[narrating] 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 DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday night. 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?

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton

1st Interviewer: Mr. Murphy, do you mean that you lied on your application?
Spud: No! Uh. Yes. Only to get my foot in the door. Showing initiative and that like.
1st Interviewer: But you were referred here by the department of employment, there was no need for you to get your "foot in the door," as you put it.
Spud: Ehhh... cool. Whatever you say, I'm sorry. You're the man. The dude in the chair.

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.

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.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton

Begbie: Did you bring the cards?
Sick Boy: What?
Begbie: The cards, the last thing I told you was to 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: Why didn't *you* bring them?
Begbie: 'CAUSE I FUCKING TOLD YOU TO BRING THEM, YOU DOSS CUNT!
Sick Boy: ...Christ.

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.

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton

Tommy: Very, absolutely fucking radge. "It's me, or Iggy Pop", she says.
Spud: So what're you gonna do?
Tommy: Well I paid for the tickets!

Tommy: Doesn't it make you proud to be Scottish?
Mark "Rent-boy" Renton: 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 on civilization. Some people hate the English. I don't. They're just wankers. We, on the other hand, are colonized by wankers. Can't even find a decent culture to get colonized by. We're ruled by effete assholes. 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!

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?

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton

Personality, I mean that's what counts, right? That's what keeps a relationship going through the years. Like heroin, I mean heroin's got a great fucking personality.

Sick Boy

Sick Boy: [Sean Connery accent] Do you shee the beasht? Have you got it in your shights?
Mark "Rent-boy" Renton: [aiming the pellet gun at a dog] Clear enough, Missh Moneypenny! This should preshent no shignificant problemsh!
[shoots the dog which starts attacking its owner]
Sick Boy: For a vegetarian, Rents, you're a fuckin' EVIL shot!

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton: [narrating] This was typical of Mikey Forrester.
Mark "Rent-boy" Renton: What the fuck are these?
Mark "Rent-boy" Renton: [narrating] In the normal run of things, I would have nothing to do with the cunt. But this was not the normal run of things.
Mikey Forrester: Opium suppositories. Ideal for your purposes. Slow release. Bring you down gradual. Custom fucking designed for your needs.
Mark "Rent-boy" Renton: I want a fucking hit!
Mikey Forrester: That's all I've got, matey, take it or leave it.
[Renton considers this and eventually takes the Opium suppositories and inserts them]
Mikey Forrester: Aye, you feel better the now right?
Mark "Rent-boy" Renton: Oh, yeah, for all the good they've done me, I might as well have stuck them up my arse!

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Trainspotting Quotes

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

Mark "Rent-boy" Renton

Begbie: Did you bring the cards?
Sick Boy: What?
Begbie: The cards, the last thing I told you was to 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: Why didn't *you* bring them?
Begbie: 'CAUSE I FUCKING TOLD YOU TO BRING THEM, YOU DOSS CUNT!
Sick Boy: ...Christ.