yeah. no more. i'm finished with that shite.
i'm going to get it right this time. going to get it set up and get off it for good.
the sick boy method.
he's always been lacking in moral fibre.
that's hardly a substitute.
no, i don't think so.
mikey. it's mark renton. can you help me out?
i want a fucking hit.
for all the good they've done me i might as well have stuck them up my arse.
now. now i'm ready.
nineteen-sixty-seven.
one hundred and sixteen minutes.
lewis gilbert.
eh - ian fleming?
ok, so who was it, then?
who wrote it?
you don't know, do you?
the park?
who wrote it?
roald dahl. fuck me.
what do you mean?
some of his solo stuff's not bad.
so who else?
ok, ok, so what's the point you're trying to make?
what about the untouchables?
despite the academy award?
right. so we all get old and then we can't hack it any more. is that it?
that's your theory?
give me the gun.
clear enough, moneypenny. this should present no significant problem.
good luck, spud.
now remember --
if they think you're not trying, you're in trouble. first hint of that, they'll be on to the dss, 'this cunt's no trying' and your giro is fucking finished, right?
but try too hard --
exactly.
it's a tightrope, spud, a fucking tightrope.
try this.
indeed, yes, those halcyon days.
oh, yes, indeed. i look back on my time there with great fondness and affection. the debating society, the first eleven, the soft know of willow on leather --
oh, really?
of course, the motto, the motto --
exactly. those very words have been my guiding light in what is, after all, a dark and often hostile world.
yes.
yes, i can. the truth -- well, the truth is that i've had a long-standing problem with heroin addiction. i've been know to sniff it, smoke it, swallow it, stick it up my arse and inject it into my veins. i've been trying to combat this addiction, but unless you count social security scams and shoplifting, i haven't had a regular job in years. i feel it's important to mention this.
another dab?
can i borrow this one?
excuse me, i don't mean to harass you, but i was very impressed by the capable and stylish manner in which you dealt with that situation. i thought to myself: she's special.
what's your name?
where are you going, diane?
where's that?
great.
i'll come back if you like, but i'm not promising anything.
eh-
i think i left something back at the -
diane.
sorry.
christ, i haven't felt that good since archie gemmill scored against holland in 1978.
what?
come on.
jesus.
yes, that's me.
more of a friend of a friend, really.
are you her flatmates?
because it's illegal.
no, not holding hands.
and that's what's illegal. do you know what they do to people like me inside? they'd cut my balls off and flush them down the fucking toilet.
easy for you to say.
certainly not.
i hate being scottish. we're the lowest of the fucking low, the scum of the earth, the most wretched, servile, miserable, pathetic trash that was ever shat into civilization. some people hate the english, but i don't. they're just wankers. we, on the other hand, are colonized by wankers. we can't even pick a decent culture to be colonized by. we are ruled by effete arseholes. it's a shite state of affairs and all the fresh air in the world will not make any fucking difference.
aye, ok, fr.
i'm cooking' up. there is a silence. renton begins scrambling around through the works.
nor did i. our only response was to keep on going and fuck everything. pile misery upon misery, heap it up on a spoon and dissolve it with a drop of bile, then squirt it into a stinking purulent vein and do it all over again. keep on going: getting up, going out, robbing, stealing, fucking people over, propelling ourselves with longing towards the day it would all go wrong. as seen in the opening scene, renton is nearly hit by a car that screeches to a halt as he crosses a road. he looks at the driver, at spud running away and the store detectives approaching. because no matter how much you stash or how much you steal, you never have enough. no matter how often you go out and rob and fuck people over you always need to get up and do it all again. renton smiles and waits. sooner or later, this sort of thing was bound to happen. one of the detectives runs straight past him, after spud. the other detective crashes into renton with a mighty punch in the stomach.
thank you, your honour. with god's help, i'll conquer this affliction.
mrs murphy, i'm sorry about spud. it's wasn't fair, him going down and not me --
what's on the menu this evening?
excellent.
why, thank you.
stick it on my tab.
in that case --
no, thank you. i'll proceed directly to the intravenous injection of hard drugs, please.
maybe i could go back to the clinic.
at least get us some tempazepam.
i do appreciate what you're trying to do, i really do, but i need just one score, to ease myself off it. just one. just one.
are you getting out much?
following the game at all?
no. me neither.
aye.
aye.
i'm sorry, tommy.
no, i'm clean.
no problem.
great.
sure.
sounds great, swanney.
you'll have to send us a postcard.
it wasn't that bad.
what?
no, he didn't make me touch it.
he made me lick it.
and i got a stitch stuck between my teeth, jerked my head back and the whole fucking stump fell off.
when are you going to visit him?
you're a real mate. and what about tommy? have you been to see him yet?
you're all hear.
fuck you.
what do you want?
yes.
yes, as a matter of fact, it is.
no.
well, it isn't.
you're too young.
it's iggy pop.
iggy pop is not dead. he toured last year. tommy went to see him.
hello, yes, certainly. it's a beautifully converted victorian town house. ideally located in a quiet road near to local shops and transport.
oh no.
it's a scandal, franco.
what?
right.
can you not go yourself.
let's face it, it could have been wonderful.
i can't believe you did that.
it was my fucking television.
why?
why would i want to sell my passport?
i bet lizzy told him where to put it.
i didn't either. what the fuck is it?
tommy.
what?
how much?
so?
so we've just come from tommy's funeral and you're telling me about a skag deal?
what was your price?
but you don't have the money?
that's tough.
sorry, boys, i don't have two thousand pounds.
jesus.
four kilos. that's what -- ten years' worth? russian sailors? mikey forrester? what the fuck are you on these days? you've been to jail, spud, so what's the deal -- like it so much you want to go back again?
it's so simple. we buy it at four grand, we punt it at twenty to this guy that sick boy knows, and he punts it at sixty. everyone's happy, everyone's in profit. i put up two. i come away with six.
so long as everyone keeps their mouths shut, we'll not be getting caught.
well, you're not going to tell anyone, are you, and besides, i thought we could meet up afterwards, maybe go somewhere together.
what? steady like?
and what age are you? thirteen? fourteen?
happy birthday.
so, what's he like?
it's good, it's fucking good.
buy yourself that island in the sun?
it's your round franco.
the moment you turn your back, we're out that door.
we'll be half-way down the road with the money.
i guess you would, franco.
i don't know. what do you think?
why not? i know i would. where's franco?
cool down, franco. the guy's sorry.