The Complete Fawlty Towers

  What did Basil Fawlty fail to avoid mentioning?

  Why did Sybil keep snagging her cardies?

  Where was Polly on the night of the great wedding anniversary disaster?

  And what is the Spanish word for “donkey”?

  The answer to all these questions can be found in this, the complete and unexpurgated scripts of Fawlty Towers—the most celebrated “Brit-com” of all time, and the show voted the top UK television series ever by the British Film Institute. The snobbish, manic Basil . . . his over-coiffeured, domineering wife Sybil . . . the hopeless but ever-hopeful waiter Manuel . . . the calm and capable Polly . . . and of course the steady stream of abused guests—all live again in the pages of The Complete Fawlty Towers.

  Gahan Wilson in the New York Times has called John Cleese “arguably one of the funniest people now living.” And as the reviewer for Britiain’s Literary Review put it, The Complete Fawlty Towers is “superbly well written. If you’re on a bus and can’t see Basil Fawlty thrashing his car with a large branch, it is some compensation to read it happening.” Or as one fan wrote on-line: “Yes, it’s all here, all the comedy, the frustration, the dead body, even the rat.”

  Welcome to FAWLTY TOWERS, the best loved bad hotel in the world.

  JOHN CLEESE is a multi-talented actor and author who lists his recreations in Who’s Who as “gluttony and sloth.” At 6' 4" he is exactly the same height as Basil Fawlty. CONNIE BOOTH, who was formerly married to Cleese, was an oasis of sanity in Fawlty Towers as Polly.

  Copyright © 1977, 1979, 1988

  by John Cleese, Connie Booth,

  and Waterfall Productions Ltd.

  Lines from the song “I Cain’t Say No,”

  by Richard Rogers and Oscar Hammerstein II,

  are quoted by permission of Williamson Music Co.

  Copyright © 1943 by Williamson Music Co.,

  Copyright Renewed

  International Copyright Secured

  All rights preserved

  Used by permission

  ISBN 0-306-81072-7

  First Da Capo Press edition 2001

  Published by Da Capo Press

  A Member of the Perseus Books Group

  http://www.dacapopress.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  A Touch of Class

  The Builders

  The Wedding Party

  The Hotel Inspectors

  Gourmet Night

  The Germans

  Communication Problems

  The Psychiatrist

  Waldorf Salad

  The Kipper and the Corpse

  The Anniversary

  Basil the Rat

  A TOUCH OF CLASS

  Basil Fawlty ..... John Cleese

  Sybil Fawlty ..... Prunella Scales

  Manuel ..... Andrew Sachs

  Polly ..... Connie Booth

  Major Gowen ..... Ballard Berkeley

  Miss Tibbs ..... Gilly Flower

  Miss Gatsby ..... Renée Roberts

  Lord Melbuty ..... Michael Gwynn

  Danny Brown ..... Robin Ellis

  Sir Richard Morris ..... Martin Wyldeck

  Mr. Watson ..... Lionel Wheeler

  Mr. Wareing ..... Terence Conoley

  Mr. Mackenzie ..... David Simeon

  First of the first series, first broadcast on 19, September 1975, BBC2.

  The Fawlty Towers reception lobby. The main entrance is at the back, with the stairs to the right. The entrance to the dining room is in the right wall; on the left, the reception desk running along the left wall, with the entrance to the office behind it. The entrance to the bar is beyond the desk.

  Basil (on the phone): One double room without bath for the 16th, 17th and 18th . . . yes, and if you’d be so good as to confirm by letter? . . . thank you so much, goodbye. (puts the phone down)

  Sybil (bustling in): Have you made up the bill for room twelve, Basil?

  Basil: No, I haven’t yet, no.

  Sybil: Well, they’re in a hurry. Polly says they didn’t get their alarm call. And Basil, please get that picture up—it’s been there for a week. (goes into office)

  Basil: It’s been there since Monday, Sybil . . . Tuesday . . . Wednesday . . . Thursday . . . (to passing guests) Good morning . . . Friday . . . Sat—(realizes Sybil is no longer there; goes across to Manuel who has come in carrying three breakfast trays) Manuel! There—is—too—much—butter—on—those—trays.

  Manuel: Qué?

  Basil: There is too much butter on those trays. (he points to each tray in turn)

  Manuel: No, no, no, Señor!

  Basil: What?

  Manuel: Not ‘on—those—trays’. No, sir—‘uno, dos, tres.’ Uno . . . dos . . . tres.

  Basil: No, no. Hay mucho burro allí!

  Manuel: Qué?

  Basil: Hay . . . mucho . . . burro . . . allí!

  Manuel: Ah, mantequilla!

  Basil: What? Qué?

  Manuel: Mantequilla. Burro is . . . is . . . (brays like a donkey)

  Basil: What?

  Manuel: Burro . . . (does more donkey imitations)

  Basil: Manuel, por favor . . .

  Manuel: Si, si . . .

  Sybil: (coming back in) What’s the matter, Basil?

  Basil: Nothing, dear, I’m just dealing with it.

  Manuel (to Sybil): He speak good . . . how you say . . . ?

  Sybil: English!

  Basil: Mantequilla . . . solamente . . . dos . . .

  Manuel: Dos?

  Sybil (to Basil): Don’t look at me. You’re the one who’s supposed to be able to speak it.

  Basil angrily grabs the excess butter from the trays.

  Basil: Two pieces! Two each! Arriba, arriba!!

  He waves his hand towards the bedrooms and Manuel runs off.

  Sybil: I don’t know why you wanted to hire him, Basil.

  Basil (sitting at typewriter): Because he’s cheap and keen to learn, dear. And in this day and age such . . .

  Sybil: But why did you say you could speak the language?

  Basil: I learnt classical Spanish, not the strange dialect he seems to have picked up.

  Sybil: It’d be quicker to train a monkey.

  Misses Tibbs and Gatsby come down the stairs.

  Sybil (turning on the charm): Good morning Miss Gatsby, morning Miss Tibbs.

  Basil (imitating the charm ironically): Good morning, good morning.

  Sybil: Basil!

  Basil: Yes, dear?

  Sybil: Are you going to hang the picture?

  Basil: Yes I am, dear, yes, yes . . .

  Sybil: When?

  Basil: When I’ve, when I’ve . . .

  Sybil: Well, why don’t you do it now?

  Basil: Well, I’m doing this, dear (indicating typewriter) . . . I’m doing the menu.

  Sybil: You’ve got all morning to do the menu. Why don’t you hang the picture now? . . . Well?

  Basil (jumping up): Yes, all right, I won’t do the menu . . . I don’t think you realize how long it takes to do the menu, but no, it doesn’t matter, I’ll hang the picture now. If the menus are late for lunch it doesn’t matter, the guests can all come and look at the picture till they are ready, right? (he starts to hang the picture to the right of the dining-room door)

  Sybil: Lower . . . (he lowers it) . . . Lower . . . up a bit . . . There! (she disappears)

  Basil: Thank you, dear. Thank you so much. I don’t know where I’d be without you . . . in the land of the living, probably.

  He holds the picture in position. A young couple, the Mackenzies, come hurriedly down the stairs and ring the reception bell.

  Basil: Yes?

  Mr. Mackenzie: Er .
. . could we have our bill please?

  Basil: Well, can you wait a minute?

  Mr. Mackenzie: Er . . . I’m afraid we’re a bit late for our train—we didn’t get our alarm call.

  Basil glowers at them, then puts the picture down and strides back to the typewriter.

  Basil: Right. I was up at five, you know, we do have staff problems, I’m so sorry, it’s all done by magic.

  He starts typing the bill. Sybil looks in from the office.

  Sybil (accusingly): Basil, are you doing the menu?

  Basil: No, I’m not doing the menu, dear. I am doing the bill for these charming people who are in a hurry.

  Mr. Mackenzie (to Sybil): I’m sorry to cause all this trouble, but the reason we’re late is we didn’t get our alarm call.

  Sybil: Oh dear, I am sorry. (sweetly) Basil, why didn’t they get their alarm call?

  Basil: Because I forgot! I am so sorry I am not perfect! There you are, there’s the bill. Perhaps you’d pay my wife, I have to put the picture up . . . if there aren’t any dustbins to be cleaned out . . .

  He walks towards the picture again. A newspaper boy comes in and puts his papers on the tables.

  Newspaper boy: Newspapers!

  Basil turns after him aggressively, tapping his watch—the boy exits rapidly. The Mackenzies leave; Basil’s farewell smile lacks integrity.

  Basil: Goodbye. See you again!

  Sybil: Don’t forget the picture, Basil.

  Basil: I won’t, dear, leave it to me.

  Sybil: I’m going out now. I expect it to be up when I get back. (she leaves)

  Basil (through his teeth): Drive carefully, dear . . .

  He takes the papers into the dining room, and, ignoring the other guests, gives one to Major Gowen.

  Basil: Ah, good morning, Major.

  The Major: Morning, Fawlty.

  Basil: I do apologise for the tardiness of the arrival of your newspaper this morning, Major. I will speak to them again, see if something can be done.

  The Major: Ah, more strikes . . . dustmen . . . Post Office . . .

  Basil: It makes you want to cry, doesn’t it. What’s happened to the old ideal of doing something for your fellow man, of service? I mean, today . . .

  Mr. Watson (from his table): Mr. Fawlty?

  Basil: Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming! (to the Major, quietly) They treat you like dirt, you know . . . of course it’s pure ignorance, but with the class of guests one gets nowadays . . .

  The Major: Ah! D’Olivera made a hundred!

  Basil: Did he? Did he really? Good for him, good old Dolly. Well, well, well . . . (Polly arrives with a cup of tea; he takes it, and gives her the other papers) Thank you, Polly.

  Mr. Watson: We’re only staying till Sunday!

  Basil: Right, thank you . . . (he picks up some food from the sideboard and goes through the lobby into the office; he has just sat down when he hears Sybil coming and hurriedly pushes his snack out of sight) Ah, I thought you were going out, dear.

  Sybil (holding out a copy of Country Life) What’s this?

  Basil: I decided, Sybil, to advertise. I . . .

  Sybil: How much did it cost?

  Basil: Oh . . . I haven’t . . . fifteen?

  Sybil: Forty.

  Basil (vaguely): . . . Forty . . .

  Sybil: I have told you where we advertise.

  Basil: Sybil, I know the hotel business.

  Sybil: No you don’t, Basil.

  Basil: Sybil, we’ve got to try to attract a better class of person.

  Sybil: Why?

  Basil: Well, we’re losing tone.

  Sybil: We’re making money.

  Basil: Yes, yes . . .

  Sybil: Just.

  Basil: Yes, but now we can try to build up a higher class of clientele! . . . Turn away some of the riff-raff.

  Sybil: So long as they pay their bills, Basil.

  Basil: Is that all that matters to you, Sybil? Money?

  Sybil: This advertisement is a waste of forty pounds. (turns to leave)

  Basil: One moment! One moment, please! (proudly hands her a letter from the desk) Well?

  Sybil: . . . Well?

  Basil: My dear woman, Sir Richard and Lady Morris, arriving this evening. For two nights. You see, they saw the advertisement in Country Life.

  Sybil: I wish they were staying a week.

  Basil: Well, so do I . . .

  Sybil: Might pay for the ad then. (makes to leave again)

  Basil: Sybil, look! If we can attract this class of customer, I mean . . . the sky’s the limit!

  Sybil: Basil, twenty-two rooms is the limit!

  Basil: I mean, have you seen the people in room six? They’ve never even sat on chairs before. They are the commonest, vulgarest, most horrible, nasty . . .

  But Sybil has gone. The reception bell rings. Basil goes to the reception desk; standing there is a very non-aristocratic-looking cockney, Danny Brown.

  Danny: ’Allo! (Basil stands appalled) Got a room?

  Basil: . . . I beg your pardon?

  Danny: Got a room for tonight, mate?

  Basil: . . . I shall have to see, sir . . . single?

  Danny: Yeah. No, make it a double, I feel lucky today! (smiling appreciatively at Polly, who is passing) ’Allo . . .

  Polly (smiling nicely): Good morning.

  Danny watches her as she leaves. He turns back to Basil who is staring at him with loathing.

  Danny: Only joking.

  Basil: No we haven’t.

  Danny: What?

  Basil: No we haven’t any rooms. Good day . . .

  Sybil (coming in): Number seven is free, Basil.

  Basil: What? . . . oh . . . Mr. Tone is in number seven, dear.

  Sybil: No, he left while you were putting the picture up, Basil . . . (to Danny) You have luggage, sir?

  Danny: Just one case. (to Basil, pointedly) In the car . . . the white sports.

  Basil closes his eyes in agony. Sybil rings the bell.

  Sybil: Fill this in, would you, sir?

  Basil (quietly): If you can.

  Sybil: I hope you enjoy your stay (looking at register), Mr. Brown.

  Manuel arrives.

  Basil (slowly): Er, Manuel, would you fetch this gentleman’s case from the car outside. Take it to room seven.

  Manuel: . . . Is not easy for me.

  Basil: What?

  Manuel: Is not easy for me . . . entender.

  Basil: Ah! It’s not easy for you to understand. Manuel . . . (to Danny) We’re training him . . . he’s from Barcelona . . . in Spain. (to Manuel) Obtener la valisa . . .

  Manuel: Qué?

  Basil: La valisa en el, er, auto bianco sportiv . . . y . . . a la sala . . . siete . . . por favor. Pronto.

  Manuel: Is impossible!

  Basil: What?

  Manuel: Is impossible.

  Basil: Look, it’s perfectly simple!

  Danny (fluently): Manuel—sirvase buscar mi equipaje que esta en el automovil blanco y lo traer a la sala numero siete.

  Manuel: Señor habla Español!

  Danny: Solo un poco, lo siento. Pero he olvidado mucho.

  Manuel: No, no, habla muy bien. Muy muy bien. Formidable!

  Danny: Gracias, gracias.

  Manuel: Lo voy a coger ahora. (runs off to get the case)

  Basil: . . . Well, if there’s anything else, I’m sure Manuel will be able to tell you . . . as you seem to get on so well together. (goes into the office)

  Danny (calling after him): Key?

  Basil comes back, takes the key from the hook and slams it down on the desk. Returning to the office he sits down, and switches on a cassette of Brahms. He settles back in rapture, but hears Sybil coming and rushes back to the picture in the lobby.

  Basil: Hallo dear . . . just doing the picture.

  Sybil: Don’t forget the menu.

  Basil: . . . I beg your pardon?

  Sybil: Don’t forget the menu.

  Basil: I thought you said
you wanted . . . Right! (puts the picture down) I’ll do the menu.

  Sybil: You could have had them both done by now if you hadn’t spent the whole morning skulking in there listening to that racket. (goes out)

  Basil: Racket? That’s Brahms! Brahms’s Third Racket!! . . . (to himself) The whole morning! . . . I had two bars.

  In the dining room, Polly is taking Danny’s order.

  Polly: Ready to order?

  Danny: Er, yeah. What’s a gralefrit?

  Polly: Grapefruit.

  Danny: And creme pot . . . pot rouge?

  Polly: Portugaise. Tomato soup.

  Danny: I’ll have the gralefrit. Now—balm carousel . . . lamb?

  Polly: Casserole.

  Danny: Sounds good. Does it come with a smile?

  Polly: It comes with sprouts or carrots.

  Danny: Oh, smile’s extra, is it?

  Polly: You’ll get one if you eat up all your sprouts. (exits)

  Danny (half registering a figure on the other side of the room): Waiter!

  Basil freezes and then comes balefully towards Danny.

  Basil: . . . I beg your pardon?

  Danny: Oh, ’allo. Can I have some wine please?

  Basil: The waiter is busy, sir, but I will bring you the carte des vins when I have finished attending to this gentleman. (indicates the table he has just left)

  Danny: Oh, fine—no hurry.

  Basil (muttering on his way to the other table): Oh, good, how nice, how very thoughtful . . . (at the other table) I trust the beer is to your satisfaction, sir?

  Mr. Watson: . . . Yes, fine.

  Basil: Ah, good. May I wish you bon appétit. (snaps his fingers) Manuel! (Manuel runs in) Would you fetch the wine list, please?

  Manuel (not moving): Si, señor.

  Basil: . . . The wine list. The wine . . . vino. (Manuel starts to move) No, no. The list! There, there, the list! (points to it—it is on another table) The list, there! The red . . . there! . . . There!!

  He picks up the list, hands it to Manuel, then gets Manuel to hand it to him so that he can give it to Danny.

  Danny: ’Ave you got a half bottle of the Beaujolais?

  Basil: Yes.

  Danny: Oh, fine.

  Basil withdraws the wine list with a flourish, knocking the grapefruit out of Polly’s hand as she approaches the table.