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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.

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, 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 #

# 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 #

# Temptation #

# 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.

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.

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 #

# 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 #

# 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 #

# You're going to reap
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.

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 #

# 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!

Don't!

Don't!

Stop!

Oh, my God!

Stop!

- Mark.

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!

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.

There was only one thing
for it.

# So find the feeling #

# So find the feeling #

# 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!

Yeah!

Bad Boy!

Came in at 16 to 1.

And with the winnings,
we went out to celebrate.

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.

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.

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!

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?

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!

Bastard!

Fuck! Fuck!

All right, move away, people.

What's going on in there?

Open up.
Open up now!

Bastard!

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.