TRAINSPOTTING a screenplay by John Hodge based on the novel by Irvine Welsh


Legs run along the pavement.  They are Mark Renton's.

Just ahead of him is Spud.  They are both belting along.

As they travel, various objects (pens, tapes, CD's, toiletries, 
ties, sunglasses, etc.) either fall or are discarded from inside
their jackets.

They are pursued by two hard-looking Store Detectives in identical
uniforms.  The men are fast, but Spud and Renton maintain their lead.

RENTON (voice-over): 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.

Suddenly, as Renton crosses a road, a car skids to a halt,
inches from him. 

In a moment of detachment, he stops and looks at the shocked driver,
then at Spud, who has continued running, then at the two men, who are 
closing in on him.

He starts to laugh.


In a bare, dingy room, Renton lies on the floor, alone, 
motionless, and drugged.

RENTON (voice-over): Choose good health, low cholesterol, 
and dental insurance.  Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments.
Choose a starter home.  Choose your friends.


On a floodlit five-a-side pitch, Renton and his friends are taking
on another team at football.

The opposition all wear an identical strip (Arsenal) whereas Renton
and his friends wear an odd assortment of gear.

Three girls -- Lizzy, Gail, and Allison and Baby -- stand by the side

The boys are outclassed by the team with the strip buy play much dirtier.

As each performs a characteristic bit of play, the play freezes and 
their name is visible.

Sick Boy commits a sneaky foul and and indignantly denies it.

Begbie commits an obvious foul and makes no effort to deny it.

Spud, in goal, lets the ball in between his legs.

Tommy kicks the ball as hard as he can.

Renton's litany continues over the action.

RENTON (voice-over): 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 a 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,
pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarassment
to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future.  Choose life.

Renton is hit straight in the face by the ball.  He lies back on the

RENTON (voice-over): But why would I want to do a thing like that?


Renton lies on the floor.  Swanney, Allison and Baby, Sick Boy, and 
Spud are shooting up or preparing to shoot up.  Sick Boy is talking to
Allison as he taps up a vein on her arm.

RENTON (voice-over): 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?

SICK BOY: Goldfinger's better than Dr. No.  Both of them are a lot better
than Diamonds Are Forever, a judgment reflected in its relative poor showing
at the box office, in which field, of course, Thunderball was a notable

Spud kisses Sick Boy on the mouth.  Sick Boy is revulsed.

SICK BOY: Fuck off!  Doss cunt!

RENTON (voice-over): People think it's all about misery and desperation and
death and all that shite, 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.

Sick Boy injects Allison.

ALLISON: That beats any meat injection.  That beats any fucking cock in
the world.

RENTON (voice-over): Take the best orgasm you've ever had, multiply it by
a thousand, and you're still nowhere near it.  When you're on junk you have
only one worry: scoring.  When you're off it, you're suddenly obliged to
worry about all sorts of other shite.  Got no money, can't get pished.  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 don't really matter when you've got a sincere and truthful
junk habit.

SICK BOY: I would say, in those days, he was a muscular actor, in every
sense, with all the presence of someone like Cooper or Lancaster, combined 
with a sly wit to make him a formidable romantic lead, closer in that 
respect to Cary Grant.

Swanney injects Sick Boy.

RENTON (voice-over): The only drawback, or at least the principal drawback,
is that you have to endure all manner of cunts telling you that--


Begbie, smoking and drinking, shoots pool.

BEGBIE: No way would I poison my body with that shite, all they fucking
chemicals, no fucking way.

Tommy sits with his arm around Lizzy.

TOMMY: It's a waste of your life, Rents, poisoning your body with that shite.


Renton's father and mother sit at the table, eating.  Renton is seated buy
not eating.

FATHER: Every chance you've had, you've blown it, stuffing your veins with
that filth.


Sick Boy and Spud lie drugged up.  Allison and Baby wait while Swanney
cooks up.  Renton stands up.

RENTON (voice-over): From time to time even I have uttered the magic words.

RENTON: No more, Swanney, I'm off the skag.

SWANNEY: Are you serious?

RENTON: Yeah, no more.  I'm finished with that shite.

SWANNEY: Well, it's up to you.

RENTON: I'm going to get it right this time.  Going to get it set up and
get off it for good.

SWANNEY: Sure, sure, I've heard it before.

RENTON: The Sick Boy method.

They both look at Sick Boy.

SWANNEY: Yeah, well it certainly worked for him.

RENTON: He's always been lacking in moral fibre.

SWANNEY: He knows a lot about Sean Connery.

RENTON: That's hardly a substitute.

SWANNEY: You'll need one more hit.

RENTON: No, I don't think so.

SWANNEY: For the long night that lies ahead.

RENTON (voice-over): We called him Mother Superior on account of the 
length of his habit.  He knes all about it.  On it, off it, he knew it all.
Of course I'd have another shot.  After all, I had work to do.


The door opens and Renton enters carrying shopping bags.  He empties them 
on to a mattress beside three buckets and a television.

RENTON (voice-over): Relinquishing junk, stage one.  Stage One: Preparation.
For this you will need: one room which you will not leave, one mattress, 
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, paracetemol,
mouthwash, vitamins, mineral water, Lucozade, pornography, one bucket for urine,
one for feces, and one for vomitus, one television, and one bottle of Valium,
which I have already procured, from my mother, who is, in her own domestic and
socially acceptable way, also a drug addict.

   Renton swallows several Valium tablets.  The voice over continues.

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


RENTON: Mikey.  It's Mark Renton.  Can you help me out?


Renton holds two opium suppositories in the palm of his hand.

RENTON (voice-over): 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.

MIKEY: Opium suppositories.  Ideal for your purposes.  Slow release, like.
Bring you down gradually.  Custom fucking designed for your needs.

RENTON: I want a fucking hit.

MIKEY: That's all I've got, take it or leave it.

Renton sticks his hand down the back of his jeans and sticks the
suppositories into his rectum.

MIKEY: Feel better now?

RENTON: For all the good they've done me, I might as well have stuck
them up my arse.

He smiles.


RENTON (voice-over): Heroin makes you constipated.  The heroin from my last
hit was wearing off and the suppositories have yet to melt.  

     He doubles over in discomfort.	

I am no longer constipated.


Renton walks through the crowded, smoky betting shop towards a door
marked 'toilet' with a bit of card.

RENTON (voice-over): I dream of 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.


This is the worst toilet in Scotland.

Alone, Renton makes his way through the horrors to the cubicle.


Renton locks the door.  He looks into the bowl and gags.  He pulls
the chain.  The chain comes off.


He doubles over again.  He drops his trousers, sits on the bowl and
closes his eyes as he sheds his load.

His eyes snap open.

He looks down betwen his legs.

He drops to his knees in front of the bowl and rolls his sleeve up.

With no more hesitation he plunges his arm into the bowl and trawls
for the suppositories. 

It seems to take ages.  He can not find them.  He sticks his arm further and 
further into the toilet, moving his whole body closer.  He strains to find it.

His head is over the bowl now.  Gradually he reaches still further into the
toilet until his head is lowered into the bowl, followed by his neck, torso,
other arm, and finally his legs, all disappearing.

The cubicle is empty.


Renton, dressed as before, swims through murky depths until he reaches the
bottom, where he picks up the suppositories, which glow like luminous pearls,
before heading towards the surface again.


The toilet is empty.

Suddenly, a hand appears and throws the suppositories to the floor.  
Renton pulls himself through the bowl and gasps for air.


The mattress, buckets, and supplies are laid out as before.

The door opens and Renton enters, still soaking and dripping.

The suppositories are in his hand.  He holds them up and they twinkle in
the light.

RENTON (voice-over): Now.  Now I'm ready.


Typical weather, neither good nor bad.  The park is nondescript and 
green with a few bushes.  This is not Kew Gardens.  Renton and Sick Boy 
appear, wearing cheap sunglasses.

Renton is carrying a battered old cassette player and a carry-out in a 
plastic bag.

Sick Boy is carrying a small, tatty suitcase from Oxfam.

They scan the horizon and give each other the nod.  They walk towards the

RENTON (voice-over): The downside of coming off junk was that 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, but just to annoy me, just to show me how easily he could do 
it, thereby downgrading my own struggle.  Sneaky fucker, don't you think?  And
when all I wanted to do was lie alone and feel sorry for myself, he insisted
on telling me once again about his unifying theory of life.


Seen through the telescopic sight of an air rifle that wanders over various
potential targets (children, pensioners, couples, gardeners, etc.)

SICK BOY: It's certainly a phenomenon in all walks of life.

RENTON: What do you mean?

SICK BOY: Well, at one time, you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's
gone forever.  All walks of life: George Best, for example.  Had it, lost it.
Or David Bowie or Lou Reed...

RENTON: Some of his solo stuff's not bad.

SICK BOY: No, it's not bad, but it's not great either.  And in your heart you
kind of know that although it sounds all right, it's actually just shite.

RENTON: So who else?

SICK BOY: Charlie Nicholas, David Niven, Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley...

RENTON: OK, OK, so what's the point you're trying to make?


Sick Boy rests the gun down.

SICK BOY: All I'm trying to do is help you understand that The Name of
The Rose is merely a blip on an otherwise uninterrupted downward

RENTON: What about The Untouchables?

SICK BOY: I don't rate that at all.

RENTON: Despite the Academy Award?

SICK BOY: That means fuck all.  The sympathy vote.

RENTON: Right.  So we all get old and then we can't hack it anymore.  Is
that it?


RENTON: That's your theory?

SICK BOY: Yeah.  Beautifully fucking illustrated.

RENTON: Give me the gun.


Through the sight again.  This time a skinhead and his muscle-bound dog
are in view.

Sick Boy and Renton talk like Sean Connery.

SICK BOY:  Do you see the beast?  Have you got it in your sights?

RENTON: Clear enough, Miss Moneypenny.  This should present no significant

The gun fires and the dog yelps, jumps up, and bites the skinhead.

SICK BOY: For a vegetarian, Rents, you're a fucking evil shot.


Renton loads up again.

RENTON (voice-over): Without heroin, I attempted to lead a useful and fulfilling
life as a good citizen.


Spud and Renton split a milkshake.  They are seated in a booth, dressed
for job interviews.

RENTON: Good luck, Spud.

SPUD: Cheers.

RENTON: Now remember...

SPUD: Yeah.

RENTON: If they think you're not trying, you're in trouble.  First hint of
that, they'll be on to the DSS, "This cunt's no trying" and your Giro is 
fucking finished, right?

SPUD: Right.

RENTON: But try too hard...

SPUD: And you might get the fucking job.

RENTON: Exactly.

SPUD: Nightmare.

RENTON: It's a tightrope, Spud, it's a fucking tightrope.

SPUD: My problem is that I tend to clam up.  I go dumb and can't answer any
questions at all.  Nerves on the big occasion, like a footballer.

RENTON: Try this.

Renton unfolds silver foil to reveal some amphetamine.  Spud dips in a 
finger and takes a dab.  He nods in appreciation as he tastes it.

SPUD: A little dab of speed's just the ticket.


Two men and a woman sit behind a table.  Spud is in a chair across from them.

SPUD: No, Craignewton.  I went to Craignewton.  But I was worried that you 
wouldn't have heard of it so I put the Royal Edinburgh College instead, 
because they're both schools, right, and we're all in this together, and
I wanted to put across the general idea rather than the details, yeah?  
People get all hung up on details, but what's the point?  Like which school?
Does it matter?  Why?  When?  Where?  Or how many O grades did I get?  Could
be six, could be one, but that's not important.  What's important is that I 
am, right?  That I am.

MAN 1: Mr. Murphy, do you mean that you lied on your application?

SPUD: Only to get my foot in the door.  Showing initiative, right?

MAN 1: You were referred here by the Department of Employment.  There's no
need for you to get your "foot in the door," as you put it.

SPUD: Hey, right, no problem.  Whatever you say, man.  You're the man, the
governor, the dude in the chair, like.  I'm merely here.  But obviously I am.
Here, that is.  I hope I'm not talking too much.  I don't usually.  I think 
it's all important, though, isn't it?

MAN 2: Mr. Murphy, what attracts you to the leisure industry?

SPUD: In a word, pleasure.  My pleasure in other people's leisure.

WOMAN: Mr. Murphy, do you see yourself as having any weaknesses?

SPUD: Well, I'm a bit of a perfectionist.  For me it's the best or nothing
at all.  If things get dodgy, I can't be bothered, but I have a good feeling
about this interview.  Seems to me we've touched on a lot of subjects, a lot
of things to think about, for all of us.

MAN 1: Thank you, Mr. Murphy, we'll let you know.

SPUD: The pleasure was all mine.

Spud crosses the room to shake everyone by the hand and kiss them.

RENTON (voice-over): Spud had done well.  I was proud of him.  He fucked up
good and proper.


It is Saturday night in a busy, city-centre pub on two levels.  On a large
upper balcony overlooking the bar and the floor downstairs, sit Spud, Gail,
Renton, Sick Boy, Tommy, Lizzy, and Begbie.

Begbie's story overlaps with the subsequent depiction of the incident.

BEGBIE: Picture the scene.  Wednesday morning in the Volley.  Me and Tommy
are playing pool.  No problems, and I'm playing like Paul fucking Newman by
the way.  I'm giving the boy the tanning of a lifetime.  So anyway, it comes
to the final ball, the deciding shot of the tournament: I'm on the black and
he's sitting in the corner, looking all biscuit-arsed.  Then this hard cunt
comes in.  Obviously fancied himself.  Starts looking at me.  Right fucking
at me.  Trying to put off, like, just for kicks.  Looking at me as if to say,
"Come ahead, square go."  Well, you know me, I'm no looking for trouble but
at the end of the day I'm the cunt with the pool cue and I'm game for a swedge.
So I squared up, casual like.  So what does the hard cunt do, or so-called
hard cunt?  Shites it.  Puts down his drink, turns around, and gets the fuck
out of there.  And after that, the game was mine.


The events in the pool hall, as described by Begbie.

Begbie and Tommy are playing pool.

Begbie is playing like a wizard.

Tommy looks defeated.

Lining up for the final ball, Begbie is distracted by a large
Hard Man standing at the bar, staring at him.

Begbie stands up and walks slowly towards the Hard Man.

They stand, eye to eye, for a moment.

The Hard Man turns and leaves.

Begbie drinks the Hard Man's pint, then pots the black with a brilliant


Begbie, his story complete, finishes his pint.  The others continue to
stare at him, frozen as though expecting more.  Begbie smiles and throws the
pint glass over his head.

Freeze-frame: the glass in mid-air and Begbie's smiling face.

RENTON (voice-over): 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 did drugs, and he never
cheated on anyone.


Renton's hand flicks through a long row of videos on the floor while the
sound of weights being lifted (by Tommy) emanates from nearby.

Most of the videos are feature films or comedy shows, some with titles written
in Tommy's hand, but two catch Renton's attention.

They are 100 Great Goals and Tommy and Lizzy, Vol. 1, the latter
a hand-written title.

Renton looks from the videos round to Tommy, who is engrossed in lifting weights.

TOMMY: Well, sure, it was Wednesday morning, we were in the Volley playing
pool, that much is true.


 Tommy's account over a depiction of his version.

TOMMY (voice-over): But Begbie is playing absolutely gash.  He's got a
hangover so bad he can hardly hold the fucking cue, never mind pot the ball.
I'm doing my best to lost, trying to humour him, like, but it's not doing
any good.  Every time I tough the ball I pot something.  Every time Begbie
goes near the table he fucks it up.  So he's got the hump, right, but finally I
manage to set it up so all he's got to do is pot the black to win one game 
and salvage a little pride and maybe not kick my head in, right.  So he's on
the black, pressure shot, and it all goes wrong, bigtime.  What does he do?
Picks on this specky wee gadge at the bar and accuses him of putting him off
by looking at him.  Can you believe it?  I mean, the poor cunt hasn't even
glanced in our direction.  He's sitting there quiet as a mouse when Beggars
gubs him with the cue.  He was going to chib him, I tell you, then I thought
he was going to do me.  He's a fucking psycho, but he's a mate, you know,
so what can you do?

The events are as follows:

Begbie and Tommy are playing pool.

Begbie, furious, miscues, goes in off, etc.

Tommy deliberately misses sitters and tries to look annoyed.

Begbie lines up to play the black.  It is unmissable.

At the bar beyone sits a harmless young Man wearing the same clothes
as the Hard Man in Begbie's account except that they are now baggy rather
than taut.  He is clearly not staring at Begbie but drinks a half-pint and
eats some crisps.

As Begbie plays, the man bites a crisp.

Begbie miscues, rips the cloth, and the ball flies off the table.

Tommy catches it and looks up to see Begbie assaulting the young Man.

Tommy cautiously restrains Begbie as he reaches into his jacket for a knife.

Begbie turns around and for a moment looks as though he might attack Tommy.


Tommy puts down his weights.

Renton holds up 100 Great Goals.

RENTON: Can I borrow this?


The freeze-frame of the glass in mid-air and Begbie's smiling face.

RENTON (voice-over): Yeah, the guy's a psycho, but it's true, he's a mate as
well, so what can you 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.

The glass falls into the crowd.

Screaming starts.  A Woman is bleeding from a wound in her head.  The Men
beside her turn furiously around to look for the source of the glass.

Up on the balcony, Begbie stands up.  The screams and shouting continue below.

Begbie appears at the bottom of the staircase down from the balcony.  He
strides towards the bleeding Woman and begins shouting.

BEGBIE: All right.  Nobody move.  The girl got glassed and no cunt leaves
here until we find out what cunt did it.
A man stands up from one of the tables.

MAN: And who the fuck do you think you are?

Begbie unleashes a primal scream and kicks the Man in the groin.  Another
man moves toward him but is blocked by the men surrounding the girl.  Soon the
whole mass dissolves into a brutal scrum, in which Begbie plays a prominent part.

Up on the balcony, the rest of the gang watch in silence.


The empty cover for 100 Great Goals lies on the floor.

Sick Boy and Renton sit dispassionately watching Tommy and Lizzy in their
home-made porno.

RENTON (voice-over): 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.


A mass of dancing bodies fills the floor.  The music is very loud.

At the side of the dance floor sit Tommy and Spud.  They look rather gloomy.
There is an empty seat beside each of them.  Spud is drinking heavily.

Tommy turns and speaks to Spud.  His lips move but nothing is audible.  Spud
is not even aware that Tommy has spoken.

Tommy bellows in Spud's ear.

Tommy's words and all subsequent conversation in the dance area of the club
appear as subtitles, and the characters' communications somewhere between
speech and mime.

TOMMY: How's it going with Gail?

SPUD: No joy yet.

TOMMY: How long is it?

SPUD: Six weeks.

TOMMY: Six weeks!

SPUD: It's a nightmare!  She told me she didn't want our relationship to
start on a physical basis as that is how it would be principally defined
from then on in.

TOMMY: Where did she come up with that?

SPUD: She read it in Cosmopolitan.

TOMMY: Six weeks and no sex?

SPUD: I've got balls like watermelons, I'm telling you.


Gail and Lizzy are smoking and talking.

GAIL: I read it in Cosmopolitan.

LIZZY: It's an interesting theory.

GAIL: 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.

LIZZY: What, and deny myself the only pleasure I get from him?  Did I tell
you about my birthday?

GAIL: What happened?

LIZZY: He forgot.  Useless motherfucker.


Spud and Tommy are seated as before.  Their words are subtitled.

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: So what's it going to be?

TOMMY: Well, I've alread paid for the ticket.

Gail and Lizzy return.

GAIL and LIZZY: What are you two talking about?

TOMMY and SPUD: Football.  What were you talking about?

GAIL and LIZZY: Shopping.

Standing nearby but apart from them is Renton.

Renton notes Spud and Tommy with their partners, and across the other side
Sick Boy and Begbie are engaged in flirtatious conversation with Two Women.

RENTON (voice-over): 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.

Begbie and Sick Boy with the Two Women.

Renton standing among a group of lone nerds.

Renton wades on to the dance floor, looking at countless women, all of whom
either turn away or are spoken for.

RENTON (voice-over): 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 dot dot dot.

Renton notices one girl (Diane) walking on her own towards the door.  

A man carrying two drinkg catches up with her and walks backwards, 
talking to her.

She says nothing.  He blocks her way.

She takes one drink and downs it, then the other, handing him back the empty
glasses.  She steps past him and walks on towards the door.

RENTON (voice-over): And with that, Mark Renton had fallen in love.


Diane walks away from the club, scanning the street for a taxi, and
hails one which stops just as Renton calls out.

RENTON: Excuse me, I don't mean to harass you, but I was very impressed with
the capable and stylish manner in which you dealt with that situation.  I 
thought to myself, this girl's special.

DIANE: Thanks.

RENTON: What's your name?

DIANE: Diane.

RENTON: Where are you going, Diane?

DIANE: I'm going home.

RENTON: Where's that?

DIANE: It's where I live.

RENTON: Great.

DIANE: What?

RENTON: I'll come back if you like, but I'm not promising anything.

Diane halts abruptly as a taxi pulls up.

DIANE: 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?


DIANE: Well, what's wrong, boy, cat got your tongue?

RENTON: I think I left something back at the...

Diane is in the taxi.

TAXI DRIVER: Are you getting in or not, pal?


The taxi motors along.


Renton and Diane kiss passionately in the back.


Spud is pushed against the wall held my his lapels.  He drinks from a 
bottle of beer in one hand.

GAIL: Do you understand?

Spud nods drunkenly.  Gail releases her grip.

GAIL: I expect you to be a considerate and thoughtful lover, generous but
firm.  Failure on your part to live up to these very reasonable expectations
will result in swift resumption of our non-sex situation.  Right?

Spud drinks from a bottle in the other hand and says nothing but does not
look too happy.


Tommy and Lizzy kiss while Tommy unlocks the door.


In a darkened suburban hallway, the door opens and two figures enter.

RENTON: Diane.

DIANE: Shhh!

RENTON: Sorry.

DIANE: Shut up.

They walk through another door and close it behind them.


Tommy and Lizzy kiss against the inside of the door, taking their outer
clothes off.


Diane throws a condom on the bed.  Renton looks at her.  They undress.


Spud is lying unconscious on the bed.  Gail stands over him.

GAIL: Wake up, Spud.  Wake up.  Sex.

She kicks him.  He moans.

GAIL: Casual sex.

She kicks him again.  He moans again.

GAIL: So let's see what I'm missing.


Renton lies on his back while Diane rides above him.


Gail throws Spud's clothes to the floor and throws a blanket over him.

GAIL: Not much.

She shuts out the light.


Tommy and Lizzy now lie on the bed in a state of semi-undress.

LIZZY: Tommy, let's put the tape on.


LIZZY: I want to watch ourselves while we're screwing.

TOMMY: Fuck, OK.

Tommy gets up and reaches into the row of videos on the floor.  He lifts out
Tommy and Lizzy, Vol. 1 and hastily shoves it into the video.

Tommy sits back on the bed with the remote control and presses play as
Lizzy kisses him.

His face registers consternation.

On the television, Archie Gemmill scores his famous goal against Holland
in 1978.


Diane and Renton climax together.

Diane immediately climbs off and wraps herself in a robe.

RENTON: I haven't felt that good since Archie Gemmill scored against Holland
in 1978.

DIANE: You can't sleep here.



RENTON: Come on.

DIANE: No argument.  You can sleep on the sofa in the living room or go home.
It's up to you.

She pushes him out of the room and hands him his clothes.

RENTON: Jesus!

DIANE: And don't make any noise.

She shuts the door.  He pulls the condom off.


The lights are full on now.  Lizzy sits on the bed clutching a blanket
around herself.

Tommy hops around in his underwear, searching desperately.

All the videos are opened and scattered everywhere.

LIZZY: What do you mean, it's gone?  Where has it gone, Tommy?

TOMMY: It'll be here somewhere.  I might've returned it by mistake.

LIZZY: Returned it?  To the video shop, Tommy?  To the fucking video 
shop?  So every punter in Edinburgh is jerking off to our video?  God,
Tommy, I feel sick.


Renton lies submerged under a blanket.

The sounds of a normal morning travel from a room nearby.  Whistles, radio,

Renton peeps over the edge of the blanket and covers his head again.


Spud opens his eyes.  He sniffs the air and looks down towards the foot 
of the bed.  He moves his hands down to a wet, dark spot on the underside
of the blanket and looks at the excrement on his hand in disgust.


The door swings open.  A man and woman, about Renton's age, sit at the
kitchen table.  They look up to see Renton in the doorway.

MAN: Good morning.

WOMAN: Come in and sit down.  You must be Mark.

Renton walks to the table and sits down.

RENTON: Yes, that's me.

WOMAN: You're a friend of Diane's?

RENTON: More of a friend of a friend, really.

MAN: Right.

RENTON: Are you her flatmates?

The couple exchange a look and laugh.

WOMAN: Flatmates.  I must remember that one.

The man and woman look beyond Renton.  He too turns and follows
their gaze.

Diane stands in the doorway.  She is wearing a school uniform.


The door swings open to reveal the kitchen.  Gail, her Father and 
Mother are seated around the table eating breakfast.

They look towards Spud, who carries the knotted bundle of sheets as he
approaches the table.

GAIL:  Good morning, Spud.

SPUD: Morning, Gail.  Morning, Mrs. Houston, Mr. Houston.

MRS. HOUSTON: Morning, Spud.  Sit down and have some breakfast.

SPUD: Sorry about last night...

GAIL: It's all right.  I slept fine on the sofa.

SPUD: I had a little too much to drink.  I'm afraid I had a slight

MR. HOUSTON: Oh, don't worry, these things happen.  It does everyone
good to cut loose once in a while.

GAIL: This one could do with being tied up once in a while.

MRS. HOUSTON: I'll put the sheets in the washing machine just now.

SPUD: No, I'll wash them.  I'll take them home and bring them back.

MRS. HOUSTON: There's no need.

SPUD: It's no problem.

MRS. HOUSTON: No problem for me either.

She advances to take the bundle.  Spud steps back.

SPUD: Really, no.

MRS. HOUSTON: Honestly, it's no problem.

SPUD: I'd really rather take care of it myself.

MRS. HOUSTON: Spud, they're my sheets.

She takes hold of the bundle.  Spud does not yield.  She pulls harder.
Spud holds on.  She tugs powerfully.

The bundle bursts open with an explosion of excrement that covers 
everything in the kitchen.  Only Spud remains untouched.


Renton paces briskly down the street, followed by Diane.

DIANE: I don't see why not.

RENTON: Because it's illegal.

DIANE: Holding hands?

RENTON: No, not holding hands.

DIANE: In that case you can do it.  You were quite happy to do a lot
more last night.

RENTON: And that's what's illegal.  Do you know what they do to people
like me inside?  They'd cut my balls off and flush them down the fucking

They stop at the school gates.

DIANE: Calm down, you're not going to jail.

RENTON: Easy for you to say.

DIANE: Can I see you again?

RENTON: Certainly not.

Renton walks away.

DIANE: If you don't see me again, I'll tell the police.

Renton stops, turns, and walks back to her.  They stand
for a moment, then Renton walks away again.  Diane smiles.

DIANE: I'll see you around then.


In the cold light of morning, Tommy and Lizzy wait, not speaking,
outside the still-closed video store.


The station is in the middle of a moor.  There appears to be no
habitation around.  In the distance are some hills.

The train pulls away, and Renton, Spud, Tommy, and Sick Boy are left
standing on the platform, looking around.

SICK BOY: Now what?

TOMMY: We go for a walk.

SPUD: What?

TOMMY: A walk.

SPUD: But where?

Tommy points vaguely across the moor.

TOMMY: There.

SICK BOY: Are you serious?

They step across the tracks and walk across the vast moorland.

They stop on a footbridge and all but Tommy sit down and start 

TOMMY: Well, what are you waiting for?

SPUD: I don't know, Tommy, I don't know if it's normal.

TOMMY: It's the great outdoors.

SICK BOY: It's really nice, Tommy.  Can we go home now?

TOMMY: It's fresh air?

SICK BOY: Look, Tommy, we know you're getting a hard time off Lizzy,
but there's no need to take it out on us.

TOMMY: Doesn't it make you proud to be Scottish?

RENTON: It's shite being Scottish!  We're the lowest of the fucking
low, the scum of the earth, the most wretched, servile, miserable,
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 pick a decent culture to be
colonized by.  We are ruled by effete assholes.  It's a shite state of
affairs and all the fresh air in the world won't make any fucking

The boys troop back towards the platform.

SPUD (to Tommy): I'm sorry, man.

RENTON (voice-over): At or around this time, we made a healthy, 
informed, democratic decision to get back on drugs as soon as possible.
It took about twelve hours.


Renton hands over money to Swanney and begins cooking up.

Also present and cooking or shooting up are Spud, Sick Boy, Allison 
and Baby, and Swanney.

RENTON (voice-over): 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

He injects.


Renton, Spud, and Sick Boy are stuffing objects into their shirts and


Renton lies back, narcotized.


Renton and Spud are running along the street.

Two uniformed Store Detectives are running along the street.

Sick Boy stands in a doorway.  As the Detectives run past, he
strolls away in the opposite direction.


Renton lies back as before.

SICK BOY: Ursula Andress was the quintessential Bond girl.  That's 
what everyone says.  The embodiment of his superiority to us:
beautiful, exotic, highly sensual, and yet unavailable to everyone
but him.  Shite.  Let's face it, if she'd shag one punter from
Edinburgh, she'd shag the fucking lot of us.


Spud cooks up, watched by Swanney.

Nearby lie the drugged forms of Renton, Sick Boy, and Allison and 


Renton's mother and father sit reading the paper and a magazine.


Renton trawls through drawers until he finds some cash and 


Renton lies back, staring vacantly ahead.  Tommy flops down
beside him.  Renton shows barely a flicker of awareness.

TOMMY: Lizzy's gone, Mark, she's gone and fucking dumped me.  It was
that video tape and that Iggy Pop business and all sorts of other 
stuff.  I said, is there any chance of getting back together, like,
but no way, no fucking way.


A few elderly patients sit in armchairs watching daytime TV.

Renton and Spud enter through the window.  Watched by the helpless
patients, they calmly disconnect the television and take it with them
as they leave by the same route.


Tommy and Renton slumped side by side as before.

TOMMY: I want to try it, Mark.  You're always going on about how
it's the ultimate hit and that.  Better than sex.  Come on, I'm a 
fucking adult.  I want to find out for myself.

Renton huddles up and leans away from Tommy.

TOMMY: I've got the money.

Tommy produces a ten-pound note from his pockey.


Renton and Spud run down the street.


SICK BOY: Honor Blackman, aka Pussy Galore.  What a total fucking
misnomer.  I wouldn't touch her with yours.  I'd sooner shag Colonel
Kreb.  At least you know where you are with a woman like that.  Not
much to look at, but personality, that's what counts.  That's what
keeps a relationship going through the years.  Like heroin.  I mean,
heroin's got fucking great personality.

He opens the heel of his shoe to reveal a syringe.


The car is empty.  A window is broken and the door opened.

The car alarm goes off.

Renton reaches under the seat and finds the radio.  He pulls the
bonnet release.


The car alarm rings on until Renton produces a pair of wire cutters
and a spanner to cut free and release the battery.

The alarm is silenced.

Renton walks away with the battery and stereo.


RENTON (voice-over): 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 them with 
cancer victims, alcoholics, old age pensioners, AIDS patients,
epileptics, and bored housewives.  We took morphine, diamorphine,
cyclozine, codeine, temazepam, nitrezepam, phenobarbitone, sodium
amytal dextropropoxyphene, methadone, nalbuphine, pethidine, 
pentazocine, buprenorphine, dextromoramide chlormethiazole.  The 
streets are awash in drugs that you can have for unhappiness and
pain.  Fuck it, we would have injected Vitamin C if they'd only made
it illegal.

The GP examines Renton's chest and smiles.

The GP turns to watch his hands.  Renton pulls on his shirt and 
steals a prescription pad off the desk.


Allison injects into Swanney's genitalia.


It's the first day of the Edinburgh Festival.

Renton, Tommy, Spud, Sick Boy, and Begbie sit drinking.

A young male American Tourist walks in wearing a bulky red jacket
and glasses.

AMERICAN TOURIST:  Can I use your bathroom?  Thank you.

Begbie stands up and the rest follow.


The American Tourist turns from the urinal to see Begbie, Renton,
Sick Boy, Tommy, and Spud approaching.  Begbie punches and kicks the
Tourist and pulls out a knife.


Begbie divides up the money among Sick Boy, Tommy, Spud, and Renton.

Renton gets up to leave.

BEGBIE: And remember, Rents, no skag.

RENTON: Aye, OK, Franco.
	  But the good times couldn't last forever.


Renton lies as before.  Around the room are Swanney, Tommy, Spud,
and Sick Boy.

Allison begins screaming and wailing.

Slowly, the others rouse themselves to varying degrees.

RENTON (voice-over): I think Allison had been screaming all day,
but it hadn't really registered before.  She might have been 
screaming all week, for all I knew.  It's been days since I've heard
anyone speak, though surely someone must have said something in all
that time, surely to fuck someone must have.

SICK BOY: What's wrong, Allison?

Allison points to the bundle of dirty blankets in which her baby
is wrapped.  Sick Boy follows her directions.

SPUD:  Calm down, calm down.  Everything's going to be just fine.

RENTON (voice-over): Nothing could have been further from the truth.
In point of fact, nothing at all was going to be just fine.  On the
contrary, everything was going to be bad.  Bad?  I mean worse than it
already was.

Sick Boy stands over the bundle.  The baby is dead.

SICK BOY: Oh, fuck.

Sick Boy reaches out to Allison.

RENTON (voice-over): 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.

SICK BOY: Say something, Mark... fucking SAY SOMETHING!

RENTON: I'm cookin' up.

There is a silence.  Renton begins scrambling through the works.

ALLISON: Cook us up a shot, Rents.  I need a hit.

RENTON: 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.


Spud, Renton, and Sick Boy cross the road to approach the shop.

RENTON (voice-over): 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.

Renton and Spud are running, pursued by the two Store Detectives.

RENTON (voice-over): Nor did I.  Our only response was to keep on going
and fuck everything.  Pile misery upon misery, heap it on a spoon and 
dissolve it in 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 it would all go wrong.

As seen in the opening scene, Renton is nearly hit by a car that
screeches to a halt as he crosses a road.

He looks at the driver, at Spud running away, and the Store Detectives

RENTON (voice-over): 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

Renton begins to laugh.

RENTON (voice-over): Sooner or later this kind of thing was bound
to happen.

One of the Detectives runs straight past him, after Spud.

The other Detective crashes into Renton and tackles him.


Spud and Renton stand in the dock.  Renton's Mother and Father,
Sick Boy, Begbie, and Spud's Mother (Mrs. Murphy) are among those
in the gallery.  The Sheriff delivers his sentence.

SHERIFF: 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 or 
remorse.  In sentencing you to six months' imprisonment my only
worry is that it will not be long before we meet again.  Mr. Renton,
I understand that you have entered into a programme of rehabilitation
in an attempt to wean yourself away from heroin.  The suspension of
your sentence is conditional upon your continued cooperation with
this programme.  Should you stand before me again, I shall not hesitate
to impose a custodial sentence.

RENTON: Thank you, your honour.  With God's help I'll conquer this

The Sheriff and Renton stare at one another for a moment.  Renton
turns to look at Spud, then back towards the Sheriff who is now
leaving the court.

RENTON (voice-over): What can you say?  Well, Begbie had a phrase 
for it.


The pud is crowded.  Around Renton are his Mother, Father, Sick Boy,
Begbie, and Gav.

BEGBIE: It was fucking obvious that that cunt was going to fuck
some cunt.

There is a round of nodding and "poor Spud"ing.  Everyone begins
to talk at once.

FATHER: I hope you've learned your lesson, son.

MOTHER: Oh, my son, I thought I was going to lose you there.  You're
nothing but trouble to me, but I still love you.

BEGBIE: Clean up your act, sunshine.  Cut that shite out forever.

MOTHER: You listen to Francis, Mark, he's talking sense.

BEGBIE: Fucking right and I am.  See, inside you wouldn't last two
fucking days.

SICK BOY: There's better things than the needle, Rents.  Choose life.

He winks.

MOTHER: I remember when you were a baby, even then you would never
do what you were told.

BEGBIE: But he pulled it off, clever bastard, and he got a result.

They laugh and fall silent.

Renton turns around.  Behind him stands Spud's mother.

RENTON: Mrs. Murphy, I'm sorry about Spud.  It wasn't fair, him
going down and not me.

Tears in her eyes, Mrs. Murphy turns and walks away.  Renton
watches her go.  Behind him, Begbie shouts.

BEGBIE: It's no our fault.  Your boy went down becuaes he was a 
fucking smack-head, and if that's not your fault, I don't know
what is.

Begbie turns back to Renton.

BEGBIE: Right, I'll get the drinks in.

He moves towards the bar.

Renton slips away and walks through the bar towards the toilets,
then out a back door.


Renton emerges into a narrow yard surrounded by a high wall.  He
looks around.  The steel back gate is locked.

RENTON: I wished I had 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 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 hits this morning and now I've got
eighteen 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.

Renton climbs the wall, stands on top, and then dives off the other


Swanney is cooking up.

Renton lands on the floor behind him like a gymnast.

RENTON: What's on the menu this evening?

SWANNEY: Your favourite dish.

RENTON: Excellent.

SWANNEY: Your usual table, sir?

RENTON: Why, thank you.

Swanney helps Renton's jacket off.

SWANNEY: And would sir care to settle his bill in advance?

RENTON: Stick it on my tab.

SWANNEY: Regret to inform, sir, that your credit limit was
reached and breached some time ago.

RENTON: In that case...

He produces twenty pounds.

SWANNEY: Oh, hard currency.  That'll do nicely.

He swipes the notes underneath a UV forgery checker.

SWANNEY: Can't be too careful when we're dealing with your type,
can we?

Renton begins searching for a vein.

SWANNEY: Would sir care for a starter?  Some garlic bread, perhaps?

RENTON: No, thank you, I think I'll proceed directly to intravenous
injection of hard drugs, please.

SWANNEY: As you wish.

He hands Renton the syringe.  He injects, then lies back on the 
dirty, red, carpeted floor.

He lies completely still.  His pupils shrink.  His breathing becomes
slow, shallow, and intermittent.

He sinks into the floor until he is lying in a coffin-sized and
coffin-shaped pit, lined by the red carpet.

Swanney stands over him.

SWANNEY: Perhaps sir would like me to call for a taxi?

An ambulance siren becomes faintly audible.


The siren is a little louder.  Swanney holds Renton under his arms
and drags him backwards down the steps.


As Swanney emerges, still dragging Renton, the siren grows louder
and then an ambulance speeds by without stopping.

Swanney drags Renton across the street and into the door of a waiting

Swanney then steps out of the taxi's other door, stopping only to
put a ten pound note into Renton's pocket before closing the door.


Renton lies on the floor of the taxi, as Swanney left him, rolling
slightly as the taxi rounds a corner.


The taxi is stationary.

We do not see the driver's face but his hand opens the door and then
drags Renton out onto the pavement by his ankles before taking the
ten pound note, getting back in the cab, and driving away.

Renton lies on the pavement.

Two porters lift him by arms and ankles onto a trolley.

We do not see the porters' faces as they wheel Renton into the


Renton is wheeled through the room, then into a bay surrounded by
a white nylon curtain.


The porters lift Renton from one trolley to another, then leave him 
alone in the bay surrounded by the curtain.

Renton lies alone.  His breathing is still shallow and erratic.  Around
him is the usual accident and emergency paraphernalia: blood pressure
machine, oxygen tap, bandages, etc.

A Doctor comes in and gives Renton an injection.

DOCTOR:  Wake up.  Come on, wake up.

Renton breathes more easily.


Renton sits between his parents.  His Mother pulls a pack of 
cigarettes out of her purse and hands one to his Father.  She offers one 
to Renton, who doesn't react.  She puts it in her mouth and lights it 


Father carries Renton to the bed, then walks out past Mother, who
looks at Renton for a moment before closing the door.


Renton's father's hand slides three bolts across to lock the door.


Renton lies on the bed.

RENTON (voice-over): 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 I've ever
known will soon take hold of me.  It's on its way.

The door opens.  Renton's mother walks in with a bowl of soup and 
a piece of bread.  Father watches from the doorway.

MOTHER: We'll help you, son.  You'll stay with us until you get
better.  We'll beat this together.

RENTON: Maybe I could go back to the clinic.

MOTHER: No.  No clinics.  No methadone.  It only made you worse,
you said so yourself.  You lied to us, son.  Your own mother and

RENTON: At least get us some jellies.

MOTHER: No.  You're worse coming off that than you are with heroin.
Nothing it all.

FATHER: It's a clean break this time.

MOTHER: You're staying where we can keep an eye on you.

RENTON: I do appreciate what you're trying to do, I really do, but
I need just one score, to ease myself off it.  Just one.  Just one.

Mother retreats past Father, who closes the door.  The bolts go home
again.  Renton lies back and closes his eyes.  His forehead is damp 
with sweat.  He begins to shake.

He tosses and turns, becoming wrapped up in a swathe of blankets.  As
he unravels them, he is astonished to find a fully clothed Begbie in
the bed with him.

BEGBIE: Well, this is a good laugh, you fucking useless bastard.  Go on,
sweat that shite out of your system, because if I come back and it's 
still there, I'll fucking kick it out.  Okay!

Begbie takes a drag on his cigarette.  Renton rips away the blankets,
but Begbie has gone.  Renton looks up.  Baby Dawn is craling across
the ceiling.  Renton looks down to see Diane sitting at the foot of the
bed.  She sings "Temptation" by New Order.

DIANE: You've got green eyes, you've got red eyes, and I've never met
anyone quite like you before.

Renton looks back up.  Dawn continues her slow crawl.  Spud sits
on top of Renton's dresser in a prison uniform, kicking his leg chain
against the dresser.

Renton looks down.  Sick Boy sits at the foot of the bed, holding a cup 
of tea and a chocolate biscuit.  Mother stands behind him.

SICK BOY: It's a mug's game, Mrs. Renton.  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.

Sick Boy takes a bite of his biscuit.  Renton clutches his head in
agony.  Dawn crawls on.

Tommy, looking terrible, slides across the wall.

TOMMY: Better than sex, Rents, better than sex.  The ultimate hit.  I'm
a fucking adult, I'll find out for myself.  Well, I'm finding out, all


A Doctor, dressed like a game show host, stands in front, with Renton's
Mother and Father beside him.

DOCTOR: Question number one, the human immunodeficiency virus is a...

FATHER: Retrovirus?

DOCTOR: Retrovirus is the correct answer.


DOCTOR: Question number two.  HIV binds to which receptor on the
host lymphocyte?  Which receptor?

Mother and Father confer.


DOCTOR: CD4 is the correct answer.


DOCTOR: And now, question number three, is he guilty or not guilty?

MOTHER: He's our son.


Renton looks up again.  Spud is kicking the dresser.  Baby Dawn's
head turns 180 degrees and she falls off the ceiling onto Renton.  He
starts screaming and throws her off.  Renton's Mother and Father are
washing him.  Mother picks up the large, damp sponge from the corner,
where it landed.  She wipes her son's face with it.

FATHER: Mark, there's something you need to do.


A nurse draws blood from Mark.



Renton, his Mother, and Father sit at a table in the local
social club,  It is a Saturday night and the club is busy.  It
is not initially clear what is going on.  Near the bar a caller with
a microphone calls over the PA.

CALLER: Two and four, twenty four... seven... fifteen... clickety-
click, sixty-six...

And so on, as he draws the numbers from the drum.

Everyone studies their cards, except Renton, who studies the people
instead, his drink untouched.

The number calling continues until interrupted by Mother's voice.

MOTHER: Mark... Mark, you've got a house.  House!  House!  For 
goodness' sake, Mark.

They bustle around him and pass his card to the front.

RENTON (voice-over): It seems, however, that 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'll feel so fucking low,
you'll want to top yourself.

His mother counts a wad of money in front of him.


On the door of a flat, "plaguer," "HIV," and "AIDS junky scum" are
daubed on the walls.

Renton knocks on the door.  Tommy comes to the window.


It is poorly furnished.  Tommy lays on the floor.

Renton has the football, which he kicks against the wall and catches, 
then drops and kicks again, and so on.  The ball is slightly flat.

RENTON: Are you getting out much?


RENTON: Following the game at all?


RENTON: No, me neither.

He drops the ball.  It rolls to a halt in the corner.

TOMMY: You take the test?


TOMMY: Clear?


TOMMY: That's nice.

RENTON: I'm sorry, Tommy.

TOMMY: Have you got any gear on you?

RENTON: No, I'm clean.

TOMMY: Well, sub us then, mate.  I'm expecting a rent cheque.

Renton produces some of his bingo win.  As he hands it over,
their eyes and hands meet for a moment.  Tommy puts the money away.

TOMMY: Thanks, Mark.

RENTON: No bother.


Renton sits alone, rolling a joint and reading a book.

RENTON (voice-over): No bother.  Easy to say when it's some other poor 
cunt with shite for blood.

There is a knock at the door.  Renton answers it.  Diane is standing 
in the hallway in her school uniform.

They stand in silence for a moment.

RENTON: What do you want?

DIANE: Are you clean?


DIANE: Is that a promise?

RENTON: Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.

DIANE: Calm down, I'm just asking.  Is that hash I can smell?


DIANE: I wouldn't mind a bit if it is.

RENTON: Well, it isn't.

DIANE: Smells like it.

RENTON: You're too young.

DIANE: Too young for what?

She walks into the room.


Renton and Diane are lying in the bed.  Diane, in one of Renton's
t-shirts, is smoking a joint.

DIANE: You're not getting any younger, Mark.  The world is changing.
Music is changing.  Even drugs are changing.  You can't stay in here
all day dreaming about heroin and Ziggy Pop.

RENTON: It's Iggy Pop.

DIANE: Whatever.  I mean, the guy's dead anyway.

RENTON: Iggy Pop is not dead.  He toured last year.  Tommy went to see

DIANE: The point is, you've got to find something new.

RENTON (voice-over): She was right.  I had to find something new.  There
was only one thing for it.


A contemporary retake on all of those "Swinging London" montages: Red
Routemaster/Trafalgar Square/Big Ben/Royalty/City gents in suits/Chelsea
ladies/fashion victims/Piccadilly Circus at night.

Intercut with closeups of classic street names on a street map (all the
ones made famous by the Monopoly game).


The montage ends on one street, then draws back to reveal the whole
map of London pinned to a wall.  A Man holding a telephone walks in 
front of the map and belches loudly.  Revealing more, he is in a 
scruffy, cramped office with half a dozen occupied desks and twice as
many telephones.  Seated at the one nearest to the Belching Man is 
Renton.  He is wearing a shirt and tie now.  He turns in response to
the belch.

MAN: Can you take this call?

Renton takes the telephone reaches for a piece of paper from which
he reads.

RENTON: Hello, yes, certainly.  It's a beautifully converted Victorian
townhouse.  Ideally located in a quiet road near to local shops and

Renton checks his watch.


Renton stands waiting beside this busy London road, outside some
very unfortunate housing, as the traffic streams past.

RENTON (voice-over): Two bedrooms and a kitchen/diner.  Fully fitted in
excellent decorative order.  Lots of storage space.  All mod cons.  
Three hundred and twenty pounds per week.

A couple approach.  Renton unlocks the door of a flat and holds the
door open while he ushers them in.


Renton shows the couple round a typical London flat nightmare.  A
poor conversion, poor decor, everything small and ill-fitting.  The
windows rattle as the traffic roars by.

RENTON (voice-over): I settled in not too badly and I kept myself to
myself.  Sometimes, of course, I thought about the guys, but mainly I
didn't miss them at all.  After all, this was boom town, where any fool
could make cash from chaos and plenty did.  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.


Renton finishes eating a pot noodle.  He puts it down and picks up a
letter.  He lies back and reads.

Intercut with:


A class is in progress.  A teacher lectures to a mixed class, but 
Diane is not listening as she is writing.


Diane is leaving the school when Sick Boy catches up with her.  They
stop and then she walks away.


Diane walks along a concrete path.  As she does so, she has to step
over Spud, who lies asleep/unconscious beside the remains of a 

DIANE (voice-over): 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 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.  No one has seen Tommy
for ages.  And finally, Francis Begbie has been on television a lot
this week-


Renton turns the page

DIANE (voice-over): -as he is wanted by the police in connection with an
armed robbery in a jeweller's in Corstorphine.  Take care.  Yours with
love, Diane.

There is a buzz at the door.  Renton re-examines the letter.

DIANE (voice-over): -Francis Begbie-

There is another buzz.

RENTON: Oh, no.


Renton sits on the bed.  Begbie stands over him, pointing a gun
at his head.  He pulls the trigger.  It clicks harmlessly.

BEGBIE: Armed robbery?  With a replica?  How can it be armed
robbery?  It's a fucking scandal.

He 'fires' the gun at his own head a few times, then chucks it
to the ground.

And the haul.  Look.

He digs a few rings out of his pocket and throws them to Renton.

Solid silver, my arse.  I took it to a fence.  It's trash, pure trash.
There's young couples investing all their hopes in that stuff, and
what are they getting?

RENTON: It's a scandal, Franco.

BEGBIE:  Too right it is.  Now look, have you got anything to eat, 'cos
I'm fucking Lee Marvin, by the way.


Begbie is sitting on the bed in his underwear, eating cereal while
watching television.  A small carry-out is nearby.

Renton finishes dressing for work.  He pauses at the open door, looking
at his guest.

RENTON (voice-over): Begbie settled in in no time at all.

Begbie opens a can of beer.  Renton closes the door.


Renton closes the door.  He is about to walk away when he hears
Begbie shouting.

BEGBIE: Rents!  Rents!  Come fucking back here.

Renton opens the door.  Begbie is holding out an empty packet
of cigarettes.



BEGBIE: I've no fucking cigarettes.

Begbie throws the packet down to the floor.  It lands neer the door.  
He has turned back to the television and takes a swig of beer.

RENTON: Right.

Renton closes the door again.


Renton and Begbie lie in the single bed with their heads at opposite
ends.  Begbie snores.  Renton is wide awake, a pair of smelly-socked
feet only inches from his nose.

RENTON (voice-over): Yeah, the guy's a psycho, but it's true, he's a 
mate as well, so what can you do?


Where the first empty pack of cigarettes fell to the floor there is
now a large heap of empty packets: the product of weeks at sixty a day.
Another one lands on the pile.

Begbie sits, still in his underwear, still can in hand, sits watching
the racing as before.

Behind him, cigarettes and alcohol are stacked up like a miniature
duty-free warehouse.

Renton sits behind him, reading a book.

BEGBIE: Hey, I'm wanting to put a bet on.

RENTON: Can you not go yourself?

BEGBIE: I'm a fugitive from the law.  I can't be seen on the fucking 
streets.  Now watch my lips.  Kempton Park.  Two-thirty.  Five pounds
to win.  Bad Boy.


The door opens.  Renton walks out.  The door closes.  Renton walks

A wild, frightening scream erupts from beyond the door.


Begbie, alone in the bedsit, is screaming a cry of primal joy.

RENTON (voice-over): Bad Boy came in at 16-to-1.  And with the
winnings, we went out to celebrate.


To loud music, and strobing, fractured lights, surrounded by dry
ice, Begbie dances near a tall Woman.

Other people dance nearby.  Begbie gives the thumbs-up to Renton,
who sits on a stool at one side drinking from a bottle of beer.

Renton looks around the club at the various men and women.

RENTON (voice-over): 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 nobody told Begbie.


A car sits in a street near the club, windows steamed up.


Begbie and the Woman kiss passionately.  The woman undoes Begbie's


Renton's gaze continues to wander around.

RENTON (voice-over): You see, if you ask me, we're heterosexual by
default, not by decision.  It's just a question of who you fancy.


Begbie and the Woman continue their embrace as she unbuttons his 

RENTON (voice-over): It's all about aesthetics and it's fuck-all to do
with morality.

Suddenly Begbie freezes.  He is holding the "woman's" groin.  There's 
something there that shouldn't be.

Begbie goes crazy, simultaneously trying to put his clothes back on,
hit the Woman, and get out of the car.


Begbie kicks the wall in frustration and spits.

RENTON (voice-over): But you try telling Begbie that.


Bebgie sits on the bed, Renton on the floor.

BEGBIE: I'm no a fucking buftie and that's the end of it.

RENTON: Let's face it, it could have been wonderful.

Begbie flicks his cigarette at Renton and pins him
to the wall.

BEGBIE:  Now, listen to me, you little piece of junky
shit.  A joke's a fucking joke, but you mention her
again and I'll cut you up.  Understand?

Begbie produces a knife.


Sick Boy's finger rings the doorbell.


Sick Boy and Begbie are sleeping.  Their feet are in 
Renton's face.

RENTON (voice-over): Since I last saw him, Sick Boy had
reinvented himself as a pimp and a pusher, and was here,
he said, to mix musiness and business and pleasure, setting
up contacts, as he contstantly informed me, for the great
skag deal that was one day going to make him rich.


Renton, Begbie, and Sick Boy sit in a line on the bed
with fish suppers laid out on their laps, but Renton's is

SICK BOY: Good chips.

RENTON: I can't believe you did that.

SICK BOY: I got a good price for it.  Rents, I need the money.

RENTON: It was my fucking telly!

SICK BOY: Well, Christ, if I'd known you were going to get so
humpty about it, I wouldn't have bothered.  It was rented anyway.
Are you going to eat that?

He takes Renton's fish supper and adds it to his own.

SICK BOY: Have you got a passport?


SICK BOY: Well, this guy I've met runs a hotel.  Brothel.  Loads
of contacts.  Does a nice sideline in punting British passports
to foreigners.  Get you a good price.

RENTON: Why would I want to sell my passport?

SICK BOY: It was just an idea.


Renton puts his passport into a locker.

RENTON (voice-over): 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 offer them one of London's most desirable properties.


Traffic floods past as before.


Inside the flat that Renton showed the couple around.  Sick
Boy and Begbie are standing in the hallway.  Renton is in the open
doorway.  He throws them the keys and leaves.


Renton cleans the garbage from his bedsit.


The flat is in darkness.  The door opens and a figure enters.
It is the Man from Renton's office.

RENTON (voice-over): But 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.

Man is followed by another couple.  He switches on a light.

MAN: As you can see, it's a beautiful conversion.  Two bedrooms,
kitchen/diner, fully fitted.  Lots of storage.  All mod cons.  
Three hundred and twenty quid a week.

Begbie and Sick Boy jump out of the cabinet at him.

RENTON (voice-over): And that was that.  But by then, we had 
another reason to go back.  Tommy.


An InterCity train speeds by.


A kitten sits on the floor.

GAV (voice-over): Tommy knew he'd caught the virus, but he never
knew he'd gone full-blown.

RENTON (voice-over): What was it, pneumonia or cancer?

GAV (voice-over): No, toxoplasmosis.  Sort of like a stroke.

RENTON (voice-over): Eh?  How's that?


A service is in progress.  Those present include Renton and Gav,
who are engaged in hushed conversation, Begbie, Spud, Sick Boy, and

GAV: He wanted to see Lizzy again.  Lizzy wouldn't let him near the
house.  So he bought a present for her, bought her a kitten.

RENTON: I bet Lizzy told him where to put it.

GAV: Exactly.  I'm not wanting a cat, she says.  Get to fuck, right.
So there's Tommy, stuck with this kitten.  You can imagine what
happened.  The thing was neglected, pissing and shitting all over 
the place.  Tommy was lying around fucked out of his eyeballs on 
smack or downers.  He didn't know you could get toxoplasmosis from
cat shit.

Begbie turns around, menacing.  The two hush up.

RENTON: Neither did I.  What the fuck is it?

GAV: Fucking horrible.  Like an abcess on your brain.

RENTON: Fucking hell.  So what happened?


The kitten as before.  Slow track back to reveal more.

GAV (voice-over): He starts getting headaches, so he just uses 
more smack, for the pain, like.  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 the door
down.  Tommy was lying face down in a pool of vomit.

The lower half of Tommy's clothed body is visible.


The coffin travels away.  Gav and Renton watch it go.

GAV: The kitten was fine.


Gav, Renton, Spud, Sick Boy, Begbie, Lizzy, and Gail are 
gathered in the pub, still dressed in their funeral garb.  They
are drinking and talking.  Spud sings "Two Little Boys" softly.


Spud is seated, Begbie, Renton, and Sick Boy are standing.  They
open tall beer cans.

RENTON: Tommy.

They all drink.

SICK BOY: Did you tell him?

BEGBIE: No.  On you go.


SICK BOY: There's a mate of Swanney's.  Mikey Forrester.  You
know the guy.  He's come into some gear.  A lot of gear.

RENTON: How much gear?

SICK BOY: About two kilos, so he tells me.  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 the next morning and realizes what he's done and
gets very fucking nervous.  Wants rid of this.


SICK BOY: 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.

RENTON: We've just come back from Tommy's funeral and you're talking
about a skag deal?


RENTON: What was your price?

SICK BOY: Four grand.

RENTON: You haven't got four grand.

SICK BOY: We're two thousand short.

RENTON: That's tough.

SICK BOY: Mark, every cunt knows you've been saving up down in London.

RENTON: I'm sorry, boys, I don't have two thousand pounds.

BEGBIE: Aye, you do.  I've seen your bank statement.

RENTON: For fuck's sake!

BEGBIE: Two thousand, one hundred, and thirty-three pounds.

RENTON: Two kilos.  That's what, ten years worth?  Russian 
sailors?  Mikey Forrester?  What the fuck are you boys on?  Spud,
you've already been to jail, what's the deal, you like it so much
that you want to go back?

SPUD: I just want the money, Mark.

BEGBIE: If everyone keeps their mouth shut, there'll be no cunt 
going to jail.


Heroin is in the process of being prepared for injection: heated,
drawn up, etc.

An arm is prepared for injection: sleeve rolled up, tourniquet bound,
veins tapped, etc.

Mikey Forrester, Begbie, Spud, and Sick Boy look on.

RENTON (voice-over): I hadn't told anyone everything that was 
running through my mind about what might happen in London.
There were a lot of possibilities 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, spiked my vein, and
did what had to be done.

Renton injects the heroin into a vein in his arm.

RENTON: It's good.  It's really fucking good!


The bus travels towards London.

RENTON (voice-over): Yeah, that hit was good.  I promised myself
another one before we got to London.  Just for old time's sake.
Just to piss Begbie off.


Sick Boy dabs at amphetamine.  Spud drinks.


Renton cooks up in the bus toilet.

RENTON (voice-over): 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?


Begbie sits grimly.  The others are relaxed.

RENTON (voice-over): This was Begbie's 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.
He had to.  If he got caught with a bag full of smack on top of that
armed robbery shit, he was going down for fifteen to twenty.  Begbie
was hard, but not so hard that he didn't shite it off twenty years
in prison.

BEGBIE: Did you bring the cards?


BEGBIE: The cards.  The last thing I said to you was mind the cards.

SICK BOY: Well, I've not brought them.

BEGBIE: It's fucking boring after a while without the cards.

SICK BOY: I'm sorry.

BEGBIE: Bit fucking late, like.

SICK BOY: Well, why didn't you bring them?

BEGBIE: Because I fucking told you to do it, you doss cunt.

SICK BOY: Christ.


The bus travels through London.


The gang enter a cheap hotel.  Begbie's bag contains the heroin.


They are met by Andreas, a man in his late thirties of Mediterranean
appearance.  He shakes Sick Boy's hand.

ANDREAS: These are your friends?

SICK BOY: These are the guys I told you about.


SICK BOY: Is he here?

ANDREAS: Yes, he's here.  I hope you didn't get followed or nothing.

BEGBIE: We didn't get followed.

Andreas leads them along a corridor and into a room.


An unexceptional Man and his Flunky are waiting.  Begbie opens the bag 
and produces the two slabs of heroin.  The Man weighs the heroin on a 
kitchen scale.

RENTON (voice-over): Straight away he clocked us for what we were: small
time wasters with an accidental big deal.

MAN: Excuse me, gentlemen.

The Man and Flunky go into the toilet with the heroin.  Renton sits
down.  Spud leans nervously against the wall.  Begbie lights a cigarette
and then gives one to Sick Boy.  A moment passes.  The Man comes out of
the toilet and sits down on the bed.

MAN: So, what would you like for it?

BEGBIE: Twenty thousand.

MAN: Well, I'm afraid it's not worth much more than fifteen.

BEGBIE: Nineteen.

MAN: I'm terribly sorry, I can't go to nineteen.

RENTON (voice-over): This was a real drag to him.  He didn't need
to negotiate.  I mean, what the fuck were we going to do with it
if he didn't buy it?  Sell it on the streets?  Fuck that.

BEGBIE: Well, fucking sixteen, then.

MAN: All right.  Fucking sixteen it is.

RENTON (voice-over): We settled on sixteen thousand pounds.  He had
a lot more in the suitcase, like, but it was better than nothing.

The deal is done.  The Man hands over the money and waits as it is
counted, then leaves with the drugs.

MAN: These, gentlemen, are two thousand pound bundles.  Here's two,
four, six, eight.  I just want to say it's been a pleasure haggling
with you.

BEGBIE: Too fucking right.

The four celebrate, whooping and hollering.

RENTON (voice-over): 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 can touch you deep inside, but it doesn't last long,
not like sixteen thousand pounds.


The pub is crowded with afternoon drinkers.  Renton, Spud, Sick Boy,
and Begbie sit drinking.  Begbie is still keeping a firm hand on the 
sports bag, which now contains the money.

SICK BOY: So what about you, Spud, any major investments on the horizon?

RENTON: Buy yourself that island in the sun?

BEGBIE: For four fucking grand?  One palm tree, a couple of rocks, and 
a sewage outflow.

SPUD: I don't know.  Maybe I'll buy something for my mom, and then buy
some good speed, no bicarb, like, then get a girl, take her out like,
and treat her proper.

BEGBIE: Shag her senseless.

SPUD: No, I mean true love.  But I could really handle some hot sex
with a Jewish princess or a Catholic girl.

BEGBIE: You daft cunt.  If you're going to waste it like that, you
might as well leave it all to me.  Now get the drinks in.

SICK BOY: I got a round already.

SPUD: I got the last one.

RENTON: It's your round, Franco.

Begbie stands up.

BEGBIE: OK.  Same again?

SICK BOY: I'm off for a pish.  See that when I come back, that money's
still here, OK?

RENTON: The moment you turn your back, we're out the door.

Sick Boy walks away towards the toilet.

SICK BOY: I'll be right fucking after you.

BEGBIE: You'll never catch us, you flabby bastard.  Right, see, when I
come back...

RENTON: We'll be halfway down the road with the money.

BEGBIE: I'd fucking kill you.

RENTON: I guess you would, Franco.  I guess you would.

Begbie walks to the bar.  Spud and Renton look at each other and
at the bag of money.

RENTON: Are you game for it?

Spud looks at the bag and around the pub towards the toilet door
and Begbie.  Begbie stands at the bar, awaiting the pints.


SPUD: Are you serious?

Renton looks around.

RENTON: I don't know.  What do you think?

Spud says nothing.  Suddenly they are interrupted.

SICK BOY: Still here, I see.

RENTON: Yes, well, we wouldn't run out on a mate.

SICK BOY: Why not?  I know I would.

Renton turns to see Begbie making his way through the crowd with
the pints held precariously.

A Man standing with a group of friends accidentally nudges Begbie,
causing a pint to spill over him.

BEGBIE: For fuck's sake.

MAN: Sorry, mate, I'll get you another.

BEGBIE: All down my fucking front, you fucking idiot.

MAN: Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it.

BEGBIE: Sorry's no going to dry me off, you cunt.

RENTON: Cool down, Franco, the guy's sorry.

BEGBIE: Not sorry enough for being a fat cunt.

MAN: Fuck you.  If you can't hold a pint, then you 
shouldn't be in the pub, mate, now fuck off.

Begbie drops the remaining three pints.  As the man looks down
to the falling glasses, Begbie smashes the fourth pint in his face.

A fight breaks out between the Man and Begbie.  Sick Boy and Spud rush
in to restrain Begbie.  Renton sits still, not even looking at the fight
or what follows.  His eyes are fixed on the bag while his hands fiddle.

Begbie pulls out a knife and accidentally slashes Spud's hand.

SPUD: Jesus Christ.

SICK BOY: Nice one, Franco.

BEGBIE: Shut your mouth or you'll be next.

SPUD: You've stabbed me, man.

BEGBIE: You were in my way.

Begbie, blade still in hand, addresses the entire pub.

BEGBIE: Anyone else want to get in my way?  You?  You?

Nobody says anything.  Renton is seated as before, avoiding
Begbie's gaze.  Begbie addresses him.

BEGBIE: Hey, Rent Boy, bring us down a smoke.

Renton does not move.

SICK BOY: We'd better go, Franco.

SPUD: I've got to get to the hospital, man.

BEGBIE (to Spud): You're not going to any hospital.
	(to Sick Boy): You're staying there.
	(to Renton): And you bring me down a fucking cigarette.

Renton swivels and stands up.

BEGBIE: And the bag.

Renton lifts the bag and slowly approaches Begbie.  Renton, nervous,
hand shaking, pulls a packet of cigarettes from a cigarette and holds it
towards Begbie.  Begbie does not move.  Renton holds out the bag.  Begbie
takes the bag.  Renton selects a cigarette, puts it in his own lips and
lights it, and hands it over to Begbie.

Begbie inhales deeply and then blows the smoke towards Renton.


Renton lies awake, sharing a bed with Begbie, who is asleep.  Spud
and Sick Boy lie on the floor, both asleep.  Begbie has an arm draped
over the bag, holding it close.  

Renton gets up and goes to the small bathroom.  He turns on the light
above the mirror and looks at himself.  He takes a drink of water and
walks back into the bedroom.

Renton puts on his shoes.  He stands over Begbie and reaches carefully 
down to lift Begbie's arm up.  He takes the bag.

Begbie stirs but does not wake.

Renton walks to the door and puts on his jacket.  He scans the room one
last time.  Begbie and Sick Boy are asleep.  Spud is not.  He shakes his

Renton nods to Spud and disappears.


Renton walks away.

RENTON (voice-over): 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 have done the same to me if only he'd 
thought of it first, and Spud, well, I felt sorry for Spud.  He never
hurt anybody.


Passport being removed.  Renton places a bundle of cash in the


Prostitutes, punters, Spud, and Sick Boy line the corridor as two
Policemen walk past.  They beat a hasty retreat.


Begbie goes radge.


Renton continues his departure.

RENTON (voice-over):  So why did I do it?  I could offer you a million
answers, all false.  The truth is that I'm a bad person, but that's going
to 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, DIY, game shows, junk food, childre, walks in the park, nine to five,
good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, 
indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing the gutters, getting by, looking
ahead, to the day you die.


Spud opens the locker to find the money.  He takes it, smiles, and slams
the locker shut.


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