Trainspotting

Begbie:
Did you bring the cards?

Sick Boy:
What?

Begbie:
The cards, the last thing I told you was to mind the cards!

Sick Boy:
Well, I've not brought them.

Begbie:
It's f***ing boring after a while without the cards.

Sick Boy:
I'm sorry.

Begbie:
Bit f***ing late, like.

Sick Boy:
Why didn't *you* bring them?

Begbie:
'CAUSE I F***ING TOLD YOU TO BRING THEM, YOU DOSS C*NT!

Sick Boy:
...Christ.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
I don't feel the sickness yet, but it's in the post. That's for sure. I'm in the junkie limbo at the moment. Too ill to sleep. Too tired to stay awake, but the sickness is on its way. Sweat, chills, nausea. Pain and craving. A need like nothing else I've ever known will soon take hold of me. It's on its way.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Swanney taught us to adore and respect the national health service. For it was the source of much of our gear. We stole drugs. We stole prescriptions or bought them, sold them, swapped them, forged them, photocopied them. Or traded drugs with cancer victims, alcoholics, old-age pensioners, AIDS patients, epileptics, and bored housewives.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Thank you, your honor. With God's help I'll conquer this terrible affliction.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
We would have injected vitamin C if only they had made it illegal!

Allison:
That beats any meat injection. That beats any f***ing cock in the world.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Brilliant gold taps, virginal white marble, a seat carved from ebony, a cistern full of chanel number five, and a flunky handing me pieces of raw silk toilet roll. But under the circumstances I'll settle for anywhere.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
In a thousand years, there will be no men and women, just wankers, and that's fine by me.

Sick Boy:
Say something Mark.

Sick Boy:
F***ing say something, huh?

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
I'm cooking up.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Never again, Swanney. I'm off the scag.

Swanney:
Are you serious?

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Yeah, no more. I'm finished with that shite.

Swanney:
Well, it's up to you, man.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Gonna get it right this time. Gonna get it sorted out. Gonna get off it for good.

Swanney:
I've heard that one before.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
The Sick Boy method?

Swanney:
Well, it nearly worked for him, hey.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Well, he's always been lacking in moral fiber.

Swanney:
He knows a lot about Sean Connery.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
That's hardly a substitute.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
We called him Mother Superior on account of the length of his habit.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
The downside of coming off junk was I knew I would need to mix with my friends again in a state of full consciousness. It was awful. They reminded me so much of myself, I could hardly bear to look at them.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Phew! I haven't felt that good since Archie Gemmill scored against Holland in 1978!

Spud:
No! Uh. Yes. Only to get my foot in the door. Showing initiative and that like.

Spud:
Ehhh... cool. Whatever you say, I'm sorry. You're the man. The dude in the chair.

Spud:
In a word: pleasure. It's like, my pleasure in other people's leisure.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Relinquishing junk. Stage one, preparation. For this you will need one room which you will not leave. Soothing music. Tomato soup, ten tins of. Mushroom soup, eight tins of, for consumption cold. Ice cream, vanilla, one large tub of. Magnesia, milk of, one bottle. Paracetamol, mouthwash, vitamins. Mineral water, Lucozade, pornography. One mattress. One bucket for urine, one for feces and one for vomitus. One television and one bottle of Valium. Which I've already procured from my mother. Who is, in her own domestic and socially acceptable way also a drug addict. And now I'm ready. All I need is one final hit to soothe the pain while the Valium takes effect.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Excuse me, excuse me. I don't mean to harass you, but I was very impressed with the capable and stylish manner in which you dealt with that situation. And I was thinking to myself, now this girl's special.

Diane:
Thanks.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
What's your name?

Diane:
Diane.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
And where are you going, Diane?

Diane:
I'm going home.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Well, where's that?

Diane:
It's where I live.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Great.

Diane:
What?

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Well, I'll come back with you if you like, but like, I'm not promising anything, you know.

Diane:
Do you find that this approach usually works? Or let me guess, you've never tried it before. In fact, you don't normally approach girls - am I right? The truth is that you're a quiet sensitive type but, if I'm prepared to take a chance, I might just get to know the inner you: witty, adventurous, passionate, loving, loyal. Taxi! A little bit crazy, a little bit bad. But hey - don't us girls just love that?

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Eh?

Diane:
Well, what's wrong boy - cat got your tongue?

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Now I've justified this to myself in all sorts of ways. It wasn't a big deal, just a minor betrayal. Or we'd outgrown each other, you know, that sort of thing. But let's face it, I ripped them off - my so called mates. But Begbie, I couldn't give a sh*t about him. And Sick Boy, well he'd done the same to me, if he'd only thought of it first. And Spud, well okay, I felt sorry for Spud - he never hurt anybody. So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers - all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person. But, that's gonna change - I'm going to change. This is the last of that sort of thing. Now I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm gonna be just like you. The job, the family, the f***ing big television. The washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electric tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisure wear, luggage, three piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption clearing gutters, getting by, looking ahead, the day you die.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
People think it's all about misery and desperation and death and all that sh*t which is not to be ignored, but what they forget is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn't do it. After all, we're not f***ing stupid. At least, we're not that f***ing stupid.

Tommy:
Very, absolutely f***ing radge. "It's me, or Iggy Pop", she says.

Spud:
So what're you gonna do?

Tommy:
Well I paid for the tickets!

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?

Tommy:
Doesn't it make you proud to be Scottish?

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
It's SHITE being Scottish! We're the lowest of the low. The scum of the f***ing Earth! The most wretched miserable servile pathetic trash that was ever shat on civilization. Some people hate the English. I don't. They're just wankers. We, on the other hand, are colonized by wankers. Can't even find a decent culture to get colonized by. We're ruled by effete a**holes. It's a shite state of affairs to be in, Tommy, and all the fresh air in the world won't make any f***ing difference!

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
This was to be my final hit, but let's be clear about this. There's final hits and final hits. What kind was this to be?

Francis (Franco) Begbie:
That wee lassie got glassed, and no c*nt leaves till I find out what c*nt did it.

Francis (Franco) Begbie:
YEESSS!

Sick Boy:
Personality, I mean that's what counts, right? Personality, I mean that's what keeps a relationship going through the years. Like heroin. I mean, heroin's got great f***ing personality.

Tommy:
How's it going with Gail?

Spud:
No joy yet.

Tommy:
How long is it?

Spud:
Six weeks.

Tommy:
Six weeks!

Spud:
It's a nightmare. She told me she didn't want our relationship to start on a physical basis as that is how it would be principally defined from then on in.

Tommy:
Where did she come up with that?

Spud:
She read it in Cosmopolitan.

Tommy:
Six weeks and no sex?

Spud:
I've got balls like watermelons, I'm telling you.

Gail:
I read it in Cosmopolitan.

Lizzie:
It's an interesting theory.

Gail:
Actually it's a nightmare. I've been desperate for a shag but watching him suffer was just too much fun!

Francis (Franco) Begbie:
It was f***in' obvious that c*nt was gonna f*** some c*nt.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Heroin had robbed Renton of his sex drive, but now it returned with a vengeance. And as the impotence of those days faded into memory, grim desperation took hold of his sex-crazed mind. His post-junk libido, fuelled by alcohol and amphetamine, taunted him remorselessly with his own unsatisfied desire.

Begbie:
Armed robbery. With a replica. I mean, how the f*** can it be armed robbery with a f***ing replica?

Begbie:
You sorry enough for being a fat f***ing c*nt?

Begbie:
Picture the scene: The other f***in' week there, doin' the f***in' Volley with Tommy, playing pool. I'm playing like Paul-F***in'-Newman by the way. Givin' the boy here the tannin' of a lifetime. So it comes to there, during the last shot, the deciding ball of the whole tournament. I'm on the black and he's sittin' in the corner looking all f***in' biscuit-arsed. When this hard c*nt comes in. Obviously f***in' fancied himself, like. Starts staring at me. Lookin' at me, right f***in' at me, as if to say, "Come ahead, square go." You ken me, I'm not the type of c*nt that goes looking for f***in' bother, like, but at the end of the day I'm the c*nt with a pool cue and he can get the fat end in his puss any time he f***ing wanted like. So I squares up, casual like. What does the hard c*nt do? Or the so-called hard c*nt? Shites it. Puts down his drink, turns, and gets the f*** out of there. And after that, well, the game was mine.

Sick Boy:
It's certainly a phenomenon in all walks of life.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
What do you mean?

Sick Boy:
Well, at one time, you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's gone forever. All walks of life: George Best, for example. Had it, lost it. Or David Bowie, or Lou Reed...

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Some of his solo stuff's not bad.

Sick Boy:
No, it's not bad, but it's not great either. And in your heart you kind of know that although it sounds all right, it's actually just shite.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
So who else?

Sick Boy:
Charlie Nicholas, David Niven, Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley...

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
OK, OK, so what's the point you're trying to make?

Sick Boy:
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.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
What about The Untouchables?

Sick Boy:
I don't rate that at all.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Despite the Academy Award?

Sick Boy:
That means f*** all. The sympathy vote.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Right. So we all get old and then we can't hack it anymore. Is that it?

Sick Boy:
Yeah.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
That's your theory?

Sick Boy:
Yeah. Beautifully f***ing illustrated.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton:
Living like this is a full-time job.

Renton:
Never again, Swanney. I'm off the skag.

Swanney:
Are you serious?

Renton:
Yeah, no more. I'm finished with that shite.

Swanney:
Well, it's up to you, man.

Renton:
Gonna get it right this time. Gonna get it sorted out. Gonna get off it for good.

Swanney:
I've heard that one before.

Renton:
The Sick Boy method.

Swanney:
[sarcastically] Well, it nearly worked for him, hey.

Renton:
Well, he's always been lacking in moral fibre.

Swanney:
He knows a lot about Sean Connery.

Renton:
That's hardly a substitute.

Swanney:
Do you need one more hit?

Renton:
No, I don't think so.

Swanney:
A long night and life ahead?

[Renton thinks, then leaves Swanney's apartment. Swanney returns to smoking and his toast.]

Renton:
[narrating] We called him "Mother Superior" on account of the length of his habit. Of course I'd have another shot. After all, I had work to do.

[Renton goes to Mikey Forrester to buy a final shot of heroin; Forrester hands him suppositories]

Renton:
[narrating] This was typical of Mikey Forrester. In the normal run of things, I would have nothing to do with the c*nt. But this was not the normal run of things.

Renton:
What the f*** are these?!

Mikey Forrester:
Opium suppositories. Ideal for your purposes. Slow release. Bring you down gradually. Custom f***ing designed for your needs.

Renton:
I want a f***ing hit!

Mikey Forrester:
That's all I've got, matey. Take it or leave it.

[Renton considers this and eventually takes the opium suppositories and inserts them]

Mikey Forrester:
Aye, you feel better the now right?

Renton:
Oh, yeah, for all the good they've done me, I might as well have stuck them up my arse!

Sick Boy:
It's certainly a phenomenon in all walks of life.

Renton:
What do you mean?

Sick Boy:
Well, at one time, you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's gone forever. All walks of life: George Best, for example. Had it, lost it. Or David Bowie, or Lou Reed.

Renton:
Lou Reed, some of his solo stuff's not bad.

Sick Boy:
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.

Renton:
So who else?

Sick Boy:
Charlie Nicholas, David Niven, Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley...

Renton:
OK, OK, so what's the point you're trying to make?

Sick Boy:
All I'm trying to do, Mark, is help you understand that The Name of the Rose is merely a blip on an otherwise uninterrupted downward trajectory.

Renton:
What about The Untouchables?

Sick Boy:
I don't rate that at all.

Renton:
Despite the Academy Award?

Sick Boy:
That means f*** all. It's a sympathy vote.

Renton:
Right. So we all get old and then we can't hack it anymore. Is that it?

Sick Boy:
Yeah.

Renton:
That's your theory?

Sick Boy:
Yeah. Beautifully f***ing illustrated.

Renton:
Give me the gun. Give me the gun.

Sick Boy:
[affects a Sean Connery accent] Do you see the beast? Have you got it in your sights?

Renton:
[aiming the pellet gun at a dog] Clear enough, Miss Moneypenny! This should present no significant problems! [shoots the dog, which starts attacking its owner]

Sick Boy:
For a vegetarian, Rents, you're a f***in' evil shot!

Renton:
What's on the menu this evening, sir?

Swanney:
Your favourite dish.

Renton:
Excellent.

Swanney:
Your usual table, sir.

Renton:
Oh, why thank you.

Swanney:
Would sir care to pay for his bill in advance?

Renton:
No. Stick it on my tab.

Swanney:
Ah, regret to inform, sir, credit limit was reached and breached quite some time ago.

Renton:
Oh, well in that case... [hands him some cash]

Swanney:
Oh, hard currency, why, sir, that'll do nicely. Can't be too careful when we're dealing with your type, can we? Would sir care for a starter? Some garlic bread perhaps?

Renton:
No, thank you. I'll proceed directly to the intravenous injection of hard drugs, please.

[Renton, Sick Boy, Begbie and Spud are trying to sell a large quantity of heroin to a big-time dealer]

Dealer:
So, how much would you like for this?

Begbie:
20,000.

Dealer:
Well, I don't think it's worth more than 15.

Renton:
[narration] This was a real drag to him. He didn't need to negotiate. I mean, what the f*** were we going to do if he didn't buy it? Sell it on the streets? F*** that.

Begbie:
Well... 19.

Dealer:
Terribly sorry, I can't go to 19.

Begbie:
[flustered] Well, f***in' 16, then.

Dealer:
[chuckles] Okay. "Well f***in' 16" it is, then.

Mrs. Renton:
We'll help you son. You'll stay here with us, till you get better. We're gonna beat this together.

Renton:
Maybe I, Maybe I should go back to the clinic?

Mrs. Renton:
No. No clinics, no methadone. That only made you worse, you said so yourself. You lied to us son. Your own mother and father!

Renton:
You could bring us some jellies.

Mrs. Renton:
No! You're worse coming off that than the heroin. Nothing at all!

Mr. Renton:
It's a clean break this time.

Mrs. Renton:
You're staying here, where we can keep an eye on you.

Renton:
I appreciate what you're trying to do. I really do, but I just need one more score like. Just bring me one more hit. I need one more f***ing hit! You f***!

Begbie:
Well, that's a good f***ing laugh, ain't it? You sweat that shite out of your system, cause I'll come back and it's still here, I'll f***ing kick it out. Okay?

Diane:
Dear Mark, I'm glad you've found a job and somewhere to live. School is fine at the moment. I'm not pregnant, but thanks for asking. Your friend Sick-Boy asked me last week if I would like to work for him, but I told him where to go. I met Spud who sends his regards, or at least I think that's what he said. No one seen Tommy for ages, and finally, Francis Begbie has been on television a lot this week, as he is wanted by the police, in connection with an armed robbery in a jewellers in Corstorphine. Take care, Yours with love. Diane.

(Door bell rings... Renton looks at the letter again...)

Diane:
Francis Begbie.

(Door bell rings again...)

Renton:
Oh no!

Begbie:
Armed robbery? What? With a replica? I mean how can it be an armed robbery with a f***ing replica? F***ing scandal. And the gear? look! Supposed to be f***ing solid silver, it's f***ing garbage. There's Young couples investing their hopes in that stuff and all.

Renton:
It's a scandal Franco.

Begbie:
Too f***ing right that is!

Begbie:
And I don't want any pot noodles by the way. I'm f***ing lee marvin.

Renton:
Getting out much Tommy?

Tommy:
No.

Renton:
Following the game at all?

Tommy:
No.

Renton:
Nah, me neither really.

(Renton sits on the chair...)

Tommy:
Did you take the test?

Renton:
Aye.

Tommy:
Clear?

Renton:
Aye.

Tommy:
That's nice.

Renton:
I'm sorry Tommy.

Tommy:
Got any gear on you?

Renton:
No, I'm clean man.

Tommy:
Well, sub us then mate. I'm expecting a rent check.

(Renton gives Tommy some cash notes... Tommy smiles, and so does Renton...)

Tommy:
Thanks Mark.

Renton:
No bother. No Bother. None at all. Not for me anyway. Still, it's easy to be philosophical when other poor c*nt with shite for blood.

[Diane knocks on door]

[Renton opens the door]

Renton:
What do you want?

Diane:
Are you clean?

Renton:
Yes!

Diane:
Is that a promise then?

Renton:
Yes it is as a matter of fact!

Diane:
Calm down, I'm only asking. Is that hash I can smell?

Renton:
No.

Diane:
I wouldn't mind a bit if it is.

Renton:
Well, it isn't.

Diane:
Smells like it.

Renton:
You're too young.

Diane:
I'm too young for what?

[Diane enters the apartment]

Diane:
You're not getting any younger Mark. The world is changing. Music's changing, even drugs are changing. You can't stay here all day dreaming about heroin and Ziggy Pop.

Renton:
It's Iggy Pop.

Diane:
Whatever. I mean the guy is dead anyway.

Renton:
Iggy Pop is not dead. He toured last year, Tommy went to see him.

Diane:
The point is, you've got to find something new.

[Narrating] "She was right, I had to find something new, there was only one thing for it."

Renton:
Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a f***ing big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of f***ing fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f*** you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f***ing junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f***ed-up brats you have spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?

Renton:
People think it's all about misery and desperation and death and all that shite, which is not to be ignored. But what they forget is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn't do it. After all, we're not f***ing stupid. At least, we're not that f***ing stupid. Take the best orgasm you ever had, multiply it by a thousand and you're still nowhere near it. When you're on junk you have only one worry: scoring. When you're off it you are suddenly obliged to worry about all sorts of other shite. Got no money: can't get pissed. Got money: drinking too much. Can't get a bird: no chance of a ride. Got a bird: too much hassle. You have to worry about bills, about food, about some football team that never f***ing wins, about human relationships and all the things that really don't matter when you've got a sincere and truthful junk habit.

Renton:
[explaining the gaps in his employment history - from a deleted scene included on some home media releases] Yes, I can. The truth—well, the truth is that I've had a long-standing problem with heroin addiction. I've been known 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.

Renton:
One thousand years from now, there won't be any guys and there won't be any girls, just wankers. Sounds all right to me.

Renton:
It looks easy this, but it's not. Looks like a doss, like a soft option. But living like this, it's a full-time business.

Renton:
Our only response was to keep on going and f*** 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, f***ing people over. Propelling ourselves with longing towards the day that it would all go wrong. Because no matter how much you stash or how much you steal, you'll never have enough. No matter how often you go out and rob and f*** people over, you always need to get up and do it all over again.

Renton:
Since I was on remand, they've had me on this programme. The state-sponsored addiction. Three sickly sweet doses of methadone a day instead of smack. But it's never enough. And at the moment, it's nowhere near enough. I took all three this morning, and now I've got 18 hours to go till my next shot, and the sweat on my back is like a layer of frost. I need to visit the mother-superior for one hit. One f***ing hit to get us over this long, hard day.

Renton:
This seems however I really am the luckiest guy in the world. Several years of addiction, right in the middle of an epidemic, surrounded by the living dead. But not me. I am negative. It's official. And once the pain goes away, that's when the real battle starts. Depression. Boredom. You feel so f***ing low, you'll want to f***ing top yourself.

Begbie:
No way I would poison my body with that shite. All the f***ing chemicals. No f***ing way!

Begbie:
Hey Rent boy, no f***ing skag!

Begbie:
You better clean up your f***ing act sunshine. cut that shite out forever.

Begbie:
See, inside you won't last two f***ing days.

Begbie:
Well, it's not our fault! Your boy went down because he was a f***ing smack-head, and if that's not your fault than I don't know what is! I was the f***ing c*nt trying to get hum off it.