RENTON: Choose life. Choose a job.
Choose a career. Choose a family.
Choose a fucking 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 leisurewear and matching luggage.
Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase
in a range of fucking fabrics.
Choose D.I.Y. and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning.
Choose sitting, watching mind-numbing,
spirit-crushing game shows,
stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.
Tommy, go!
Choose rotting away at the end of it,
pissing your last in a miserable home.
An embarrassment to the selfish,
fucked-up brats that you've spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future. Choose life.
# Here comes Johnny Yen again #
# With the liquor and drugs #
But why would I want to do a thing like that?
# He's gonna do another striptease #
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?
# Yeah, something called love #
# Well, that's like hypnotizing chickens #
"Goldfinger's" better than "Dr. No."
Both of them are a lot better than "Diamonds Are Forever."
A judgment reflected in its relatively poor showing
at the box office.
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! Doss cunt!
But what they forget is the pleasure of it.
Wild hands like me!
You prick!
Otherwise we wouldn't do it.
- Do you want me to do it? - Yeah.
Beaut as the driven snow, that shit, Danny.
After all, we're not fucking stupid.
Well, at least, we're not that fucking stupid.
Take the best orgasm you ever had,
multiply it by 1, 000, and you're still nowhere near it.
That 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 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 wins,
about human relationships
and all of the things that 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.
Closer in that respect to Cary Grant.
Aah.
# Hey, man, where'd ya get that lotion? #
# Your skin starts itching once you buy the gimmick #
# About something called love #
# Love, love, love #
# Well, that's like hypnotizing chickens #
The only drawback, or at least the principal drawback,
is that you have to endure cunts telling you...
"No way would I poison my body with that shite."
All the fucking chemicals.
No fucking way.
It's a waste of your life, Mark,
poisoning your body with that shite.
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 scag.
Are you serious?
Yeah. No more. I'm finished with that shite.
It's up to you.
I'm going to get it sorted out, get off it for good.
I sure have heard that one before.
The Sick Boy method.
Well, it really worked for him, eh?
He's always been lacking in moral fiber.
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, 10 tins of.
Mushroom soup, 8 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.
One bottle of Valium, which I 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.
Mikey. Hi. Yeah, it's Mark Renton.
Look, could you help me out?
This was typical of Mikey Forrester.
What the fuck are these?
Under the normal run of things
I would have had nothing to do with the cunt,
but this was not 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?
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.
The suppositories have yet to melt.
Ohh!
I'm no longer constipated.
I fantasize about 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.
Ohh.
Fuck.
Ohh! Oh!
Ahh.
Yes, a fucking Godsend!
And now.
Now I'm ready.
The downside of coming off junk
was I knew I would mix with my friends
in a state of full consciousness.
It was awful.
They reminded me of myself.
I could hardly bear to look at them.
Take Sick Boy, for instance.
He came off junk at the same time.
Not because he wanted to.
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?
When I wanted to 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's not bad.
No, it's not bad, but it's not great either, is it?
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, okay, so what is 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 anymore, and that's it?
Yeah.
That's your theory?
Yeah.
Beautifully fucking illustrated.
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.
Aah! No! Fuck! Aah!
For a vegetarian, Rents, you're a fucking evil shot.
No! Get off!
Without heroin, I attempted to lead a useful
and fulfilling life as a good citizen.
- Good luck, Spud. - Cheers, Cowboy.
Remember, if they think you're not trying, you're in trouble.
First hint of that, they'll be on to the DHSS.
"This cunt is not trying."
And your giro is fucking finished, 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. I can't answer the questions.
I'm a footballer, and I get nerves on the big occasion, man.
Try some of this, Spud.
Yeah, a little dab of speed is just the ticket, man.
No, I went to Craigy. Craig Newton.
I just put down Royal Edinburgh College to help get the job.
There's too much discrimination in this town.
They're both schools.
We're all in this together.
I want to put across the general idea rather than the details.
People get hung up on details.
Which school did I go to? How many grades did I get?
It 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!
Yes, only to get my foot in the door.
Showing initiative and that.
You were referred by the Department of Employment.
There was no need for you to get your "foot in the door,"
as you put it.
Cool. Whatever you say, man. Sorry.
You're the man, the dude in the chair.
I am merely here. But 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 cannot be bothered.
But I've got good vibes about this interview thing today.
Seems to me like it's going pretty well.
Thank you, Mr. Murphy.
We'll let you know.
The pleasure was mine.
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, doing 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 in the corner,
looking all fucking biscuit-arsed,
when this hard cunt comes in.
Obviously fucking fancied himself, like.
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 a type of cunt that goes looking for bother.
At the end of the day, I'm the cunt with the pool cue,
and he can get the fire end in his puss anytime he wanted.
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.
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 cue,
never mind pot a ball.
I'm doing my best to lose, you know.
Trying to humor 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 manage 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.
And it all goes wrong, big-time.
Fuck!
Aah!
He picks on this specky wee gadgee at the bar
and accuses him of putting him off by looking at him.
Can you believe it?
The cunt hasn't 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's 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.
Nobody move!
That lassie got glassed,
and no cunt leaves here till we find out what cunt did it.
Who the fuck are you?
Yes!
Ohh!
Oh, Tom! Oh, my God!
Oh, Lizzy!
Oh, Tom, come in me!
And as I sat watching
the intimate and highly personal video,
stolen only hours earlier from one of my best friends,
I realized that something important
was missing from my life.
# Leave no track #
# Don't look back #
# All I desire #
# Temptation #
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?
What happened?
He forgot. Useless motherfucker.
What are you two talking about?
Football!
What are you talking about?
Shopping.
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.
# I can't break away #
# Keep us from temptation #
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, fueled by alcohol and amphetamine,
taunted him remorselessly with his own unsatisfied desire.
Dot, dot, dot.
# You think that you're right now #
# Temptation #
# You're gonna face it tonight now #
# Temptation #
# Oh, give me a breakdown #
# Temptation #
# Because it's time for a shakedown #
# Temptation #
And with that, Mark Renton had fallen in love.
Excuse me, I don't mean to harass you,
but I was very impressed with the capable manner
in which you dealt with that.
I was thinking to myself, "This girl's special."
Thanks.
- What's your name? - Diane.
- Where are you going, Diane? - I'm going home.
- Where's that? - It's where you live.
Great.
What?
I'll come back with you, 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.
Taxi!
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 reasonable expectations
will result in swift resumption of a non-sex situation.
Right?
Diane.
Shh!
What?
Shut up!
Wake up, Spud.
Wake up.
Sex.
Casual sex.
Tommy, let's put the tape on.
Now?
I want to watch ourselves while we're screwing.
So let's see what I'm missing.
Not much.
Pushed forward again.
And there's the captain, Archie Gemmill,
picking it up from the outside.
I think he wants to go himself.
He's gonna go. He's going all the way.
And he scores!
Oh, 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.
Jesus!
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?
Oh, God, Tommy, I feel sick.
# Oh, you've got green eyes #
# Oh, you've got blue eyes #
# Oh, you've got gray eyes #
# And I've never seen anyone #
Hi.
Hello.
# No, I've never met anyone #
# Quite like you before #
Fuck.
Eh?
Come in and sit down.
Like some coffee?
Aye.
You must be Mark.
Aye, that's me.
You're a friend of Diane's?
More of a friend of a friend, no?
Right.
Are you her flatmates, like?
Flatmates?
I must remember that one.
Morning.
Good morning, Spud.
Gail. Mr. Houston, Mrs. Houston.
Good morning, Spud. Sit down and have some breakfast.
I'm sorry about last night, by the way.
That's all right. I slept fine on the sofa.
I had a bit much to drink. I had a bit of an accident.
Don't worry, son. These things happen.
It 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.
No, no, no, I'll wash them.
- There's no need. - It's no problem.
It's no problem for me.
I'd rather take care of it myself.
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?
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'd do to me inside?
They cut your balls off and flush them down the toilet.
Calm down. You're not going to jail.
Well, 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're going for a walk.
What?
A walk!
Where?
There!
Are you serious?
Well, what are you waiting for?
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 civilization.
Some people hate the English. I don't.
They're just wankers.
We, on the other hand, are colonized by wankers.
We can't even find a decent culture to be colonized 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. I'm sorry.
No, 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.
It 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.
Well done.
I knew he was gonna do that.
Lizzy's gone, Mark.
She's gone and fucking dumped me.
It was that videotape
and that Iggy Pop business
and other sorts of shit.
She told me where to go and no fucking mistake.
I said to her,
"Is there any chance of getting back together?"
But no way, 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 the ultimate hit.
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, right?
Personality.
That's what keeps a relationship going through the years.
Like heroin.
I mean, heroin's got great fucking personality.
# Nightclubbing #
# We're nightclubbing #
# We're walking through town #
# Nightclubbing #
Swanney taught us
to 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, nitrazepam, phenobarbitone,
sodium amytal, dextropropo xyphene, methadone,
nalbuphine, pethidine, pentazocine, buprenorphine,
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.
[American accent] Pardon me, may I use your bathroom?
Thank you.
You're a psycho!
Hey, Rent Boy, no fucking smack.
But the good times couldn't last forever.
No! God, no!
Oh, my God, no! Please, no!
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 had been days since I heard anyone speak,
though someone must have said something in all that time.
Surely to fuck, someone must have.
- Allison! Allison! - Help me, please!
Calm down!
Everything'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 gonna be even worse than it already was.
No!
Fuck.
Jesus Christ!
No! No!
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!
I'm cooking up.
Cook us up a shot, Rents.
I need a hit.
And 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 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.
In sentencing you to six months imprisonment,
my only worry is it will not be long before we meet again.
Mr. Renton, I understand that you have entered
into a program of rehabilitation
in an attempt to wean yourself away from heroin.
The suspension of your sentence
is conditional on your continued cooperation with this program.
Should you stand guilty before me again,
I shall not hesitate to impose a custodial sentence.
Thank you, Your Honor.
With God's help, I'll conquer this terrible affliction.
What can you say?
Well, Begbie had a phrase for it.
It was obvious that cunt was going to fuck some cunt.
Well, I hope you learnt your lesson, son.
Oh, my son, I thought I was gonna lose you there.
You're nothing but trouble to me, but I still love you!
You better clean up your act. Cut that shite out forever.
You listen to Francis. He's talking sense.
Fucking right I am.
See, inside, you wouldn't last two fucking days.
There's better things than the needle, Rents.
Choose life.
I remember when you were a wee baby.
Oh, mama's little baby loves.
# Shortening, shortening #
# Mama's little baby loves shortening bread #
I'm sorry, Mrs. Murphy.
That wasn't any fair. Spud going down and not me.
Well, it's not our fault!
Your boy went down because he was a smack-head,
and if that's not your fault, then I don't know what is.
That was that fucking cunt.
I'll get the drinks.
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 program.
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 favorite dish. - Excellent.
- Usual table, sir? - Oh, why, thank you.
Would sir care to pay for his bill in advance?
No, stick it on my tab.
Regret to inform, sir,
credit limit was reached and breached quite some time ago.
Oh, well, in that case.
Hard currency! 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?
No, thank you. I'll proceed directly
to the intravenous injection of hard drugs, please.
As you wish, sir.
As you wish.
# Just a perfect day #
# Drink sangria in the park #
# And then later #
Perhaps sir would like me to call for a taxi?
# Just a perfect day #
# Feed animals in the zoo #
# Then later a movie, too, and then home #
# Oh, it's such a perfect day #
# I'm glad I spent it with you #
# Oh, such a perfect day #
# You just keep me hanging on #
# Just a perfect day #
# Problems all left alone #
# Weekenders on our own #
# It's such fun #
# Just a perfect day #
# You made me forget myself #
# I thought I was someone else #
# Someone good #
# Oh, it's such a perfect day #
# I'm glad I spent it with you #
# Oh, such a perfect day #
# You just keep me hanging on #
Open your eyes! Wake up!
Come on, wake up!
# Just what you sow #
# You're going to reap just what you sow #
I don't feel the sickness yet,
but it's in the post, that's for sure.
I'm in the junky 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.
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 gray 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 till you get better.
We're gonna 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 jellies. - No!
You're worse coming off that than 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.
But I just need one more score.
Just bring me one more hit.
I need one more fucking hit!
You fuck!
Hit.
Well, this is a good fucking laugh, ain't it?
You sweat that shite out of your system,
'cause if I come back and it's still here,
I'll fucking kick it out.
Okay.
God.
[Game-show music plays, audience cheering]
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.
But there comes a time
when you have to turn your back on that nonsense
and just say no.
Just say no.
She's gone! She's gone!
Fuck.
Question number two.
H.I.V. binds to which receptor on the host lymphocyte?
Which receptor is that?
# I'm gonna try, I'm gonna try #
CD4.
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.
Tommy.
No!
Stop it. Fucking stop it.
Stop it. Stop it.
Is he guilty or not guilty?
He's our son.
Don't!
Stop!
Oh, my God!
Stop!
- Mark.
Mark.
There's something you need to do.
Ow!
Come alive, 35.
Lots of tricks, 66.
Mark, you've got a house!
House! House!
For goodness sake, Mark.
It seems I really am the luckiest guy in the world.
Several years of addiction in the middle of an epidemic,
surrounded by the living dead.
But not me. I'm negative.
It's official.
Once the pain goes away, the real battle starts.
Depression. Boredom.
You feel so fucking low, you'll want to fucking top yourself.
Tommy!
Tommy, it's Mark, man.
Renton.
Getting out much, Tommy?
No.
Following the game at all?
No.
Nah, me neither, really.
You take the test?
Aye.
Clear?
Aye.
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 check.
Thanks, Mark.
No bother.
No bother, none at all.
Not for me, anyway.
- 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.
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.
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.
# So find the feeling #
# Boom, diggy diggy diggy, boom, diggy bang #
Lifestyle Leasing Agency.
Oh, yes, it's a beautifully converted Victorian townhouse.
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, and all mod cons.
And it's going at £320 a week.
I settled in not too badly and kept myself to myself.
Sometimes, 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.
I've got a beautifully converted Victorian townhouse.
I quite enjoyed the sound of it all.
Profit, loss, margins, takeovers, lending, letting,
subletting, subdividing,
cheating, scamming, fragmenting, breaking away.
Who's got the keys to Telegraph 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'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 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,
as he is wanted by the police
in connection with an armed robbery
in a jeweler's in Corstorphine.
Take care. Yours with love, Diane. "
"Francis Begbie."
Oh, no.
Armed robbery? With a replica?
I mean, how can it be armed robbery with a fucking replica?
Fucking scandal.
And the gear. Look.
Supposed to be solid silver. It's fucking garbage.
There's couples investing all their hopes in that stuff.
- It's a scandal, Franco. - Too fucking right it is.
And I don't want any 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.
# We didn't have nowhere to live #
All right.
# Till someone said, "I know this place off Burditt Road" #
# It was on the 15th floor #
# It had a board across the door #
# It took an hour to pry it off and get inside #
# It smelt as if someone had died #
# The living room was full of flies #
# The kitchen sink was blocked #
It's me.
# The bathroom sink not there at all #
Franks!
# A mess all right #
# Yes, it's Mile End #
Yeah, the guy's a psycho, but it's true.
He's a mate also. What can you do?
# And now we're living in the sky #
# I'd never thought I'd live so high #
# Just like heaven if it didn't look like hell #
# The lift is always full of piss #
# The fifth-floor landing smells of fish #
# Not just on Friday, every single other day #
Hey.
Pop into bookie's 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.
Here.
Doncaster. 4:40.
£5 you win. Bad Boy.
Buy some fucking beer. I'm out.
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.
Fuck!
But you try telling Begbie that.
Look, I'm not a fucking bufty.
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 scag deal that was 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!
Well, if I'd known you were going to get so humpty,
I wouldn't have bothered.
Fucking rented, anyway.
You going to eat that?
Have you got a passport?
Why?
I met this bloke.
Runs a hotel, a brothel.
Loads of contacts.
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 hung around my bed-sit
looking for things to steal.
I decided to put them in the worst place in the world.
# Sandman goes, two in tow #
# Wet and dumb #
# Coming down again #
They weren't paying any rent,
so when my boss found two suckers who would,
Sick Boy and Begbie were bound to feel threatened.
Yep, lots of storage. All mod cons.
320 quid a week.
- Aah! - Aah!
And that was that.
But by then we had another reason to go back.
Tommy.
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.
Sort of like a stroke.
How's that?
He wanted to see Lizzy again.
She wouldn't let him near the house.
So he bought her a present, brought her this kitten.
I bet Lizzy told him where to stick it.
Exactly. "I'm not wanting that cat," she says.
Get the 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.
- What? - Thomas was a son.
The thing was neglected.
Pissing and shitting all over the place.
Tommy's lying about,
fucked out of his eyeballs on smack or downers.
He never knew you could get toxoplasmosis from cat shit.
A loving man with 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, you know, for the pain, like.
And then he has a stroke.
A fucking stroke. Just like that.
Gets home from the hospital and dies three weeks later.
He'd been dead for ages
before the neighbors complained about the smell
and got the police to break down the door.
Tommy was lying facedown 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.
What?
There's this mate of Swanney's.
You know the guy. Mikey Forrester.
Aye.
Well, 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 this stuff for sale,
there and then, like.
So he wakes up the next morning,
realizes what he's done, gets very fucking nervous.
He wants rid of this, right?
So?
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.
Ho ho-ho-ho!
We've just come back from Tommy's funeral,
and you're talking about a scag deal?
Aye.
What was your price?
- Four grand. - You haven't got four grand?
We're £2,000 short.
Well, that's tough.
Look, every cunt knows you've been saving up down in London.
I'm sorry. I do not have two grand.
Aye, you fucking do.
I've seen your bank statement.
For fuck's sake.
£2, 133.
Two kilos. What is that, 10 years?
Mikey Forrester? Russian sailors?
What the fuck are you boys on, eh?
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 mouth shut,
there'll be no cunt going to jail.
There were a lot of possibilities running
through my mind about what might happen in London.
Things I didn't want to talk to anyone about,
ideas best kept to myself.
No one told me when we bought the scag,
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.
Mmm. Ohh.
Yeah, that hit was good.
I promised myself another one before I got to London.
Just the one like. For old time's 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 fuck-ups 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 bagful of scag,
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 Sultan.
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.
Well, I've not brought them.
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!
Christ.
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, did you?
We didn't get followed.
Okay.
All right.
Aye.
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?
£20,000.
Well, I don't think it's worth much more than £ 15,000.
This was a real drag to him.
He didn't need to negotiate.
What the fuck were we going to do if he didn't buy it?
Sell it on the streets? Fuck that!
Well, £ 19,000.
I'm terribly sorry. I can't go to £ 19,000.
Well, fucking £ 16,000, then.
Okay.
Well, fucking £ 16,000 it is, then.
These, gentlemen, are £2,000 bundles.
Here's two.
That's four.
We settled on £16, 000.
He had more in the suitcase, but it was better than nothing.
Thank you very much, gentlemen.
I'd like to say it's been a pleasure haggling with you.
Fucking brand-new, by the way.
Okay.
- Yes! - Yes!
Fucking...
And just for a moment, it felt really great.
Like we were in it together, like friends.
Like it meant something.
A moment like that can touch you deep inside.
But it doesn't last long, not like £16, 000.
So what about you, Spud, any investments on the horizon?
Gonna buy yourself a wee island in the sun?
For four fucking grand?
One palm tree, a couple of rocks, and a sewage outflow.
[Snorts] I don't know, man.
I'm gonna get something for my ma.
Get some good speed, no bicarb.
And get a girl, take her out, treat her right.
Shag her senseless.
No, man! True love.
Hey, but I could handle
some hot sex with a Jewish Princess.
- You daft cunt! - Or a Catholic!
If you're gonna waste it on a bird,
you may as well fucking leave all of it to me.
Now get the drinks.
- I got the last one. - It's your round, Franco.
Okay. Same again?
Right. I'm off for a pish.
See when I get back the money's still here, okay?
The moment your back's turned, we're out the door.
I'll be right fucking after you.
You'll never catch us, you flabby bastard.
By the way, see when I get back.
Be halfway down the street with the money.
Fucking kill you.
I thought you might, Franco.
I thought you might.
Are you game for it?
What?
Well?
Are you serious?
Don't know.
What do you think?
Still here, I see.
Oh, well, we wouldn't run out on a mate, eh?
Why not? I know I would.
Where's Franco?
For fuck's sake!
Sorry, mate.
You ruined my fucking suit, you fucking idiot.
I'm sorry. I didn't mean it.
Sorry's not gonna dry me off, you cunt.
Cool down, Franco. The man says he's sorry.
Not sorry enough for being a fat cunt.
If you can't hold a pint, you shouldn't be in the pub.
Fuck off.
Aah.
Oh! Oh, no! Oh, no!
Come on, Franco, move away. Aah!
Fuck's sake!
Oh, fucking nice one, Franco!
- Shut it! - You cut me, man!
You were in my fucking way.
Help!
Oh, no.
Anybody else want to get in my fucking way?
You?
Hey, Rent Boy, you bring me down a fucking smoke.
- I think we'd better go, Franco! - Go to the hospital!
You're not going to any fucking hospital, and you're staying.
You bring me down a fucking cigarette.
And the bag.
# Drive boy, dog boy, dirty, numb, angel boy #
# In-the-doorway boy, she was a lipstick boy #
# She was a beautiful boy, and tears, boy #
# And all in your inner space, boy #
# You had hand, girl's boy, and steel, boy #
# You had chemicals, boy #
# I've grown so close to you, boy #
# And you just groan, boy #
# She said, "Come over, come over" #
# She smiled at you #
# Bo-o-o-o-y #
# Drive boy, dog boy, dirty, numb, angel boy #
# In-the-doorway boy, she was a lipstick boy #
# She was a beautiful boy, and tears, boy #
# And all in your inner space, boy #
# You had hand, girl's boy, and steel, boy #
# You had chemicals, boy #
# I've grown so close to you, boy #
# And you just groan, boy #
# She said, "Come over, come over" #
# She smiled at you #
# Bo-o-o-o-y #
# Let your feelings slip, boy #
# But never your mask, boy #
# Random blonde bio, high-density rhythm #
# Blond boy, blond country blond #
# High density #
# You are my drug, boy #
# You're real, boy, speak to me, boy #
# Dog-dirty, numb-cracking boy #
# You get wet, boy #
# Big, big-time boy #
# Acid-bear boy #
# Babes and babes and babes and babes and babes #
# And remembering nothing, boy #
# Will you like my tin horn, boy? #
# And get wet like an angel, derail #
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. He'd have 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.
Bastard!
Fuck! Fuck!
All right, move away, people.
What's going on in there?
Open up. Open up now!
Bastard!
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.
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, and electrical tin opener,
good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance,
mortgage, starter home, leisurewear, luggage,
three-piece suite, D.I.Y., 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 to the day you die.