Morbid biographical story of Sid Vicious, bassist with British punk group the Sex Pistols, and his girlfriend Nancy Spungen. When the Sex Pistols break up after their fateful US tour, ... See full summary¬†¬Ľ

Nancy: Never trust a junkie.
Nancy: I'll never look like Barbie. Barbie doesn't have bruises.
[Nancy storms out of their flat in Sid's mother's clothes, then sees herself reflected in a window]
Nancy: AAGGHH! I look like fuckin' Stevie Nicks in hippie clothes!
[getting off the phone with her parents]
Nancy: I fucking hate them! I fucking hate them! Ass! Ow! Fucking motherfuckers! They wouldn't send us any money! They said we'd spend it on DRUGS!
Sid: We would!
[as Sid storms out]
Nancy: What about the farewell drugs?
Sid: How do you spell "holiday"?
John: S-H-I-T.
Rock Head: [on an exercise bike] So, it appears we are related.
John: [drinking from a bottle of vodka - he burps] Eh?
Rock Head: The press. They're callin' me the "Big Daddy of Punk"
[he looks at Sid and Nancy kissing and groping on the bed]
Rock Head: Lovely couple.
John: Fuck you, Rock Head. What the fuck are you doin' here anyway? I think I'm gonna fuckin' puke!
[burps again]
Nancy: [Pointing] No! Look, that's the Rollerama. Sid, I won a roller skating trophy there when I was six years old.
Granma: Nancy, don't fib.
Nancy: Fuck you, Grandma.
Malcolm: Phoebe - how would you like to supervise our Sidney for a month or two?
Phoebe: No way.
Malcolm: Go on; you'd be a good influence on the boy. Why not?
Phoebe: Infectious hepatitis, loony girlfriend, drugs?
Malcolm: Boys will be boys.
Nancy: Boring, Sidney, Boring!
Sid: [in a taxi on the way to the airport] I wish we wasn't breaking up.
Phoebe: Well it's a bit late for that isn't it? Paul and Steve are flying to Rio, Malcom's in London, John's in New York.
Sid: Yeah, great. What am I gonna do?
Phoebe: Anything you like; you're a free agent now.
Sid: I'll go home; see Nancy.
Phoebe: Yeah, well do that.
Sid: Master Kung Fu.
Phoebe: Look try and get off the heroin OK? Come on promise.
Sid: Ok.
Phoebe: And cut back on the drinking all right?
Sid: Yeah all right, all right I promise! Cross me heart and hope to die
[he smirks]
Nancy: I hate my fuckin' life.
Sid: This is just a rough patch. Things'll be much better when we get to America, I promise.
Nancy: We're in America. We've been here a week. New York is in America, you fuck.
Nancy: What are ya doin here? You're in the studio, these places cost like fifty grand a minute. You could be really shining out! But what? You're just wonking off!
John: Wanking!
Nancy: What happened to you? Did you try and kiss your mother?
John: None of your business.
Brenda Winczor: John got beaten up by facists.
Nancy: Who's Dick Dent?
Brenda Winczor: He's just some wanky journalist who don't appreciate The Sex Pistols.
Sid: If it weren't for me mum's kindness, we'd be on the fucking streets!
Nancy: Yeah? And if it weren't for your own stupidity, we'd be living in our own apartment in Paris, France!
Sid: 'Ere, speakin of cunts who can't play. Hello girls, where'd you get your perms?
Sid: Why don't you shut up and fucking sing you twat.
Paul: You're well out of time, Sid.
Sid: Bollocks, you wanker.
Steve: Play the fucking song, will ya.
John: Ever get the feeling you've been cheated?
Steve: [playing darts in the pub] Get the darts Paul.
Paul: [checks their hands] Let me see your hands, keep 'em where I can see 'em. I'm watching you, you bastards.
[goes to the dart board]
Sid: Hey, Paul.
[Sid, John and Steve start throwing darts at him]
Paul: Fuck off. Fuck off!
Duke Bowman: Steady on boys.
Paul: Bastards! It's not funny! You could stick me in the eye; put it in my brains, I couldn't play the drums then.
Steve: You can't play the fuckin drums anyway.
John: You can't play the fuckin drums anyway.
John: Go on, Sidney. Spray the beast.
Paul: Fucking cabbies, that's what we should be. Make two hundred quid a night being a cabbie.
Sid: Why don't you fuck off and be one then?
Paul: Cos it takes eighteen months to learn.
Sid: You need a driving license too.
Paul: And a set of golf clubs.
Sid: You know, I was so bored once that I fucked a dog.
Sid: We don't fucking care.
Detective: [Sid has been arrested] Why so tense kid? Look, we just wanna know who the girl was. Where did you meet her? Son?
[hands him a cigarette]
Detective: Son.
Sid: [Takes a drag and sniffles] I met her at Linda's.
Detective: Linda? Who's Linda?
Nancy: It's a real waste to smoke that shit. Don't ya have any needles?
Bowery Snax, drug dealer: Sid, Nance, pull up your pants.
Sid: [playing on his bass] And we don't fucking care!
John: No, there's no "fucking". It's just "we don't care"
Nancy: I don't think that Johnny likes me.
Sid: He doesn't like anybody. He's a fool.
Nancy: You like me, don't you?
Nancy: If I asked you to kill me, would you?
Sid: I don't know. How would I do it? I couldn't live without ya.
Clive: I'm gonna be a rude boy. Like my dad.
Malcolm: But Sidney's more than a mere bass player. He's a fabulous disaster. He's a symbol, a metaphor, he embodies the dementia of a nihilistic generation. He's a fuckin' star.
Sid: Where's the bloody soap?
Nancy: Up your ass!

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