Can it really be ten years since Irvine Welsh's foul-mouthed novel Trainspotting grabbed us by the scruff and sucked out our eyeballs?
The torrid tale of Edinburgh lowlife, written in incomprehensible Scots, spawned a play, a massively successful film and a whole subgenre of post-ecstasy culture literature.
Welsh became a spokesman for degeneration and, hand in hand with Britpop, a true celebrity.
Now the play has been revived for a tour and is playing at the Rep until Saturday.
Ten years is a long time in popular culture and Trainspotting now seems strangely anachronistic. What was once shocking now seems simply risque.
Irvine Welsh raised the bar considerably for what audiences would stomach. His genius was in taking a whole generation with him. The almost full house at the Rep was comprised mostly of 20-somethings, people too young for the first round of Trainspotting mania.
Every c-word, every fecal joke, every simulated sex act was lapped up with laughter. We were there not to be challenged but to be entertained.
There's no denying the strength of this production though. Each performance was solid, the sheer physicality of the acting was compelling. With a cast of just four, the demands on the actors is considerable.
Unlike the film, the play is more a straight retelling of Welsh's book. Shorn of the gimmickry of Danny Boyle's film we are left with just the words, delivered in soliloquies or as rapid banter. The language is vile but strangely poetic and the thick accents are often unintelligible.
There's no point though in claiming any deep significance as Trainspotting is essentially a shallow, macho play. What pathos there is has limited lasting value. Divorced from the ribaldry, what remains is a fairly obvious morality tale.
Heroin is bad, we know. Violence begets violence and the culturally dispossessed always get the shitty end of the stick.
Not a bad night out then, but don't expect to come away uplifted.
* Running time: One hour, 30 minutes. Until Saturday.