How Late It Was, How Late Book

If you have never been to Scotland, then literature would have you believe that it is the bleakest, most soul destroying pit of blackened abject despair. The cities are populated with grey-skinned downtrodden gurners whose only options are alcoholism, drugs or suicide. The rivers Clyde, Forth and Tay are not filled with water, nay, they are filled with the salty tears of Rangers Fans, beaten housewives, victims of police violence and neglected children. Did Hadrian build his wall in 122 AD as a physical barrier to stem the tidal wave of depression, moving down like some sort of unstoppable weather front from the north? Possibly. However I, as an actual bonafide Scottish, am here to tell you that this is not the case. We can be a cheery bunch, honest.

How Late it Was, How Late is doesn't exactly paint a cheerful picture of life in working-class Glasgow and the bleakness is further enhanced by the fact that we only come to know protagonist Sammy, via his stream of consciousness outpourings which are variously angry, confused and stoic. Add into the mix the fact that this book is written in working class Scottish dialect will make it seem grimmer to some, and possibly completely incomprehensible to others. Sammy is not having a good week. In fact Sammy has the very good makings of a country and western ballad on his hands. His girlfriend has left him, the polis have beaten him up causing possible permanent blindness, he's got no giro and his friends think he is a grass. Presumably if he had a dog, then that would have died as well. The book spans just over a week in the life of Sammy as he struggles to adjust to his loss of sight although he is surprisingly sanguine about it which was probably key in getting people to empathise with his plight. I came to this with no preconceptions; seriously I'd never heard of it before but I had a vague inkling it was on the 1001 books to read before you die list, so it was nice to pick it up and after the brief adjustment to grammar and vocab (pause-lite C*nt-heavy), become totally engrossed.

Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh was published one year before Kelman's Booker Prize winning effort and so presumably Welsh deserves a little credit for paving the way and preparing people for the full frontal attack of an entire book written in Scottish dialect. Check out my review of Morvern Callar if you wish to learn yerself Scotch before hand.