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 can openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear 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 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 embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have 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 something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?
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. Take the best orgasm you 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 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.
[explaining the gaps in his employment history] Yes, I can. The truth -- well, the truth is that I've had a long-standing problem with heroin addiction. I've been known to sniff it, smoke it, swallow it, stick it up my arse and inject it into my veins. I've been trying to combat this addiction, but unless you count social security scams and shoplifting, I haven't had a regular job in years. I feel it's important to mention this.
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?
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 shite about him. And Sick Boy, well, he'd have done the same to me, if he'd only thought of it first. And Spud, well okay, I felt sorry for Spud - he never hurt anybody. 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.
One thousand years from now, there won't be any guys and there won't be any girls, just wankers. Sounds all right to me.
[Renton goes to Mikey Forrester to buy a final shot of heroin; Forrester hands him suppositories]
Renton: [narrating] This was typical of Mikey Forrester. In the normal run of things, I would have nothing to do with the cunt. But this was not the normal run of things.
Renton: What the fuck are these?!
Mikey Forrester: Opium suppositories. Ideal for your purposes. Slow release. Bring you down gradually. Custom fucking designed for your needs.
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?
Renton: Oh, yeah, for all the good they've done me, I might as well have stuck them up my arse!
Tommy: Doesn't it make you proud to be Scottish?
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 into civilization. Some people hate the English. I don't. They're just wankers. We, on the other hand, are colonised by wankers. Can't even find a decent culture to be colonised by. We're ruled by effete arseholes. It's a SHITE state of affairs to be in, Tommy, and all the fresh air in the world won't make any fucking difference!
Renton: Excuse me, 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 was thinking to myself, now this girl's special.
Renton: What's your name?
Renton: Where are you going, Diane?
Diane: I'm going home.
Renton: Where's that?
Diane: It's where I live.
Renton: I'll come back with you if you like, but I'm not promising anything.
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?