Trainspotting

SICK BOY: I'll be right after you.

BEGBIE: You'll never catch us, you flabby bastard. Right, see, when I come back --

BEGBIE: OK. Same again?

SICK BOY: I'm off for a pish. When I come back, that money's still here, OK?

SICK BOY: What?

BEGBIE: The cards. The last thing I said to you was mind the cards.

SICK BOY: Well, I've not brought them.

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

SICK BOY: Well, I've not brought them.

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

SICK BOY: I'm sorry.

BEGBIE: Bit fucking late, like.

SICK BOY: Well, why didn't you bring them?

BEGBIE: Because I fucking told you to do that, you doss cunt.

SICK BOY: Christ.

SICK BOY: Did you tell him?

BEGBIE: No. On you go.

BEGBIE: Shut you mouth or you'll be next.

SPUD: You've stabbed me, man.

BEGBIE: You were in my way.

SPUD: I don't know, maybe I'll buy something for my ma, and then buy some good speed, no bicarb like, then get a girl, take her out like, and treat her -- properly.

BEGBIE: Shag her senseless.

SPUD: No, I don't mean like that -- I mean something nice, like, that's all --

BEGBIE: You daft cunt. If you're going to waste it like that, you might as well leave it all to me. Now get the drinks in.

SPUD: I want the money, Mark, that's all.

BEGBIE: If everyone keeps their mouth shut, there'll be no one going to jail.

BEGBIE: For fuck's sake.

MAN: Sorry, mate, I'll get you another.

BEGBIE: All down my fucking front, you fucking idiot.

MAN: Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it.

BEGBIE: Sorry's no going to dry me off, you cunt.

BEGBIE: Twenty thousand.

MAN: But it's not worth more than fifteen.

BEGBIE: Ninteen.

RENTON: Cool down, Franco. The guy's sorry.

BEGBIE: Not sorry enough for being a fat cunt.

RENTON: We'll be half-way down the road with the money.

BEGBIE: I'd fucking kill you.

RENTON: I guess you would, Franco.

RENTON: Buy yourself that island in the sun?

BEGBIE: For four fucking grand? One palm tree, a couple of rocks, and a sewage outflow.

RENTON: This was his nightmare. The dodgiest scam in a lifetime of dodgie 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 skag, on top of that armed robbery shit, he was going down for fifteen to twenty. Begbie was hard, but not so hard that he didn't shite it off twenty years in Saughton.

BEGBIE: Did you bring the cards?

BEGBIE: Yes, you fucking do. I've seen your statement.

RENTON: Jesus.

BEGBIE: Two thousand, one hundred and thirty- three pounds.

RENTON: Four kilos. That's what -- Ten years' worth? Russian sailors? Mikey Forrester? What the fuck are you on these days? You've been to jail, Spud, so what's the deal -- like it so much you want to go back again?

BEGBIE: I'm no a fucking buftie and that's the end of it.

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

BEGBIE: Hey, I'm wanting a bet put on.

RENTON: Can you not go yourself.

BEGBIE: I'm a fugitive from the law. I can't be seen on the fucking streets. Now watch my lips. Kempton Park. Two-thirty. Five pounds to win. Bad Boy.

RENTON: What?

BEGBIE: I've no fucking cigarettes.

RENTON: It's a scandal, Franco.

BEGBIE: Too right it is. Now look, have you got anything to eat, 'cos I'm fucking Lee Marvin, by the way.

BEGBIE: And remember, Rents: no skag.

RENTON: Aye, OK, Fr. But the good times couldn't last for ever.

RENTON: So, what's he like?

DIANE: Well, he's young and he's healthy.

RENTON: It's so simple. We buy it at four grand, we punt it at twenty to this guy that Sick Boy knows, and he punts it at sixty. Everyone's happy, everyone's in profit. I put up two. I come away with six.

DIANE: Unless you get caught.

RENTON: So long as everyone keeps their mouths shut, we'll not be getting caught.

DIANE: So why have you told me about it?

RENTON: Well, you're not going to tell anyone, are you, and besides, I thought we could meet up afterwards, maybe go somewhere together.

DIANE: I've got a boyfriend, Mark.

RENTON: What? Steady like?

DIANE: That's right: 'going steady' for four weeks now.

RENTON: And what age are you? Thirteen? Fourteen?

DIANE: Sixteen next month.

RENTON: Happy birthday.

DIANE: What do you think -- I should be carrying a torch for you?

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

RENTON: It's Iggy Pop.

DIANE: Whatever. I mean, the guy's 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.

RENTON: What do you want?

DIANE: Are you clean?

RENTON: Yes.

DIANE: Is that a promise, then?

RENTON: Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.

DIANE: Calm down, I'm just 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: Too young for what?

DIANE: Calm down. You're not going to jail.

RENTON: Easy for you to say.

DIANE: Can I see you again?

RENTON: Certainly not.

DIANE: I don't see why not.

RENTON: Because it's illegal.

DIANE: Holding hands?

RENTON: No, not holding hands.

DIANE: In that case you can do it. You were quite happy to do a lot more last night.

RENTON: And that's what's illegal. Do you know what they do to people like me inside? They'd cut my balls off and flush them down the fucking toilet.

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

DIANE: Right. You can't sleep here.

RENTON: What?

DIANE: Out.

RENTON: Come on.

DIANE: No argument. You can sleep on the sofa in the living room, or go home. It's up to you.

RENTON: Jesus.

DIANE: And don't make any noise.

RENTON: Diane.

DIANE: Ssshh!

RENTON: Sorry.

DIANE: Shut up.

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 quite, 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?

RENTON: Eh-

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

RENTON: think I left something back at the -

RENTON: Excuse me, I don't mean to harass you, but I was very impressed by the capable and stylish manner in which you dealt with that situation. I thought to myself: she's special.

DIANE: Thanks.

RENTON: What's your name?

DIANE: Diane.

RENTON: Where are you going, Diane?

DIANE: I'm going home.

RENTON: Where's that?

DIANE: It's where I live.

RENTON: Great.

DIANE: What?

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

GAIL: I read it in Cosmopolitan.

LIZZY: 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. You should try it with Tommy.

LIZZY: What, and deny myself the only pleasure I get from him? Did I tell you about my birthday?

GAIL: What happened?

LIZZY: He forgot. Useless motherfucker.

RENTON: I bet Lizzy told him where to put it.

GAV: Exactly. 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. The thing was neglected, pissing and shitting all over the place. Tommy was lying around fucked out of his eyeballs on smack or downers. He didn't know you could get toxoplasmosis from cat shit.

RENTON: I didn't either. What the fuck is it?

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

RENTON: What was it, pneumonia or cancer?

GAV: No, toxoplasmosis. Sort of like a stroke.

RENTON: Eh? How's that?

LIZZY: What do you mean, it's 'gone'? Where has it gone, Tommy?

TOMMY: It'll be here somewhere. I might have returned it by mistake.

LIZZY: Returned it? Where? To the video shop, Tommy? To the fucking video store? So every punter in Edinburgh is jerking off to our video? God, Tommy, I feel sick.

LIZZY: Tommy, let's put the tape on.

TOMMY: Now?

LIZZY: Yes, I want to watch ourselves while we're screwing.

TOMMY: Fuck, OK.

MAN 1: Well, Mr. Renton, I see that you attended the Royal Edinburgh College.

RENTON: Indeed, yes, those halcyon days.

MAN 1: One of Edinburgh's finest schools.

RENTON: Oh, yes, indeed. I look back on my time there with great fondness and affection. The debating society, the first eleven, the soft know of willow on leather --

MAN 1: I'm an old boy myself, you know?

RENTON: Oh, really?

MAN 1: Do you recall the school motto?

RENTON: Of course, the motto, the motto --

MAN 1: Strive, hope, believe and conquer.

RENTON: Exactly. Those very words have been my guiding light in what is, after all, a dark and often hostile world.

MAN 1: Thank you, Mr. Murphy. We'll let you know.

SPUD: The pleasure was mine. Best interview I've ever been to. Thanks.

SPUD: No, actually I went to Craignewton but I was worried that you wouldn't have heard of it so I put the Royal Edinburgh College instead, because they're both schools, right, and we're all in this together, and I wanted to put across the general idea rather than the details, yeah? People get all hung up on details, but what's the point? Like which school? Does it matter? Why? When? Where? Or how many O grades did I get? Could be six, could be one, but that's not important. What's important is that I am, right? That I am.

MAN 1: Mr. Murphy, do you mean that you lied on your application?

SPUD: Only to get my foot in the door. Showing initiative, right?

MAN 1: You were referred here by the Department of Employment. There's no need for you to get you "foot in the door", as you put it.

SPUD: Hey. Right. No problem. Whatever you say, man. You're the man, the governor, the dude in the chair, like. I'm merely here. But obviously I am. Here, that is. I hope I'm not talking too much. I don't usually. I think it's all important though, isn't it?

MOTHER: I'll put the sheets in the washing machine just now.

SPUD: No, I'll wash them. I'll take them home and bring them back.

MOTHER: There's no need.

SPUD: It's no problem.

MOTHER: No problem for me either. Honestly, it's no problem.

SPUD: I'd really rather take care of it myself.

MOTHER: Spud, they're my sheets.

MOTHER: Morning, Spud. Sit down and have some breakfast.

SPUD: Sorry about last night -

TOMMY: Thanks, Mark.

RENTON: No problem. No problem -- easy to say when its some other poor cunt with shite for blood.

TOMMY: You take the test?

RENTON: Aye.

TOMMY: Clear?

RENTON: Aye.

TOMMY: That's nice.

RENTON: I'm sorry, Tommy.

TOMMY: Have you got any gear on you?

RENTON: No, I'm clean.

TOMMY: Well, sub us, then, mate. I'm expecting a rent cheque.

RENTON: Are you getting out much?

TOMMY: No.

RENTON: Following the game at all?

TOMMY: No.

RENTON: No. Me Neither.

SPUD: A little too well, if anything, a little too well, that's my only fear, compadre.

RENTON: Another dab?

SPUD: Would not say no, would not say no.

RENTON: Good luck, Spud.

SPUD: Cheers.

RENTON: Now remember --

SPUD: Yeah.

RENTON: If they think you're not trying, you're in trouble. First hint of that, they'll be on to the DSS, 'This cunt's no trying' and your Giro is fucking finished, right?

SPUD: Right.

RENTON: But try too hard --

SPUD: And you might get the fucking job.

RENTON: Exactly.

SPUD: Nightmare.

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

SPUD: My problem is that I tend to clam up. I go dumb and I can't answer any questions at all. Nerves on the big occasion, like a footballer.

RENTON: Try this.

RENTON: What was your price?

SICK BOY: Four Grand.

RENTON: But you don't have the money?

SICK BOY: We're two thousand short.

RENTON: That's tough.

SICK BOY: Come on, Mark, every cunt knows you've been saving up down in London.

RENTON: Sorry, boys, I don't have two thousand pounds.

RENTON: What?

SICK BOY: There's a mate of swanney's. Mikey Forrester -- you know the guy. He's come into some gear. A lot of gear.

RENTON: How much?

SICK BOY: About four kilos. So he tells me. Got drunk in a pub down by the docks last week, where he met two Russian sailors. They're fucking carrying the stuff. For sale there and then, like. So he wakes up the next morning, realizes what he's done and get very fucking nervous. Wants rid of this. {---------- He's looking for Swanney to punt it, but Swanney's nowhere to be seen since he lost his leg. ---------- }

RENTON: So?

SICK BOY: 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.

RENTON: So we've just come from Tommy's funeral and you're telling me about a skag deal?

RENTON: Why?

SICK BOY: Well, this guy I've met runs a hotel. Brother. Loads of contacts. Does a nice little sideline in punting British passports to foreigners. Get you a good price.

RENTON: Why would I want to sell my passport?

SICK BOY: It was just an idea.

RENTON: I can't believe you did that.

SICK BOY: I got a good price for it. Rents, I need the money.

RENTON: It was my fucking television.

SICK BOY: Well, Christ, if I'd known you were going to get so humpty about it, I wouldn't have bothered. Are you going to eat that?

SICK BOY: Fuck you. OK, so Tommy's got the virus. Bad news, big deal. The gig goes on, or hadn't you noticed? Swanney fucks his leg up. Well, tough shit, but it could have been worse.

RENTON: You're all hear.

SICK BOY: I know a couple of addicts. Stupid wee lassies. I feed them what they need. A little bit of skag to keep them happy while the punters line up at a fiver a skull. It's easy money for me. Not exactly a fortune, but I'm thinking, 'I should be coining it here.' Less whores, more skag. Swanney's right. Get clean, get into dealing, that's where the future lies. Set up some contacts, get a good load of skag, punt it, profit. What do you think?

RENTON: Fuck you.

SICK BOY: And I'll tell you why. Because I'm fed up to my back teeth with losers, no-hopers, draftpacks, schemies, junkies and the like. I'm getting on with life. What are you doing?

SICK BOY: Eughh. Sounds horrible.

RENTON: It wasn't that bad.

SICK BOY: Did he -- you know?

RENTON: What?

SICK BOY: You know.

RENTON: No, he didn't make me touch it.

SICK BOY: Oh no, don't even mention it.

RENTON: He made me lick it.

SICK BOY: God, you're sick.

RENTON: And I got a stitch stuck between my teeth, jerked my head back and the whole fucking stump fell off.

SICK BOY: Cut it out.

RENTON: When are you going to visit him?

SICK BOY: Don't know. Maybe Thursday.

RENTON: You're a real mate. And what about Tommy? Have you been to see him yet?

SICK BOY: Oh, fuck. Sick Boy reaches out to Allison.

RENTON: 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.

SICK BOY: Say something, Mark, say something --

RENTON: I'm cooking' up. There is a silence.

RENTON: 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's been days since I've heard anyone speak, though surely someone must have said something in all that time, surely to fuck someone must have.

SICK BOY: What's wrong, Allison?

SICK BOY: Do you see the beast? Have you got it in you sights?

RENTON: Clear enough, Moneypenny. This should present no significant problem.

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.

RENTON: What about The Untouchables?

SICK BOY: I don't rate that at all.

RENTON: Despite the Academy award?

SICK BOY: That means fuck all. The sympathy vote.

RENTON: Right. So we all get old and then we can't hack it any more. Is that it?

SICK BOY: Yeah.

RENTON: That's your theory?

SICK BOY: Yeah, Beautifully fucking illustrated.

RENTON: Give me the gun.

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 for ever. All walks of life: George Best, for example, had it and lost it, or David Bowie, or Lou Reed -

RENTON: 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?

RENTON: Who wrote it?

SICK BOY: But you're looking better, it has to be said. Healthier. Radiant even.

RENTON: You don't know, do you?

SICK BOY: And I wondered if you'd care to go to the park tomorrow.

RENTON: The park?

SICK BOY: Tomorrow afternoon. Usual set-up.

RENTON: Who wrote it?

SICK BOY: Roald Dahl.

RENTON: Roald Dahl. Fuck me.

SICK BOY: You Only Live Twice?

RENTON: Nineteen-sixty-seven.

SICK BOY: Running time?

RENTON: One hundred and sixteen minutes.

SICK BOY: Director?

RENTON: Lewis Gilbert.

SICK BOY: Screenwriter?

RENTON: Eh - Ian Fleming?

SICK BOY: Fuck off! He never wrote any of them.

RENTON: OK, so who was it, then?

SICK BOY: You can look it up.

RENTON: I chose not to choose life: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who need reasons when you've got heroin?

SICK BOY: Goldfinger's better than Dr. No. Both of them are a lot better than Diamonds are Forever a judgement reflected in its relative poor showing at the box office, in which field, of course, Thunderball was a notable success.

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 - Spud is shooting up for the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn't do it. After all, we're not fucking stupid. 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. 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 pished. 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 fucking wins, about human relationships and all the things that really don't matter when you've got a sincere and truthful junk habit.

SICK BOY: I would say, in those days, he was a muscular actor, in every sense, with all the presence of someone like Cooper or Lancaster, but combined with a sly wit to make him a formidable romantic lead, closer in that respect to Cary Grant.

RENTON: The only drawback, or at least the principal drawback, is that you have to endure all manner of cunts telling you that -

RENTON: Great.

SWANNEY: And see when I get out of here. I've got plans. Going to get myself straightened out and head off to Thailand, where women really know how to treat a guy. See, out there you can live like a king if you've got white skin and a few crisp tenners in your pocket. No fucking problem.

RENTON: Sure.

SWANNEY: The strategy is this: get clean, get mobile, get into dealing, and this time next year I'll be watching the rising sun with a posse of oriental buttocks parked on my coupon.

RENTON: Sounds great, Swanney.

SWANNEY: Yeah.

RENTON: You'll have to send us a postcard.

SWANNEY: Sure will, pal, sure will.

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

SWANNEY: As you wish.

SWANNEY: And would sir care to settle his bill in advance?

RENTON: Stick it on my tab.

SWANNEY: Regret to inform, sir, that your credit limit was reached and breached a long time ago.

RENTON: In that case --

RENTON: What's on the menu this evening?

SWANNEY: Your favourite dish.

RENTON: Excellent.

SWANNEY: Your usual table, sir?

RENTON: Why, thank you.

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

SWANNEY: Are you serious?

RENTON: Yeah. No more. I'm finished with that shite.

SWANNEY: Well, it's up to you.

RENTON: I'm going to get it right this time. Going to get it set up and get off it for good.

SWANNEY: Sure, sure. I've heard it before.

RENTON: The Sick Boy method.

SWANNEY: Yeah, well, it surely worked for him.

RENTON: He's always been lacking in moral fibre.

SWANNEY: He knows a lot about Sean Connery.

RENTON: That's hardly a substitute.

SWANNEY: you'll need one more hit.

RENTON: No, I don't think so.

SWANNEY: To see you through the night that lies ahead.

TOMMY: It's the great outdoors.

SICK BOY: It's really nice, Tommy. Can we go home now?

TOMMY: It's fresh air.

SICK BOY: Look, Tommy, we know you're getting a hard time off Lizzy, but there's no need to take it out on us.

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

TOMMY: There.

SICK BOY: Are you serious?

SICK BOY: This had better be good.

TOMMY: It will be. It'll make a change for three miserable junkies who don't know what they want to do with themselves since they stopped doing smack.

SICK BOY: If I'm giving up a whole day and the price of a ticket, I'm just saying it had better be good. There's plenty of other things I could be doing.

TOMMY: Such as?

SICK BOY: Such as sitting in a darkened room, watching videos, drinking, smoking dope and wanking. Does that answer your question?

TOMMY: Well, what are you waiting for?

SPUD: I don't know, Tommy. I don't know if it's... normal.

TOMMY: We go for a walk.

SPUD: What?

TOMMY: A walk.

SPUD: But where?

TOMMY: Useless motherfucker, that's what she called me. I told her, I'm sorry, but theses things happen. Let's put it behind us.

SPUD: That's fair enough.

TOMMY: Yes, but then she finds out I've bought a ticket for Iggy Pop the same night.

SPUD: Went ballistic?

TOMMY: Big time. Absolutely fucking radge. 'It's me or Iggy Pop, time to decide.'

SPUD: So what's it going to be?

TOMMY: Well, I've paid for the ticket.

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.

WOMAN: What do you see as your main strengths?

SPUD: I love people. All people. Even people that no one else loves, I think they're OK, you know. Like Beggars.

WOMAN: Homeless people?

SPUD: No, not homeless people. Beggars, Francis Begbie -- one of my mates. I wouldn't say my best mate, I mean, sometimes the boy goes over the score, like one time when we -- me and him -- were having a laugh and all of a sudden he's fucking gubbed me in the face, right --

WOMAN: Mr. Murphy, {leaving your friend aside,} do you see yourself as having any weaknesses?

SPUD: No. Well, yes. I have to admit it: I'm a perfectionist. For me, it's the best or nothing at all. If things go badly, I can't be bothered, but I have a good feeling about this interview. Seems to me like it's gone pretty well. We've touched on a lot of subjects, a lot of things to think about, for all of us.