Kevin McKidd: Tommy
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 into civilization. Some 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 be colonized 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!
Tommy : Useless motherfucker, that's what she called me. I told her, I'm sorry, but these things happen. Let's put it behind us.
Spud : That's fair enough.
Tommy : Yes, but then she finds out I've bought a ticket for Iggy Pop the same night.
Spud : Went ballistic?
Tommy : Big time. Absolutely fucking radge. 'It's me or Iggy Pop, time to decide.'
Spud : So what's it going to be?
Tommy : Well, I've paid for the ticket.
[Telling Renton the truth about Begbie's story]
Tommy : It was Wednesday morning. We were in the Volley, playing pool. That much is true. But, Begbie is playing absolutely fucking 'gash!'
[Cuts to pool hall]
Tommy : He's got a hangover so bad, he can barely hold the cue, never mind pot a ball. And I'm doing my best to lose, you know trying to humour him like. But it's not doing any good. Every time I hit the ball, I seem to pot something. Every time Begbie goes near the table, he fucks it up.
[Tommy aims and hits the cue balls away from a cornered ball]
Tommy : Oh, for fuck sake.
[the cue ball bounces around the table but ends up potting the ball he tried to miss]
Tommy : So he's got the hump, right? But, finally I manage to set it up so that all he's gotta do is to pot the black, to savage a little bit of pride, and maybe not kick my head in, yeah? So he squares up... pressure shot...
[a man at the bar opens a pack of potato chips. The crunching sound putting Begbie off]
Tommy : And it all goes wrong, big time!
[the same man, eats a potato chip. The even louder crunch noise causes Begbie to rip the table with his cue and knock the cue ball off the table and into Tommy's hand]
Begbie : Fuck!
[Begbie travels over to the man, and cracks his cue over the man's back]
Tommy : He picks on this speccy wee gadge at the bar, accusing him of putting him off by looking at him. I mean the man hasn't glanced in that direction.
Tommy : [In Renton's head] Better than sex, Rents. Better than sex. The ultimate hit. I'm a fucking adult, I can find out for meself. Well I'm finding out all right.
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.
Tommy : Begbie's fuckin' psycho, man! But... he's a mate, so what can you do?