with drugs . . . and lowers his head, shaking it slowly. When he lifts it to reveal his gaze again, his eyes are wide and moist.— I’ve found it hard tae accept, because there seems to be no reason. He slams his fist into his palm.— I mean, neither of my siblings touched drugs. I’ve never been abused, had mental health issues, or any other trauma. Why me? he pleads. A few heads nod empathically. Carter again permits the silence in the room to play for a couple of beats. Then, while looking to Sick Boy, he addresses the gathering.— One of the things we do in this group is to accept that the ‘why’ is less important that the actuality of it. When we do this, and permit our own powerlessness in the face of addiction, then we really start the process of recovery. Another woman, whom Sick Boy considers too obese to be a genuine drug addict (there seemed to be one in every NA group), regards him with a sneer.— With that arrogance, you’ll never accept your own powerlessness in the face of the drug!

— Ere, ere! Mickey shouts.

— Thanks, Caz. Philip Carter nods to the woman.

Sick Boy savours the percolation of his own malice. Caz and effect. You’ve been flapping adrift in sobriety a long time. Bakery goods urnae lifebelts. It seeps satisfyingly through him as he settles back to listen to stories all too familiar. They were constantly aired in such groups; some he had recited himself, and, depressingly for a man who loved to celebrate his own sense of uniqueness, almost verbatim. The meeting rambles on, and he finds it hard to keep his eyes off the blonde girl. As he scrutinises her, his sole taps a beat on the wooden floor. Dripping with focus and intelligence, carefully evaluating the words of the speakers. He’s relieved when the coffee break is signalled. Knows from experience in the rehab environment just how replete with opportunity such respite time can be. Opting to take care of pressing business first, Sick Boy apologises to Mickey, citing nerves as an excuse for his belligerent, obnoxious behaviour. The sturdy man, who’d looked like he wanted to break his legs, graciously accepts. Extends a hand. A hearty shake exchanged.— Takes a big man ta see the error orf is woys. Nodding with a terse smile, Sick Boy slips away to approach the blonde girl, who stands by the green coffee urn. Immediately he ascertains that her hair colouring comes from a bottle: darker brown roots are in evidence.— Hi, he smiles.