goldfinger's better than dr. no. both of them are a lot better than diamonds are forever a judgement reflected in its relative poor showing at the box office, in which field, of course, thunderball was a notable success.
i would say, in those days, he was a muscular actor, in every sense, with all the presence of someone like cooper or lancaster, but combined with a sly wit to make him a formidable romantic lead, closer in that respect to cary grant.
you only live twice?
running time?
director?
screenwriter?
fuck off! he never wrote any of them.
you can look it up.
but you're looking better, it has to be said. healthier. radiant even.
and i wondered if you'd care to go to the park tomorrow.
tomorrow afternoon. usual set-up.
roald dahl.
it's certainly a phenomenon in all walks of life.
well, at one time, you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's gone for ever. all walks of life: george best, for example, had it and lost it, or david bowie, or lou reed -
no, it's not bad, but it's not great either, is it? and in your heart you kind of know that although it sounds all right, it's actually just shite.
charlie nicholas, david niven, malcolm mclaren, elvis presley. -
all i'm trying to do is help you understand that the name of the rose is merely a blip on an otherwise uninterrupted downward trajectory.
i don't rate that at all.
that means fuck all. the sympathy vote.
yeah.
yeah, beautifully fucking illustrated.
do you see the beast? have you got it in you sights?
for a vegetarian, rents, you're a fucking evil shot.
this had better be good.
if i'm giving up a whole day and the price of a ticket, i'm just saying it had better be good. there's plenty of other things i could be doing.
such as sitting in a darkened room, watching videos, drinking, smoking dope and wanking. does that answer your question?
now what?
are you serious?
it's really nice, tommy. can we go home now?
look, tommy, we know you're getting a hard time off lizzy, but there's no need to take it out on us.
ursula andress was the quintessential bond girl. that's what everyone says. the embodiment of his superiority to us: beautiful, exotic, highly sexual and yet unavailable to everyone but him. shite. let's face it: if she'd shag one punter from edinburgh, she'd shag the fucking lot of us.
honor blackman a.k.a. pussy galore, what a total fucking misnomer. i wouldn't touch her with yours. i'd sooner shag col kreb. at least you know where you are with a woman like that. not much to look at, like, but personality, that's what counts, that's what keeps a relationship going through the years. like heroin. i mean, heroin's got fucking great personality.
what's wrong, allison?
oh, fuck. sick boy reaches out to allison.
say something, mark, say something --
opium doesn't just grow on trees, you know.
there's better things that the needle, rents. choose life.
it's a mug's game, mrs renton. i'm not saying i was blameless myself, far from it, but there comes a time when you have to turn your back on that nonsense and just say no.
eughh. sounds horrible.
did he -- you know?
you know.
oh no, don't even mention it.
god, you're sick.
cut it out.
don't know. maybe thursday.
fuck you. ok, so tommy's got the virus. bad news, big deal. the gig goes on, or hadn't you noticed? swanney fucks his leg up. well, tough shit, but it could have been worse.
i know a couple of addicts. stupid wee lassies. i feed them what they need. a little bit of skag to keep them happy while the punters line up at a fiver a skull. it's easy money for me. not exactly a fortune, but i'm thinking, 'i should be coining it here.' less whores, more skag. swanney's right. get clean, get into dealing, that's where the future lies. set up some contacts, get a good load of skag, punt it, profit. what do you think?
and i'll tell you why. because i'm fed up to my back teeth with losers, no-hopers, draftpacks, schemies, junkies and the like. i'm getting on with life. what are you doing?
good chips.
i got a good price for it. rents, i need the money.
well, christ, if i'd known you were going to get so humpty about it, i wouldn't have bothered. are you going to eat that?
well, this guy i've met runs a hotel. brother. loads of contacts. does a nice little sideline in punting british passports to foreigners. get you a good price.
it was just an idea.
did you tell him?
there's a mate of swanney's. mikey forrester -- you know the guy. he's come into some gear. a lot of gear.
about four kilos. so he tells me. got drunk in a pub down by the docks last week, where he met two russian sailors. they're fucking carrying the stuff. for sale there and then, like. so he wakes up the next morning, realizes what he's done and get very fucking nervous. wants rid of this. {---------- he's looking for swanney to punt it, but swanney's nowhere to be seen since he lost his leg. ----------}
so he met me and i offered to take it off his hands at a very reasonable price, with the intention of punting it on myself to a guy i know in london.
four grand.
we're two thousand short.
come on, mark, every cunt knows you've been saving up down in london.
what?
well, i've not brought them.
well, i've not brought them.
i'm sorry.
well, why didn't you bring them?
christ.
these are the guys i told you about.
is he here?
so what are you planning with your share, spud?
i got a round already.
i'm off for a pish. when i come back, that money's still here, ok?
i'll be right after you.
still here, i see.
good one, franco.
we'd better go, franco.