Very hard to read and I tried many times. Was not my cup of tea. Thanks to Netgalley, the author and the publisher for the arc of this book in return for my review. Receiving the book in this manner had no bearing on this review.

A challenging collection of short fiction. Since reading and being impressed by Kelman's "Mo That was Quirky," I've bee drawn to this author's fiction. It's often rewarding, sometimes disorienting, but always offering a chance to encounter a unique voice. Recommended to readers seeking a fresh, challenging voice.

I was excited for this collection, but had to put it down as unreadable and drab within the first 20 pages. Dreary, colorless, and unfinishable.

I received and advanced copy from #netgalley in exchange for a review.
First, I found the language very confusing. It was set in Scotland, so some of the slang and terms I just didn’t get. And lots of ye and nay uses. I found the writing style very confusing and disjointed. I read 1 and 1/2 stories and then gave up. I kept hoping it would get better or that I would understand more, but I couldn’t justify wasting time when I have other books waiting to be read.

This collection has a certain tense, breathless quality, as though each story constantly threatened to trip and fall on its face yet by some miracle managed to remain upright. Given the difficulty of getting a firm hold on either plot or characters, we are left with a style that consists of repetitions ("so what" and "who cares" appear as a leitmotiv throughout), staccato sentences, and profanity aplenty. There are also frequently disorienting switches from vernacular to refined speech and back again — a daring move on James Kelman's part. I would be remiss not to mention the contrast between the protagonists' hesitant thoughts or utterances and the author's confidence of execution.

All in all, reading these stories felt like being stuck, either in some obsessive person's head, or on a nightmarish series of elevator rides with unsavoury strangers who insisted on describing perfectly banal, inconsequential moments in their lives in painstaking detail.

"These stories are important. (...) How come nobody knows them and are listening to them? Even if they are bad stories. What is bad stories? Stories about bad things. That is what stories are."

Hm, what is bad stories, indeed. I found myself asking this question while reading this collection, more often than not.

Scottish writer James Kelman won the 1994 Booker Prize for How Late it Was, How Late. I haven't read it, or anything else by this author, so was intrigued by the opportunity to read this new collection.

Initially I was impressed. The first story, Oh the Days ahead is a tension-filled scene between a young man and woman in bed for the first time. Another one, Clinging On is a short study on how one word can alter a sentence's meaning with profundity. Both of these are rather experimental, but gave me the impression that this author, at this stage of his career, feels empowered to do what he wants. I liked how he seemed a bit 'cowboy' in his reckless attitude towards form.

Certainly, Kelman plays fast and loose with the definition of "story". Most of these pieces are unburdened by a narrative or by characters that have names. Is that a "story" to you? The pieces are mainly written in first person, beginning with "I" and continue in a dull, often pointless rambling, a babbling stream of consciousness, without direction or sense. Often, sentences are cut off in the middle without punctuation. Often, the character is musing to himself, asking himself many rhetorical questions. Most of these narrators could be the same person - they may as well be, for all we are told - an older, cranky, Scotsman.

In the few pieces that more resemble a traditional story, the main character is either homeless, mentally ill, or aging uncomfortably. It's a drab, grey world; a world I'm barely able to see through the haze. And thus, Kelman has failed to convince me that these stories (if that's what we are calling them) are important - to tell, or to read.

Scottish collection of ethereal short stories, unburdened by plot devices. I've not read much Scottish writing so the lack of consistency with contractions was jarring at first (didnt, wasnt, couldnt in one story followed by didnay, wasnay, couldnay in the next) but I think lack of consistency is kind of Kelman's schtick, and I appreciated that. I also liked the unironic inclusion of a guy doing a wee jig, and an astoundingly creative lexicon: "somebody described your books as fuction," "internetual information,""what is a male damsel?" These stories are varied but vaguely reminiscent, including a range of drunken pick-ups and takes on the working class experience, a lot about erections and writers, and repetition-bordering-on-rumination about the difference between and importance of mates and friends and butties and pals.

I’ve scored some great anthology finds off of Netgalley, so statistically this was due, but still…. James Kelman is a Man Booker nominee too, this was a major draw, but the book was barely readable. It’s Scottish, very Scottish, phonetically so, and between all the nays and maists and c*nt for every other word…I didn’t get the appeal at all. Oddly enough I enjoy Scotland set movies and tv shows, but it’s possible (and this may be the only positive takeaway here) their literature just isn’t my bag. Exhaustive colloquialisms aside, context wise this was a total wasteland. Presumably aimed to be slices of life, these stories were really more like snippets at best, first one read like a one act two actors play, the rest were strictly stream of consciousness, dense, rambling and utterly drab. There is a certain style to Kelman’s writing, one he rigorously maintains throughout, maybe that’s what the attraction is, but if so this is definitely style over substance situation. Whatever substance there might have been got buried under the longwinded tedium of its execution. In Kelman’s own vernacular…I cannay tolerate a bunch of right bastard c*nts. Bleak, dreary, colorless...this was just a complete waste of time. I didn’t even have any expectations going in, really, and it still managed to disappoint completely. There’s a kilt wearing, bagpipe playing audience for this somewhere, maybe, but the rest ought to be spared. Thanks Netgalley.