Trainspotting Quotes

I could really handle some hot sex with a Jewish princess!

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.

Gail , Lizzie: What are you two talking about?
Spud , Tommy: Football! What are you talking about?
Gail , Lizzie: Shopping!

Phew! I haven't felt that good since Archie Gemmill scored against Holland in 1978!

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 suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. 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 you 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 somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?

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.

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. But you try telling Begbie that.

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.

And just for a moment, it felt really good. Like we were all 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 pounds.

Straight away, he clocked us for what we were, small time wasters with an accidental big deal.

The day you die.

Did you think I would leave you crying, when there's room on my horse for two? Climb up here, Tommy and 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.

2nd Interviewer: Mr. Murphy, what attracts you to the leisure industry?
Spud: In a word: pleasure. It's like, my pleasure in other people's leisure.

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!
Begbie: Fuck!
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.

And as I sat watching an 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.

Tommy: Useless motherfucker, that's what she called me. I told her, I'm sorry, but these things happen. Let's put it behind us.
Spud: That's fair enough.
Tommy: Yes, but then she finds out I've bought a ticket for Iggy Pop the same night.
Spud: Went ballistic?
Tommy: Big time. Absolutely fucking radge. 'It's me or Iggy Pop, time to decide.'
Spud: So what's it going to be?
Tommy: Well, I've paid for the ticket.

Better than sex, Rents. Better than sex. The ultimate hit. I'm a fucking adult, I can find out for meself. Well I'm finding out all right.

Two kilos. What's that, about ten years? Mikey Forrester, Russian sailors, what the fuck are you boys on, eh?

Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?

Begbie's fuckin' psycho, man! But... he's a mate, so what can you do?

We called him Mother Superior on account of the length of his habit.

Living like this is a full-time business.

You could always get the truth from Tommy. That was one of his major weaknesses. He never told lies, he never took drugs, and he never cheated on anyone.

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 hold of his sex-crazed mind. His post-junk libido, fuelled by alcohol and amphetamine, taunted him remorselessly with his own unsatisfied desire.

Thank you, your honor. With God's help I'll conquer this terrible affliction.

I quite enjoyed the sound of it all. Profit, loss, margins, takeovers, lending, letting, subletting, subdividing, cheating, scamming, fragmenting, breaking away. 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.

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. And 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.

And with that Mark Renton had fallen in love.

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 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 you're on junk you have only one worry: scoring. When you're off it you are suddenly obliged to worry about all sorts of other shite. Got no money: can't get 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.

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?

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. And now I'm ready. All I need is one final hit to soothe the pain while the Valium takes effect.

People think it's all about misery and desperation and death and all that shit which is not to be ignored, but what they forget is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn't do it. After all, we're not fucking stupid. At least, we're not that fucking stupid.

Begbie didn't do drugs either. He just did people.

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.

1,000 years from now there will be no guys and no girls, just wankers. Sounds great to me.

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, well he'd 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. 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 and electric 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.

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.