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Dataset card Data Studio Files
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I chose not to choose life: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who need reasons when you've got heroin?
Goldfinger's better than Dr. No. Both of them are a lot better than Diamonds are Forever a judgement reflected in its relative poor showing at the box office, in which field, of course, Thunderball was a notable success.
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 Spud is shooting up for 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 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 really don't matter when you've got a sincere and truthful junk habit.
I would say, in those days, he was a muscular actor, in every sense, with all the presence of someone like Cooper or Lancaster, but combined with a sly wit to make him a formidable romantic lead, closer in that respect to Cary Grant.
The only drawback, or at least the principal drawback, is that you have to endure all manner of cunts telling you that
You Only Live Twice?
Nineteensixtyseven.
Running time?
One hundred and sixteen minutes.
Director?
Lewis Gilbert.
Screenwriter?
Eh Ian Fleming?
Fuck off! He never wrote any of them.
OK, so who was it, then?
You can look it up.
Who wrote it?
But you're looking better, it has to be said. Healthier. Radiant even.
You don't know, do you?
And I wondered if you'd care to go to the park tomorrow.
The park?
Tomorrow afternoon. Usual setup.
Who wrote it?
Roald Dahl.
Roald Dahl. Fuck me.
It's certainly a phenomenon in all walks of life.
What do you mean?
Well, at one time, you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's gone for ever. All walks of life: George Best, for example, had it and lost it, or David Bowie, or Lou Reed
Some of his solo stuff's not bad.
No, it's not bad, but it's not great either, is it? And in your heart you kind of know that although it sounds all right, it's actually just shite.
So who else?
Charlie Nicholas, David Niven, Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley.
OK, OK, so what's the point you're trying to make?
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 trajectory.
What about The Untouchables?
I don't rate that at all.
Despite the Academy award?
That means fuck all. The sympathy vote.
Right. So we all get old and then we can't hack it any more. Is that it?
Yeah.
That's your theory?
Yeah, Beautifully fucking illustrated.
Give me the gun.
Do you see the beast? Have you got it in you sights?
Clear enough, Moneypenny. This should present no significant problem.
I think Allison had been screaming all day, but it hadn't really registered before. She might have been screaming for a 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.
What's wrong, Allison?
Oh, fuck. Sick Boy reaches out to Allison.
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.
Say something, Mark, say something
I'm cooking' up. There is a silence.
Eughh. Sounds horrible.
It wasn't that bad.
Did he you know?
What?
You know.
No, he didn't make me touch it.
Oh no, don't even mention it.
He made me lick it.
God, you're sick.
And I got a stitch stuck between my teeth, jerked my head back and the whole fucking stump fell off.
Cut it out.
When are you going to visit him?
Don't know. Maybe Thursday.
You're a real mate. And what about Tommy? Have you been to see him yet?
Fuck you. OK, so Tommy's got the virus. Bad news, big deal. The gig goes on, or hadn't you noticed? Swanney fucks his leg up. Well, tough shit, but it could have been worse.
You're all hear.
I know a couple of addicts. Stupid wee lassies. I feed them what they need. A little bit of skag to keep them happy while the punters line up at a fiver a skull. It's easy money for me. Not exactly a fortune, but I'm thinking, 'I should be coining it here.' Less whores, more skag. Swanney's right. Get clean, get into dealing, that's where the future lies. Set up some contacts, get a good load of skag, punt it, profit. What do you think?
Fuck you.
And I'll tell you why. Because I'm fed up to my back teeth with losers, nohopers, draftpacks, schemies, junkies and the like. I'm getting on with life. What are you doing?
I can't believe you did that.
I got a good price for it. Rents, I need the money.
It was my fucking television.
Well, Christ, if I'd known you were going to get so humpty about it, I wouldn't have bothered. Are you going to eat that?
Why?
Well, this guy I've met runs a hotel. Brother. Loads of contacts. Does a nice little sideline in punting British passports to foreigners. Get you a good price.
Why would I want to sell my passport?
It was just an idea.
What?
There's a mate of swanney's. Mikey Forrester you know the guy. He's come into some gear. A lot of gear.
How much?
About four 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, realizes what he's done and get very fucking nervous. Wants rid of this. { He's looking for Swanney to punt it, but Swanney's nowhere to be seen since he lost his leg. }
So?
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.
So we've just come from Tommy's funeral and you're telling me about a skag deal?
What was your price?
Four Grand.
But you don't have the money?
We're two thousand short.
That's tough.
Come on, Mark, every cunt knows you've been saving up down in London.
Sorry, boys, I don't have two thousand pounds.
Good luck, Spud.
Cheers.
Now remember
Yeah.
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?
Right.
But try too hard
And you might get the fucking job.