DEAD MEN’S TROUSERS

(Cape £16.99) IRVINE WELSH’S books are no longer novels, as such — they’re more a state of mind.

His favoured territory is a peculiarly male, aggro psychopathy that careens between drug-addled braggadocio and a more crippling self-reckoning.

His characters’ casual, ugly contempt for the opposite sex makes Harvey Weinstein look like a celibate priest.

In this characteristically carelessly written novel — apparently the last to revisit the former heroin addicts Welsh so brilliantly introduced in 1993’s Trainspotting — slippery Renton, the dazzling amoral Sick Boy and gormless Spud are all somehow still alive.

Renton is now, implausibly, a prosperous international DJ promoter.

They reconvene at the behest of their former psychotic nemesis Francis Begbie, now a globally famous artist who wants to feature them in a new art project.

Old grudges soon rear their heads, alongside a farcically gruesome subplot featuring a human kidney, but the book is a mess.

At his best, Welsh still burns with a scabrous, ferocious energy, but you have to wonder: is anyone still reading?