It wasn't just the baby that died that day. Something inside Sick Boy was lost and never returned. It seemed that 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, puerile 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.
Tommy: It was Wednesday morning. We were in the Volley, playing pool. That much is true. But, Begbie is playing absolutely fucking 'gash!'
Tommy: He's got a hangover so bad, he can barely hold the cue, never mind pot a ball. And I'm doing my best to lose, you know trying to humour him like. But it's not doing any good. Every time I hit the ball, I seem to pot something. Every time Begbie goes near the table, he fucks it up.
Tommy: Oh, for fuck sake.
Tommy: So he's got the hump, right? But, finally I manage to set it up so that all he's gotta do is to pot the black, to savage a little bit of pride, and maybe not kick my head in, yeah? So he squares up... pressure shot...
Tommy: And it all goes wrong, big time!
Tommy: He picks on this speccy wee gadge at the bar, accusing him of putting him off by looking at him. I mean the man hasn't glanced in that direction.