Durchs legendäre Rannoch Moor, wo schon die eine oder andere arme Seele spurlos verschwand, am Loch Lomond vorbei nach Glasgow. In die grösste Stadt Schottlands. Eine Arbeiterstadt, grundehrlich und direkt. Und hässlich. Eine ganze Stadt wie der Escher Wyss-Platz. Trainspotting gehört nicht nach Edinburgh, es gehört eigentlich nach Glasgow.


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 mortage 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 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 spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future.
Choose life.