Trainspotting (1996) - full transcript

A wild, freeform, Rabelaisian trip through the darkest recesses of Edinburgh low-life, focusing on Mark Renton and his attempt to give up his heroin habit, and how the latter affects his relationship with family and friends: Sean Connery wannabe Sick Boy, dimbulb Spud, psycho Begbie, 14-year-old girlfriend Diane, and clean-cut athlete Tommy, who's never touched drugs but can't help being curious about them...

Choose life. Choose a job.

Choose a career. Choose a family.

Choose a fucking big television.

Choose washing machines, cars,
compact disc players, 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 fucking fabrics.

Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck
you are on a Sunday morning.

Choose sitting on that couch

watching mind-numbing,
spirit-crushing game shows

stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.

Tommy, go!

Choose rotting away
at the end of it all,

pissing your last in a miserable home,

nothing more than an embarrassment
to the selfish, fucked-up brats

that you've spawned to replace yourself.

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?

Goldfinger is better than Dr. No.

Both of them are a lot better
than Diamonds Are Forever.

A judgement reflected in its relatively
poor showing at the box office.

And in which field, of course,
Thunderball was a notable success.

People think it's all about misery
and desperation and death, and all that shite

which is not to be ignored.

Fuck off! Jealous cunt.

But what they forget
is the pleasure of it.

They're all dead, right, mate?

You prick!

Otherwise we wouldn't do it.

- Do you want me to do it?
- Yeah.

Pure as the driven snow, that shit, Danny.

After all, we're not fucking stupid.
Or at least we're not that fucking stupid.

Take the best orgasm you ever had,
multiply it by a thousand

and you're still nowhere near it.

It beats any meat injection.

That beats any fucking cock in the world.

When you're on junk,
you have only one worry, scoring.

When you're off it, you're suddenly obliged
to worry about all sorts of other shite.

Got no money, can't get drunk.
Got money, drinking too much.

Can't get a girl, no chance of a ride.
Got a girl, too much hassle.

You have to worry about bills, about food,

about some football team
that never fucking wins,

about human relationships, and all
the things that really don't matter

when you've got
a sincere and truthful junk habit.

I'd say, in those days,
he was a muscular actor.

With all the presence
of someone like Cooper or Lancaster,

but combined with a sly wit

to make him a formidable romantic lead

and closer in that respect to Cary Grant.

The only drawback,
or at least the principal drawback,

is that you have to endure
all manner of cunts telling you...

No way would I poison my body
with that shit.

All them fucking chemicals.

No fucking way.

It's a waste of your life, man,
poisoning your body with that shit.

Every chance you've had, Son,
you've blown it.

Stuffing your veins with that filth.

From time to time,
even I have uttered the magic words.

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

- Are you serious?
- Yeah.

- No more. I'm finished with that shite.
- Well, that's up to you, man.

Gonna do it right this time,

gonna get it sorted out, get off it for good.

- I'm sure I've heard that one before.
- The Sick Boy method.

- It really worked for him, eh?
- He's always been lacking in moral fibre.

- He knows a lot about Sean Connery.
- That's hardly a substitute.

You need one more hit.

- No, I don't think so.
- For the long night that lies ahead.

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.

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,


One mattress.

One bucket for urine,
one for faeces, 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.

Now I'm ready.

All I need is one final hit
to soothe the pain

while the Valium takes effect.

Mikey. Aye. Yeah, it's Mark Renton.

Look, I wondered, could you help me out?

This was typical of Mikey Forrester.

What the fuck are these?

Under the normal run of things

I'd have nothing to do with the cunt,
but this wasn't the normal run of things.

Opium suppositories.

Ideal for your purposes.

Slow release, bring you down gradually.

Custom fucking designed for your needs.

I want a fucking hit.

That's all I've got, man.
Take it or leave it.

Are you feeling better now, then, eh?

Oh, aye. For all the good they've done me,
I might as well have stuck them up my arse.

Heroin makes you constipated.

The heroin from my last hit is fading away,
and the suppositories have yet to melt.

I'm no longer constipated.

I fantasise about a massive,
pristine convenience,

brilliant gold taps, virginal white marble,
a seat carved from ebony,

a cistern full of Chanel No. 5

and a flunky handing me
pieces of raw silk toilet roll.

But under the circumstances,
I'll settle for anywhere.


Yes, you fucking dancer!

And now,

now I'm ready.

The downside of coming off junk
was I knew I'd 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.

Take Sick Boy, for instance.
He came off junk at the same time as me

not because he wanted to, you understand,
but just to annoy me.

Just to show me how easily he could do it,
thereby downgrading my own struggle.

Sneaky fucker, don't you think?

And when all I wanted to do was lie there
and feel sorry for myself,

he insisted on telling me once again
about his unifying theory of life.

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

What do you mean?

Well, at one point you've got it,
then you lose it, and it's gone forever,

all walks of life.

Georgie Best, for example, had it, lost it.

Or David Bowie, or Lou Reed.

Lou Reed, some of his solo stuff
is not bad.

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.

So, who else?

Charlie Nicholas, David Niven,
Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley.

Okay, so what's the point
you're trying to make?

All I am trying to do, Mark, is to help you
understand that The Name of the Rose

is merely a blip on an otherwise
uninterrupted downward trajectory.

And what about The Untouchables?

I don't rate that at all.

Despite the Academy award?

That means fuck-all. It's a sympathy vote.

So, we all get old,
we can't hack it any more and that's it?


That's your theory?


Beautifully fucking illustrated.

Give me the gun.

Give me the gun.

Do you see the beast?

Have you got it in your sights?

Clear enough, Miss Moneypenny.

This should present no significant problems.

For a vegetarian, Rents,
you're a fucking evil shot.

Without heroin, I attempted to lead a
useful and fulfilling life as a good citizen.

- Good luck, Spud.
- Cheers, cowboy.

- Now remember.
- What?

If they think you're not trying,
you're in trouble, right?

First hint of that and they'll be on to
the DHSS, "This cunt is not trying."

- And your Giro's fucking finished, right?
- Right.

- But then again, try too hard...
- You might get the fucking job.

- Exactly.
- Nightmare.

It's a tightrope, Spud.
It's a fucking tightrope.

See, I just get pure shy
with the interviewer cats.

I get all nervous
and I can't answer any of their questions

like I'm a footballer
and I get nerves on the big occasion.

Try some of this, Spud.

Yeah, a little dab of speed
is just the ticket, man.

No, I went to Craigie, Craignewton.

I just put down Royal Edinburgh College
to help get the job.

There's too much discrimination
in this town, man.

'Cause they're both schools, right?

We're all in this together,
and I wanted to put across

the general idea rather than the details.
People get all hung up on details.

Like, which school did I go to?
How many grades did I get?

Could be six, could be none.
It's not important.

What is important is that I am, yes?

Mr Murphy, do you mean
that you lied on your application?

No! Well, yes.
Only to get my foot in the door.

Showing initiative and that, like.

But you were referred here
by the Department of Employment.

There was no need for you
to get your "foot in the door" as you put it.

Yeah, cool. Whatever you say.

Sorry, you're the man, the dude in the chair.

I am merely here. Obviously, I'm here.

Mr Murphy, what exactly attracts you
to the leisure industry?

In a word, pleasure.

Like, my pleasure in other people's leisure.

Do you see yourself
as having any weaknesses?

Oh, yes! 'Cause I'm a bit of
a perfectionist, actually. Yes, I am.

See, for me it's got to be the best
or it's nothing at all.

Like, if things get a bit dodgy,
I just cannot be bothered.

But, hey, I'm getting good vibes about
this interview thing today, though, man.

Seems to me like it's going pretty well, eh?

Thank you, Mr Murphy.

We'll let you know.

The pleasure was mine, man.

Spud had done well,
I was proud of him.

He fucked up good and proper.
You had to hand it to Spud.

Picture the scene.
The other fucking week there

down the fucking Volley.
Me and Tommy playing pool.

I'm playing like Paul fucking Newman
by the way.

Giving the boy here
the tanning of a lifetime.

So it comes to the last shot,
the deciding ball of the whole tournament.

I'm on the black and he's sat in the corner
looking all fucking biscuit-arsed

when this hard cunt comes in,
obviously fucking fancied himself.

Starts staring at me,

looking at me, right fucking at me,
as if to say, "Come ahead, square go."

You know me. I'm not the type of cunt
that goes looking for fucking bother

but at the end of the day
I'm the cunt with the pool cue

and he can get the fat end in his puss
any time he fucking wanted, like.

So I squares up, casual like.

What does the hard cunt do?

Or the so-called hard cunt. Shites it,

puts down his drink, turns and gets
the fuck out of there, and after that,

well, the game was mine.

And that was it.

That was Begbie's story. Or at least
that was Begbie's version of the story.

But a couple of days later
I got the truth from Tommy.

You always got the truth from Tommy.
It was one of his major weaknesses.

He never told lies, he never took drugs,
and he never cheated on anyone.

It was Wednesday morning. We were in
the Volley playing pool, that much is true.

But Begbie is playing
absolutely fucking gash.

He's got a hangover so bad
he can hardly hold the fucking cue,

never mind pot a ball.

I'm doing my best to lose, you know,
trying to humour him, like.

But it's not doing any good.

Every time I touch a ball,
I seem to pot something.

Every time Begbie goes near the table,
he fucks it up.

Oh, fuck's sake.

So, he's got the hump, right?

But, finally, I managed to set it up
so all he has to do is to pot the black

to win one game,
to salvage a little bit of pride

and maybe not kick my head in, right?

So, he's on the black, pressure shot.

Then it all goes wrong, big time.


He picks on this specky wee gadge
at the bar

and accuses him of putting him off
by looking at him.

I couldn't believe it.

The poor wee cunt hasn't even glanced
in our direction.

Fuck off!

He was going to chib him, I tell you.

Then I thought he was going to do me.

The beggar is fucking psycho, man.

But he's a mate, you know.
So what can you do?

Can I borrow this?

What indeed could one do?

Just stand back and watch,
and try not to get involved?

Begbie didn't do drugs either.

He just did people,
that's what he got off on.

His own sensory addiction.

That lassie got glassed and no cunt leaves
here till we find out what cunt did it.

Who the fuck are you?

Oh, Tom.

- Oh, Lizzy, it's so good.
- Oh, Tom, I'm coming.

As I sat watching the intimate
and highly personal video

stolen only hours earlier
from one of my best friends,

I realised that something important
was missing from my life.

- I read it in Cosmopolitan.
- It's an interesting theory.

Actually, it's a nightmare.

I've been desperate for a shag

but watching him suffer
was just too much fun.

You should try it with Tommy.

What, and deny myself the only pleasure
I get from him?

Did I tell you about my birthday?

- No, what happened?
- He forgot. Useless motherfucker.

Did she go ballistic?

Big-time. Absolutely fucking right.
"It's me or Iggy Pop, time to decide."

What are you two talking about?


What are you talking about?


The situation was becoming serious.

Young Renton noticed the haste
with which the successful

in the sexual sphere, as in all others,
segregated themselves from the failures.

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 a hold in his sex-crazed mind.

His post-junk libido,
fuelled by alcohol and amphetamine

taunted him remorselessly
with his own unsatisfied desire.

Dot, dot, dot.

And with that,
Mark Renton had fallen in love.

Excuse me, excuse me. I don't mean
to harass you, but I was very impressed

with your capable and stylish manner
of dealing with that situation.

I was thinking to myself,
"Now, this girl's special."


- What's your name?
- Diane.

- Where are you going, Diane?
- I'm going home.

- Where's that?
- It's where I live.



I'll come back with you if you like,
but I'm not promising anything.

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.


A little bit crazy,
a little bit bad. But, hey,

don't us girls just love that?


Well, what's wrong, boy?
Cat got your tongue?

I left something...

Are you getting in or not, pal?

Do you understand? I expect you
to be a considerate and thoughtful lover.

- Generous but firm.
- What?

Failure on your part to live up
to these very reasonable expectations

will result in swift resumption
of a non-sex situation.



- What?
- Shut up!

Wake up, Spud.

Wake up.


Casual sex.

Tommy, let's put the tape on.


I want to watch ourselves
while we're screwing.

So, let's see what I'm missing.

Not much.

There's the captain, Archie Gemmill,

picking it up from the outside.

I think he wants to go himself.
Is he gonna go?

He's going all the way. And he scores!

What a magnificent goal!

Gemmill at his very best.

What a penetrating goal that was!

I haven't felt that good since Archie
Gemmill scored against Holland in 1978.


You can't sleep here.

- What?
- Out.

Come on.

No argument. You can sleep on the sofa
in the hall or go home, it's up to you.

And don't make any noise.


What do you mean, "It's gone"?
Where has it gone, Tommy?

It'll be here somewhere.

- I might have returned it by mistake.
- Returned it?

Where? The video shop, Tommy?

The fucking video shop?

So every punter in Edinburgh
is jerking off to our video?

God, Tommy, I feel sick.

- Hi.
- Hello.


Come in and sit down.

Like some coffee?


- You must be Mark.
- Aye, that's me.

- Are you a friend of Diane's?
- More a friend of a friend, no?


Are you her flatmates, like?


I must remember that one.


- Good morning, Spud.
- Morning, Gail.

Mr Houston. Mrs Houston.

Morning, Spud.
Sit down and have some breakfast.

Sorry about last night, by the way.

That's all right. I slept fine on the sofa.

I had a bit much to drink,
had a bit of an accident.

Don't worry, son. These things happen.

Does a man good
to cut loose once in a while.

This one could do with being tied up
once in a while.

- I'll put the sheets in the machine now.
- No, I'll wash them.

- There's no need.
- No, it's no problem.

It's no problem for me, either.

- I'd rather take care of it myself, actually.
- Honestly, it's no problem.

- Really, no!
- Spud, they're my sheets.

- I don't see why not.
- Because it's illegal, that's why not.

- What, holding hands?
- No, not holding hands.

In that case you can do it.

You were quite happy
to do a lot more last night.

Yeah, and that's what's illegal.

Do you know what they do
to people like me inside?

They cut your balls off
and flush them down the fucking toilet.

- Calm down. You're not going to jail.
- That's very easy for you to say, Diane.

- Can I see you again?
- Certainly not.

If you don't see me again,
I'll tell the police.

I'll see you around then.

Now what?

We go for a walk.

- What?
- A walk.

- Where?
- There.

Are you serious?

What are you waiting for?

Hey, Tommy.

This is not natural, man.

It's the great outdoors.

It's fresh air.

Look, Tommy, we know
you're getting a hard time off Lizzy

but there's really no need
to take it out on us.

- Doesn't it make you proud to be Scottish?
- It's shite being Scottish.

We're the lowest of the low.
The scum of the fucking earth.

The most wretched,
miserable, servile, pathetic trash

that was ever shat into civilisation.

Some people hate the English, I don't.
They're just wankers.

We, on the other hand,
are colonised by wankers.

Can't even find a decent culture
to be colonised by.

We're ruled by effete arseholes.

It's a shite state of
affairs to be in, Tommy.

And all the fresh air in the world
won't make any fucking difference.

Sorry, man. Sorry. No, I'm sorry.

I appreciate it, Tommy.

At or around this time,

Spud, Sick Boy and I made a healthy,
informed, democratic decision

to get back on heroin as soon as possible.

Took about 12 hours.

It looks easy this, but it's not.

It looks like a doss, like a soft option

but living like this,
it's a full-time business.

Ursula Andress,
the quintessential Bond girl.

That's what everyone says.

The embodiment, right,
of his superiority to us.

Beautiful, exotic, highly sexual,

yet totally unavailable
to anyone apart from him.

Shite. I mean, let's face it, mate.

She'd shag one punter from Edinburgh,
she'd shag the whole fucking lot of us.

Yep, I knew he was going to do that.

Lizzy's gone, Mark.
She's gone and fucking dumped me.

It was that videotape.

And that Iggy Pop business
and all other sorts of shit.

She told me where to go
and no fucking mistake.

I said to her, I said,

"Is there any chance
of getting back together?"

But no fucking way.

Honor Blackman, a.k.a. Pussy Galore, right?

What a total fucking misnomer.

I mean, I wouldn't touch her with yours.

I want to try it, Mark.

You're always going on about
how it's like the ultimate hit and that.

Better than sex.

Come on, man, I'm a fucking adult,
I can find out for myself.

I've got the money.

Personality, I mean, that's what counts,

Personality, I mean, that's what keeps
a relationship going through the years.

Like heroin.

I mean,

heroin's got great fucking personality.

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.

We took morphine, diamorphine,
cyclizine, codeine, temazepam,

nitrezepam, phenobarbitone
and sodium amytal,

dextropropoxyphene, methadone,
nalbuphine, pethidine, pentazocine,

dextromoramide, chlormethiazole.

The streets are awash with drugs
you can have for unhappiness and pain

and we took them all.

Fuck it, we would have injected vitamin C
if only they'd made it illegal.

Pardon me,
may I use your bathroom? Thank you.

Stop, psycho.

Rent-boy. No fucking smack.

But the good times
couldn't last forever.

I think Allison had been screaming all day,
but it hadn't really registered before.

She might have been screaming
for a week for all I knew.

It'd been days since I heard anyone speak.

Surely someone must've said something
in all that time.

Surely to fuck someone must have.

- Allison!
- Help me, please!

Calm down.

Everyone's going to be just fine.

Nothing could have been further
from the truth.

In point of fact,
nothing was going to be just fine.

On the contrary,
everything was going to be bad.

Bad, I mean, everything was going to be
even worse than it already was.

My God! No, my God!


Please, please!

It wasn't my baby. She wasn't
my baby. Baby Dawn, she wasn't mine.

Spud's, Swanney's, Sick Boy's, I don't know.

Maybe Allison knew, maybe not.

I wished I could think of something to say.
Something sympathetic.

Something human.

Say something, Mark.

Fucking say something, huh?

I'm cooking up.

Cook us up a shot, Rents.
I really need a hit.

So she did, I could understand that,

to take the pain away.

So I cooked up and she got a hit.

But only after me, that went without saying.

Well, at least we knew
who the father was now.

It wasn't just the baby that died that day.

Something inside Sick Boy was lost
and never returned.

It seemed he had no theory
with which to explain a moment like this.

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 that it would all go wrong.

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 over again.

Sooner or later this kind of thing
was bound to happen.

Because shoplifting is theft,
which is a crime,

and despite what you may believe,
there is no such entity as victimless crime.

Heroin addiction may explain your actions,
but it does not excuse them.

Mr Murphy, you are a habitual thief,
devoid of regret and remorse.

I'm sentencing you
to six months' imprisonment.

My only worry is that it will not be long
before we meet again.

Mr Renton, I understand that you have
entered into a programme of rehabilitation

in an attempt to wean yourself
away from heroin.

The suspension of your sentence

is conditional on your continued
co-operation with this programme.

Should you stand guilty before me again,

I shall not hesitate
to impose a custodial sentence.

Thank you, Your Honour.

With God's help,
I'll conquer this terrible affliction.

What can you say?

Well, Begbie had a phrase for it.

It was fucking obvious
that cunt was going to fuck some cunt.

Hope you've learned your lesson, Son.

My son, I thought
I was going to lose you there.

You're nothing but trouble to me,
but I still love you.

You'd better clean up your fucking act,
sunshine. Cut that shite out forever.

Listen to Francis, Mark.
He's talking sense, kid.

Fucking right I am. See, inside,
you wouldn't last two fucking days.

There are better things than the needle,
Rents. Choose life.

I remember
when you were a wee baby.

♪Mama's little baby♪

♪loves shortening, shortening♪

♪Mama's little baby loves shortening bread♪

I'm sorry, Mrs Murphy.

It was not fair,
Spud going down and not me.

Well, it's not our fault.

Your boy went down
because he was a fucking smack-head.

If that's not your fault,
then I don't know what is.

I was the fucking cunt
that tried to get him off it.

- I'll get the fucking drinks then, eh?
- Aye.

I wished I'd gone down
instead of Spud.

Here I was, surrounded by my family
and my so-called mates

and I've never felt so alone.
Never in all my puff.

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 a sweat on my back like a layer of frost.

I need to visit the Mother Superior
for one hit.

One fucking hit

to get us over this long, hard day.

- What's on the menu this evening, sir?
- Your favourite dish.


- Usual table, sir?
- Why, thank you.

Would sir care to pay for his bill
in advance?

No, stick it on my tab.

I regret to inform, sir,

credit limit was reached
and breached quite some time ago.

Well, in that case...

Hard currency, that'll do nicely.

Can't be too careful when we're dealing
with your type, can we, sir?

Would sir care for a starter?
Some garlic bread, perhaps?

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

As you wish, sir. As you wish.

Perhaps sir would like me to call for a taxi?

Open your eyes.

Wake up. Come on. Wake up.

I don't feel the sickness yet,
but it's in the mail, 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.

♪Oh, you've got green eyes♪
♪Oh, you've got blue eyes♪

♪Oh, you've got Grey eyes♪

♪And I've never seen anyone
quite like you before♪

♪No, I've never met anyone
quite like you before♪

We'll help you, Son.

You'll stay here with us
until you get better.

We're going to beat this together.

Maybe I should go back to the clinic.

No! No clinics. No methadone.

That only made you worse,
you said so yourself.

You lied to us, Son,
your own mother and father.

- You could bring us some jellies.
- No!

You're worse coming off that
than you are with the heroin.

- Nothing at all!
- It's a clean break this time.

You're staying here
where we can keep an eye on you.

I appreciate what you're trying to do,
I really do,

but I just need one more score.
Just bring me one more hit, please.

I need one more fucking hit!

You fuck!

Hit. Hit.

Well, this is a good fucking laugh, ain't it?

You sweat that shite out of your system
because if I come back and it's still here,

I'll fucking kick it out.



Question number one.
The human immunodeficiency virus is a...

- Retrovirus?
- Retrovirus is the right answer.

It's a mug's game, Mrs Renton.

I mean, 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.

Just say no.

Oh, my God, she's dead.

Question number two.

HIV binds to which receptor
on the host lymphocyte?

Which receptor is that?


CD4 is the right answer.

Better than sex, Rents. Better than sex.

The ultimate hit.

I'm a fucking adult,
I can find out for myself.

Well, I'm finding out, all right.



Is he guilty? Or not guilty?

He's our son.

Don't! Dawn!

Dawn! Stop!


No! Don't do this to me!





There's something you need to do.


Come alive, 35.

Box of tricks, 66.


Mark, you've got a house.

House, house!

For goodness' sake, Mark.

It 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'm negative.

It's official.

And once the pain goes away,
that's when the real battle starts.

Depression, boredom.

You feel so fucking low,
you want to fucking top yourself.



Tommy, it's Mark, man.

You all right, mate?

- Getting out much, Tommy?
- No.

- Following the game at all?
- No.

No, me neither, really.

You take the test?




That's nice.

I'm sorry, Tommy.

Got any gear on you?

No, I'm clean, man.

Well, sub us then, mate.

I'm expecting a rent cheque.

Thanks, Mark.

No bother.

No bother. None at all.
Not for me, anyway.

Still, it's easy to be philosophical

when it's some other poor cunt
with shite for blood.

What do you want?

- Are you clean?
- Yes.

- Is that a promise then?
- Yes, it is, as a matter of fact.

Calm down, I'm only asking.

- Is that hash I can smell?
- No.

- I wouldn't mind a bit if it is.
- Well, it isn't.

- It smells like it.
- You're too young.

I'm too young for what?

You're not getting any younger, Mark.

The world's changing, music's changing,
even drugs are changing.

You can't stay in here all day
dreaming about heroin and Ziggy Pop.

It's Iggy Pop.

Whatever. I mean, the guy's dead anyway.

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

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

She was right.
I had to find something new.

There was only one thing for it.

Lifestyle Letting Agency.

Yes. It's a beautifully converted
Victorian town house.

Ideally located in a quiet road
near to the local shops and transport.

This one's two bedrooms
and a kitchen/diner.

Fully fitted, in excellent decorative order.

Lots of storage space.

All mod cons and it's going at £320 a week.

I settled in not too badly
and kept myself to myself.

Sometimes, of course,
I thought about the guys,

but mainly I didn't miss them at all.

After all, this was boomtown,

where any fool could make cash
from chaos, and plenty did.

Tell you what I've got.

I've got a beautifully converted
Victorian town house.

I quite enjoyed the sound of it all.

Profit, loss, margins, takeovers, lending,
letting, sub-letting, sub-dividing,

cheating, scamming,
fragmenting, breaking away.

Who's got the keys to Talgarth Road?

There was no such thing as society.

And even if there was,
I most certainly had nothing to do with it.

For the first time in my adult life
I was almost content.

"Dear Mark, I'm glad you 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 has 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 jeweller's in Corstorphine.

"Take care. Yours, with love, Diane."

Francis Begbie.

Oh, no.

Armed robbery?

What, with a replica?

How the fuck can it be armed robbery
with a fucking replica?

Fucking scandal. And the gear... Look.

Supposed to be fucking solid silver,
it's fucking garbage.

Those young couples investing all their
fucking hopes in that stuff and all.

- It's a scandal, Franco.
- Too fucking right it is.

How about one of these Pot Noodles
by the way?

I'm fucking Lee Marvin.

Hey, Rents.

Begbie settled in, in no time at all.

I've got no fucking cigarettes.

Aye, right.

It's me.


Yeah, the guy's a psycho.

But it's true, he's a mate and all,
so what can you do?

Hey. Pop down the bookies
and put a line on for us.

Can you not go yourself?

Well, seeing as how
I'm a fugitive from the law

and I can't even walk
the fucking streets, you go.


Doncaster. 4:40. £5 to win. Bad Boy.

Buy some fucking beer and all.

Come on, Bad Boy.
Come on, son. Come on, son.

Come on. Come on. Yeah!


Bad Boy.

Came in at 16-to-1.

And with the winnings,
we went out to celebrate.

Diane was right. The world is changing.

Music is changing, drugs are changing,
even men and women are changing.

1,000 years from now, there'll be no guys
and no girls, just wankers.

Sounds great to me.

It's just a pity no one told Begbie.

Fuck! Fuck!

You see, if you ask me,
we're heterosexual by default,

not by decision.

It's just a question of who you fancy.

It's all about aesthetics
and it's fuck-all to do with morality.


But you try telling Begbie that.

Look, I'm not a fucking buftie
and that's the end of it.

Let's face it, it could have been wonderful.

Fucking listen to me,
you piece of junkie shit.

A joke's a fucking joke,
you mention that again and I'll cut you up.

You understand?

Since I last saw him,

Sick Boy had reinvented himself
as a pimp and a pusher

and was here, he said,
to mix business and pleasure,

setting up contacts,
as he constantly informed me,

for the great smack deal
that was one day going to make him rich.

Good chips.

I can't believe you did that.

I got a good price for it.

Rents, I need the money.

It was my fucking telly.

Christ, if I'd known you were going to get so
Humpty about it, I wouldn't have bothered.

Fucking rented anyway.

Are you going to eat that?

- Have you got a passport?
- Why?

I met this bloke who runs a hotel, brothel.

Loads of contacts.

He does a nice sideline
in punting British passports to foreigners.

Get you a good price.

And why would I want to sell my passport?

It was just an idea.

I had to get rid of them.

Sick Boy didn't do his drug deal
and he didn't get rich.

Instead, he and Begbie just hung around
my bed-sit looking for things to steal.

I decided to offer them one of London's
most desirable properties.

But, of course, they weren't paying any rent.

So when my boss found
two desperate suckers who would,

Sick Boy and Begbie
were bound to feel threatened.

Yep. Lots of storage.
All mod cons, 320 quid a week.

And that was that.

But by then we had another reason
to go back.


Tommy knew he'd got the virus, like,
but he never knew he'd gone full-blown.

What was it, pneumonia or cancer?

No, toxoplasmosis. It's like a stroke.

How's that?

He wanted to see Lizzy again.

She would not let him near the house.

So he bought her a present.
He brought her this kitten.

But Lizzy told him
where to fucking stick it?


"I'm not wanting a cat,"
she says, "Get to fuck, right."

So there's Tommy, stuck with this kitten.
You can imagine what happened.

To those of us gathered here today,

Thomas McKenzie filled a number
of different roles in our lives.

Thomas was a son...

The thing was neglected,
pissing and shitting all over the place.

Tommy was lying about, fucked out
of his eyeballs on smack or downers.

He never knew you could get
toxoplasmosis from cat shit.

...a loving man
who had a great lust for life.

- Neither did I. What is it?
- Fucking horrible.

- It's like an abscess in your brain.
- Fucking hell!

Then what happened?

He starts getting these headaches,
so he just uses more smack, for the pain.

And then he has a stroke. A fucking stroke.

Just like that.

He gets home from the hospital
and dies three weeks later.

He'd been dead for ages before the
neighbours complained about the smell

and got the police to break down the door.

Tommy was lying face down
in a pool of vomit.

He has gone from us, but we have
many things to remember him by.

The kitten was fine.

Would you all please rise now
for the committal?

♪Did you think I would leave you crying♪

♪When there's room on my horse for two♪

♪Climb up here, Tommy, don't be dying♪

♪I can go just as fast with two♪

♪When we grow up, we'll both be soldiers♪

♪And our horses will not be toys♪

♪And I wonder if we'll remember♪

♪When we were two little boys♪

- Tommy.
- Tommy.

Did you tell him yet?

On you go.


There's this mate of Swanney's.
You know the guy, Mikey Forrester.


He's come into some gear.

- A lot of gear.
- How much gear?

About two kilos. So he tells me.

He 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 next morning,
realises what he's done,

gets very fucking nervous.
He wants rid of this, right?


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.

We've just come back
from Tommy's funeral

and you're talking about a skag deal?


What was your price?

- Four grand.
- You haven't got four grand.

- We're 2,000 short.
- Well, that's tough.

Look, Mark, every cunt knows
you've been saving up down in London.

I'm sorry, boys, I do not have two grand.

Aye, you fucking do.

I've seen your bank statement.

For fuck's sake.


Two kilos. What is that, ten years?

Mikey Forrester, Russian sailors,
what the fuck are you boys on?

Spud, you've already been to jail.

What's the deal?
You like it so much, you want to go back?

I just want the money, Mark.

If everybody keeps their fucking mouth
shut, there'll be no cunt going to jail.

I hadn't told anyone everything
that was running through my mind

about what might happen in London.

There were a lot of possibilities
I didn't want to talk to anyone about.

Ideas best kept to myself.

What no one told me
was that when we bought the smack,

some lucky punter would have to try it out.

Begbie didn't trust Spud.
Sick Boy was too careful these days.

So I rolled up my sleeve, I spiked my vein,
and I did what had to be done.

It's good. Oh, it's really fucking good.

Yeah, that hit was good.

I promised myself another one
before we got to London.

Just the one hit, just for old times' sake.
Just to piss Begbie off.

This was his nightmare.

The dodgiest scam
in a lifetime of dodgy scams,

being perpetrated with three of the most
useless and unreliable fuckups in town.

I knew what was going on in his mind.

Any trouble in London,
and he would dump us immediately.

One way or another, he had to.

If he got caught with a bag full of smack
on top of that armed robbery shit,

he was going down for 15 to 20.

Begbie was hard. But not so hard that
he didn't shite it off 20 years in prison.

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?

- Did you bring the cards?
- What?

The cards, the last thing I told you
was to mind the cards.

I've not brought them.

It's fucking boring after a while
without the cards.

I'm sorry.

- Bit fucking late.
- Why didn't you bring them?

'Cause I fucking told you to bring them,
you doss cunt!


These are your friends, right?

These are the guys
I told you about.


- Well, is he here?
- Yeah, he's here.

You didn't get followed or nothing, did you?

We didn't get followed.


- All right.
- Hi.

Straightaway he clocked us
for what we were.

Small-time wasters
with an accidental big deal.

Excuse me, gentlemen.

So, how much would you like for this?


I don't think it's worth much more than 15.

This was a real drag to him.
He didn't need to negotiate.

What the fuck were we going to do with it
if he didn't buy it?

Sell it on the streets? Fuck that.

- Well, 19.
- Terribly sorry, I can't go to 19.

Well, fucking 16 then.

Okay. Well, fucking 16 it is then.

These, gentlemen, are £2,000 bundles.

That's two.

That's four.

We settled on £16,000.

He had a lot more in the suitcase,
but it was better than nothing.

...make eight.

Thank you very much, gentlemen.

I'd just like to say it's been a pleasure
haggling with you.

Fucking brand new, by the way.




And just for a moment
it felt really great.

Like we were all in it together,
like friends, like it meant something.

A moment like that,
it can touch you deep inside.

But it doesn't last long. Not like £16,000.

So, what about you, Spud?

Any major investments on the horizon at all?

Going to buy yourself
a wee island in the sun?

What, for four fucking grand?

One palm tree, a couple of rocks
and a fucking sewage outflow.

I don't know, man.

I'm going to get something for my ma,
I think.

Get some good speed, no bicarb.

Then get a girl, take her out,
treat her right.

- And shag her senseless?
- No, man, true love. True love.

But I could really handle some hot sex
with a Jewish princess tonight.

- You daft cunt.
- Or a Catholic.

If you're going to waste it on a bird,
you might as well fucking leave it all to me.

- Now get the drinks in.
- I got a round already.

- I got the last one.
- It's your round, Franco.

Okay. Same again?


I'm off for a piss.

See when I get back
that money's still here, okay?

The moment your back's turned
we're out the door.

- Yeah? I'll be right fucking after you.
- You'll never catch us, you flabby bastard.

By the way, see, when I get back...

We'll be halfway down the street
with the money.

- I'd fucking kill you.
- I thought you might, Franco.

Thought you might.

Are you game for it?



Are you serious?

I don't know. What do you think?

- Still here, I see.
- Aye. We wouldn't run out on a mate.

Why not? I know I would.

Where's Franco?

- For fuck's sake!
- Sorry, mate. I'll buy you another one.

You've ruined my fucking suit,
you fucking idiots.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean it.

Sorry is not going to dry me off, you cunt.

Cool down, Franco.
The man says he's sorry.

Not sorry enough for being a fat cunt.

Fuck you.

If you can't hold a pint you shouldn't be
in the pub, mate. Now, fuck off.

No, Frank, not that, man.

Oh, fuck's sake.

- Fucking nice one, Franco.
- Shut it.

- You cut me, man.
- You were in my fucking way.


Anybody else want to get in my fucking way?



Hey, Rent-boy.

You bring me down a fucking smoke.

- I think we'd better go, Franco.
- I've got to go to the hospital, man.

You're not going to any fucking hospital.
You're staying there.

You bring me down a fucking cigarette.

And the bag.

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 shit about him.

And Sick Boy would have done the same
to me if he'd only thought of it first.

And Spud, okay, I felt sorry for Spud.
He never hurt anybody.



Right. Move away, everybody.

What's going on in there?

Open up. Open up now!


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 is going to 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 going to be just like you.

The job, the family,
the fucking big television.

The washing machine, the car,
the compact disc, an electrical 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, 9:00 to 5:00,

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.