Trainspotting

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.

Gangway! Run!

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.

Jammy goal!

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'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.

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! Doss 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? - Yeah.

Pure as the driven snow, that shit.

After all, we're not fucking stupid At least we're not that fucking stupid

Take the best orgasm you've 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.

And 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, drinkin' 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 that-

No way would I poison my body with that shite.

All them fucking chemicals.

No fucking way.

It's a waste of your life, man, 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. - 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.

Well, it really worked for him, eh?

Well, 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, ten tins of

Mushroom soup, eight tins of, for consumption cold

Ice cream, vanilla, one large tub of

Magnesia, milk of, one bottle.

Paracetamol, mouthwash, vitamins.

Mineral water, Lucozade, pornography,

One mattress. One bucket for urine...

one for feces and one for vomit us.

One television an done bottle of Valium, which I've already pro cured 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 would have 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 then, eh? - 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 fantasize 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.

Fuck.

Yes, a fucking dancer!

And now, now I'm ready

The downside of coming off junk was I knew I would need to mix with my friends again...

in a state of full consciousness.

It was awful. They reminded me so much of my self 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 unilying 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?

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, 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.

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.

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.

Fucking hell!

For a vegetarian, Rents, you're a fuckin' 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.

Now remember, if they think you're not trying, you're in trouble, right?

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

- And your giro's fuckin' finished, right? - Right.

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

- Exactly. - Nightmare.

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

I just get pure shy with the interviewer cats. I get all nervous.

I can't answer any of their questions, like I'm a footballer...

and I get nerves on the big occasion, man.

- Try some of this, Spud. - A little dab of speed is just the ticket, mate.

No, I went to Craignewton. I just put down Royal Edinburgh College to help get the job.

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

They're both schools, right? We're all in this together.

And I wanted to put across the general idea rather than the details.

Like people get all hung up on details.

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

Could be like 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- Like, well, obviously, I'm here like, but-

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?

Yes, 'cause, like, 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 things get a bit dodgy, I just cannot be bothered.

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

Seems to me like it's going pretty well.

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