All language subtitles for Trainspotting.1996.2160p.4K.BluRay.x265.10bit.AAC5.1-[YTS.MX]_track3_[eng]

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 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 yourselves.

Choose your future. Choose life.

But why would I want
to do a thing like that?

I chose not to choose life.

I chose something else.

And the reasons?

There are no reasons.

Who needs reasons
when you've got heroin?

Goldfinger is 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!

Gallus cunt.

But what they forget
is the pleasure of it.

They're all dead.

You prick!

Otherwise, we wouldn't do it.

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

Pure as the driven snow, that shit there.

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.

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 pissed.

Got money, drinking too much.

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

You have to worry about bills, about food,

about some football team
that never 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.

Ah...

Ah!

Arrr!

The only drawback,
or at least the principal drawback,

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

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 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. Gonna get it
sorted out. Get off for good.

I sure have heard that one before.

The Sick Boy method.

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 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.

You're feeling better now, 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.

...jumps it,
again a little bit out to the right...

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.

Oh!

Fuck.

Ahhh!

Ah-ha!

Ah.

Oh.

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?

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'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, 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 cannae 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, Ms. Moneypenny.

This should present
no significant problems.

Fucking hell!

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.

Remember, if they think
you're not trying, you're in trouble.

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.

A little dab of speed
is just the ticket, man.

No, I went to Craigie, Craig Newton.

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

There's too much discrimination.
They're both schools, right?

We're all in this together,

and I wanted to put across the idea
rather than the details.

People get all hung up on details.

Which school did I go to?
How many O 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, oh, 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, man.

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

I am merely here.

Obviously, I'm here, but--

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

In a word, pleasure.

My pleasure in other people's leisure.

Do you see yourself
as having any weaknesses?

Oh, yes, because, 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, if things get a bit dodgy,
I just cannot be bothered.

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

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 at 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 end, 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.

Starts staring at me,
looking right fucking at me,

as if to say, "Come ahead, square go."

You ken me.

I'm not the type
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.

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 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 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.

Fuck!

Aargh!

He picks
on this specky wee gadgie at the bar,

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

He hasn't even glanced
in our direction.

Fuck off!

He was gonna chib him, I tell you.

Then I thought he was gonna 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!

Oh!

Oh, Tommy.

Oh, Lizzy, you've been so good to me.

Oh, Tommy, come in me.

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.

- 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.

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.

Heroin had robbed Renton of his sex drive,
but now it returned with a vengeance.

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.

And with that,
Mark Renton had fallen in love.

Excuse me. Excuse me.
I don't mean to harass you.

I was impressed with the capable
and stylish manner

in which you dealt with that.

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

Thanks.

- What's your name?
- Diane.

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

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

Great.

- What?
- 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.

Taxi!

A little bit crazy, a little bit bad.

But, hey, don't us girls just love that?

Eh?

Well, what's wrong, boy?

Cat got your tongue?

I left something...

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.

Right?

Diane.

Shh!

- What?
- Shut up!

Wake up, Spud.

Wake up.

Sex.

Casual sex.

Tommy, let's put the tape on.

Now?

I wanna watch ourselves
while we're screwing.

So let's see what I'm missing.

Not much.

And there's the captain Archie
Gemmill picking it up from the outside.

I think he wants to go himself.

How far 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!

Haven't felt that good

since Archie Gemmill scored
against Holland in 1978.

Right.

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've 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.

Fuck.

Oh!

Sh... Oh.

Oh, f...!

Eh?

Come in and sit down.

- Like some coffee?
- Aye.

You must be Mark.

Aye, that's me.

You a friend of Diane's?

- More a friend of a friend, no?
- Right.

Are you her flatmates, like?

Flatmates?

I must remember that one.

Morning.

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.

Dinnae 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.
- 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?
- 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.

You know what they do
to people like me inside?

Cut your balls off and flush them.

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 civilization.

Some people hate the English. I don't.

They're just wankers.

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

Can't even find a decent culture
to 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. Sorry.

No, 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.

Took about 12 hours.

They did the world a favor,
you know, 'cause...

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, right?

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

- Well done!
- Yep, 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 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 way. No fucking way.

Honor Blackman
aka 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 about
how it's like 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.

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, nitrazepam, phenobarbitone,
sodium amytal, dextropropoxyphene,

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.

Pardon me, may I use your bathroom?

Thank you.

No, Franco!

Hey, Rent-boy. No fucking skag.

Aye, Franco. Aye, aye.

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? Allison!
- Help me, please!

Yeah, calm down.

Everyone's gonna be just fine.

Nothing could have been
further from the truth.

In point of fact,
nothing was gonna be just fine.

On the contrary,
everything was gonna be bad.

Bad? I mean, everything was gonna be
even worse than it already was.

Oh, my God! No!

No!

Fuck.

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! Huh?

I'm cooking up.

Cook us up a shot, Rents.

I really 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 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'd 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 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 fucking obvious that
that cunt was gonna fuck some cunt.

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.

Better clean up
your fucking act, sunshine.

Cut that shite out forever.

You listen to Francis, Mark.
He's talking sense, kid.

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.

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 smackhead.

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 in.
- 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,
now I've got 18 hours until 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?
- 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 post, that's for sure.

I'm in the junkie limbo at the moment.

Too ill to sleep, too tired to stay awake.

But the sickness is on its way.

Sweat, chills, nausea, pain, and craving.

A need like nothing else I've ever known
will soon take hold of me.

It's on its way.

We'll help you, son.

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

- We're gonna beat this together.
- Maybe I--

- 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 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 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.

Okay?

God.

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.

Dawn! Dawn!

No!

Question number two:

HIV binds to which receptor
on the host lymphocyte?

Which receptor is that?

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.

Is he guilty or not guilty?

He's our son.

No! Dawn!

Dawn!

Stop!

Oh, no!

Don't do this to me!

Stop!

Mark.

Mark.

Mark.

There's something you need to do.

Ow!

Come alive, 35.

Box of tricks, 66.

Mark!

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.

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!

Tommy!

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?

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.

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 that 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.

Oh, yes. It's a beautifully converted
Victorian town house.

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

Um, 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 pounds 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.

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,

subletting, subdividing,
cheating, scamming,

fragmenting, breaking away.

Who's got the keys to Talgarth Road?

There was no such thing as society.

Even if there was,
I 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.

Give money. Please help me.

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 jeweler's in Corstorphine.

Take care. Yours, with love, Diane.

Francis Begbie.

Oh, no.

Armed robbery? With a replica?

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

Fucking scandal.

My gear, look.

Supposed to be fucking solid silver.
It's fucking garbage.

There's young couples investing
all their fucking hopes in that stuff.

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

Can I have 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 no fucking cigarettes.

Aye, right.

It's me.

Rents!

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?

Seeing as how I'm a fugitive from the law
and can't walk the fucking streets,

you go.

Doncaster, 4:40.

Five pound 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!

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.

One thousand 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 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 skag deal that was,
one day, gonna 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.

You gonna 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 bedsit,

looking for things to steal.

I decided to put them
in the worst place in the world.

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.

Here, 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.

Tommy knew he'd got the virus,
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 bought her this kitten.

But Lizzy told him
where to fucking stick it?

Exactly.

"I'm not wanting a cat," she says,
"Get the fuck out."

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

To those of us gathered here today,

Thomas Mackenzie 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,

- a keen musician...
- 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, like...

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 neighbors
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?

- 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 the stuff,
for sale there and then, like...

So he wakes up 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! We've just come back
from Tommy's funeral,

and you're talking about a skag deal?

Aye.

- What was your price?
- Four grand.

You haven't got 4 grand.

We're 2000 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 2 grand.

Aye, you fucking do.

I've seen your bank statement.

For fuck's sake.

2133 pounds.

Two kilos? What is that, ten years?

Mikey Forrester? Russian sailors?

What the fuck are you boys on, eh?

Spud, you've already been to jail.

Do you like it so much,
you wanna go back?

I just want the money, Mark.

If everybody
keeps their fucking 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.

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

some lucky punter
would have to try it out.

Begbie didn't trust Spud,

and 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 I got to London.

Just one, like, 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 skag,

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 Saughton.

This was to be my final hit.

But let's be clear about this,

there are 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!

Christ.

These are your friends, right?

- The guys I told you about.
- Okay.

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

You didn't get followed, did you?

- We didn't get followed.
- Okay.

- 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?

20,000.

Well, 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 gonna 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 2000-pound bundles.

So that's two.

That's four.

We settled on 16,000 pounds.

He had a lot more in the suitcase,

- but it was better than nothing.
- Two more make eight.

Thank you very much, gentlemen.

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

Fucking brand new, by the way.

Okay?

- Yes!
- Yeah!

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.

That doesn't last long.
Not like 16,000 pounds.

So, what about you, Spud?
Any major investments on the horizon?

Gonna buy yourself
a wee island in the sun?

What, for fucking 4 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,

like get some good speed, no bicarb.

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

- 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 gonna waste it on a bird,
you might as well leave it all to me.

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

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

Okay. Same again?

Right. 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.

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

- By the way, see, when I get back...
- We'll be halfway down the street.

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

Thought you might.

- Are you game for it?
- What?

Well?

Are you serious?

I don't know. What do you think?

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

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.

Sorry, I didn't mean it.

Well, "sorry" is not gonna
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.

Now fuck off.

No, Frank! Not that, man.

Fuck's sake!

- Fucking nice one, Franco.
- Shut it.

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

Help!

Anybody else wanna get in my fucking way?

You?

You?

Hey, Rent-boy.

You bring me down a fucking smoke.

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

You're not going
to any fucking hospital! You stay 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.

Sick Boy would 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!

Bastard!

All right, move away. Move away.

Open up!

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.

Now I'm cleaning up, and I'm moving on,
going straight, and choosing life.

I'm looking forward to it already.

I'm gonna be just like you.

The job, the family,
the 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, nine-to-five,
good at golf, washing the car,

choice of sweaters, family Christmas,
indexed pension, tax exemption,

clearing gutters, getting by,
looking ahead the day you die.