The Complete Fawlty Towers Read online

  Suddenly Basil dashes off through the kitchen, out across into the lobby and into the office. He spots the doctor in pursuit and leaves by the other door into reception. He meets Manuel under the moose’s head and thumps him firmly on the head. Manuel sinks to his knees. The moose’s head falls off the wall; Basil is knocked cold. The moose’s head lands on Manuel. The Major, entering from the bar, is intrigued.

  Manuel (speaking through the moose’s nose): Ooooooh, he hit me on the head . . .

  The Major (slapping the moose’s nose): No, you hit him on the head. You naughty moose!

  2nd German (sadly): However did they win?

  COMMUNICATION PROBLEMS

  Basil Fawlty ..... John Cleese

  Sybil Fawlty ..... Prunella Scales

  Polly ..... Connie Booth

  Manuel ..... Andrew Sachs

  Mr. Yardley ..... Mervyn Pascoe

  Mr. Thurston ..... Robert Lankesheer

  Mrs. Richards ..... Joan Sanderson

  Mr. Firkins ..... Johnny Shannon

  Major Gowen ..... Ballard Berkeley

  Miss Tibbs ..... Gilly Flower

  Miss Gatsby ..... Renée Roberts

  Terry ..... Brian Hall

  Mr. Mackintosh ..... Bill Bradley

  Mr. Kerr ..... George Lee

  First of second series, first broadcast on 19, February 1979, BBC2.

  The hotel lobby. Things are busy; Sybil and Polly are dealing with guests; Basil is finishing a phone call. He goes into the office. Mr. Mackintosh comes to the reception desk.

  Mackintosh (to Polly): Number seventeen, please.

  Sybil (to her guest): Goodbye. Thank you so much. (he moves off; the phone rings and Sybil answers it) Hallo, Fawlty Towers . . . Oh, hallo, Mr. Hawkins . . .

  Polly (giving Mackintosh his key): I’ve arranged your car for two this afternoon, then . . .

  Mackintosh: Thank you. (he moves off)

  Sybil (to phone): Well, you did say today, Mr. Hawkins.

  Polly (to Mr. Yardley, who has approached the desk): Sorry to keep you.

  Yardley: That’s all right. You do accept cheques?

  Polly: With a banker’s card, yes.

  Sybil (to phone): Well we’ll have to cancel the order, then . . . yes. No, no, five o’clock will be fine. (she rings off) Oh, Polly . . . Brenda can’t start till Monday so would you mind doing the rooms till then?

  Polly: Oh, no, I could do with the money.

  Sybil: Oh, good. (she goes into the office)

  Polly (checking Yardley’s cheque): There you are . . . thank you, Mr. Yardley.

  Yardley moves off. Mr. Thurston approaches Polly. Mrs. Richards comes in through the main door, followed by a taxi driver carrying her case.

  Polly (to Thurston): Oh, hello . . . can I help you?

  Mrs. Richards: Girl! Would you give me change for this, please.

  Polly: In one moment—I’m just dealing with this gentleman. Yes, Mr. Thurston?

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Thurston: Thank you. I was wondering if you could . . .

  Mrs. Richards: I need change for this.

  Polly: In a moment—I’m dealing with this gentleman.

  Mrs. Richards: But I have a taxi driver waiting. Surely this gentleman wouldn’t mind if you just gave me change.

  Polly (to Thurston): Do you?

  Thurston: No, no, go ahead.

  Polly (giving Mrs. Richards her change): There you are.

  Thurston: Can you tell me how to get to Glendower Street . . .

  Mrs. Richards has paid the driver, who exits. She turns back to Polly.

  Mrs. Richards: Now, I’ve booked a room and bath with a sea view for three nights . . .

  Polly (to Thurston): Glendower Street? (gets a map)

  Thurston: Yes.

  Mrs. Richards: You haven’t finished with me.

  Polly: Mrs? . . .

  Mrs. Richards: Mrs. Richards. Mrs. Alice Richards.

  Polly: Mrs. Richards, Mr. Thurston. Mr. Thurston, Mrs. Richards. (Mrs. Richards, slightly thrown, looks at Mr. Thurston) Mr. Thurston is the gentleman I’m attending to at the moment.

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Polly (loudly): Mr. Thurston is the gentleman I’m attending to . . .

  Mrs. Richards: Don’t shout, I’m not deaf.

  Polly: Mr. Thurston was here before you, Mrs. Richards.

  Mrs. Richards: But you were serving me.

  Polly: I gave you change, but I hadn’t finished dealing with him. (to Thurston) Glendower Street is this one here, just off Chester Street.

  Mrs. Richards: Isn’t there anyone else in attendance here? Really, this is the most appalling service I’ve ever . . .

  Polly (spotting Manuel): Good idea! Manuel! Could you lend Mrs. Richards your assistance in connection with her reservation. (to Thurston) Now . . . (she continues to give Thurston directions)

  Mrs. Richards (to Manuel): Now, I’ve reserved a very quiet room, with a bath and a sea view. I specifically asked for a sea view in my written confirmation, so please be sure I have it.

  Manuel: Qué?

  Mrs. Richards: . . . What?

  Manuel: . . . Qué?

  Mrs. Richards: K?

  Manuel: Si.

  Mrs. Richards: C? (Manuel nods) KC? (Manuel looks puzzled) KC? What are you trying to say?

  Manuel: No, no—Qué—what?

  Mrs. Richards: K—what?

  Manuel: Si! Qué—what?

  Mrs. Richards: C. K. Watt?

  Manuel: . . . Yes.

  Mrs. Richards: Who is C. K. Watt?

  Manuel: Qué?

  Mrs. Richards: Is it the manager, Mr. Watt?

  Manuel: Oh, manager!

  Mrs. Richards: He is.

  Manuel: Ah . . . Mr. Fawlty.

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Manuel: Fawlty.

  Mrs. Richards: What are you talking about, you silly little man. (turns to Polly, Mr. Thurston having gone) What is going on here? I ask him for my room, and he tells me the manager’s a Mr. Watt and he’s aged forty.

  Manuel: No. No. Fawlty.

  Mrs. Richards: Faulty? What’s wrong with him?

  Polly: It’s all right, Mrs. Richards. He’s from Barcelona.

  Mrs. Richards: The manager’s from Barcelona?

  Manuel: No, no. He’s from Swanage.

  Polly: And you’re in twenty-two.

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Polly (leaning over the desk to get close): You’re in room twenty-two. Manuel, take these cases up to twenty-two, will you.

  Manuel: Si.

  He goes upstairs with the cases; Mrs. Richards follows. Mr. Firkins arrives at the desk as Basil emerges from the office.

  Firkins: Very nice stay, Mr. Fawlty.

  Basil: Ah, glad you enjoyed it. Polly, would you get Mr. Firkins’ bill, please. Well, when will we be seeing you again?

  Firkins: Not for a few weeks.

  Basil: Oh.

  Firkins: You . . . you’re not by any chance a betting man, Mr. Fawlty?

  Basil: Er . . . (looks towards the office; then, more quietly) Well, I used to be.

  Firkins: Only there’s a nice little filly running at Exeter this afternoon.

  Basil: Really?

  Firkins: Dragonfly. (Polly gives him his bill) Ah.

  Basil: Dragonfly?

  Firkins: Yes, it’s well worth a flutter . . . but pay the tax on it before . . .

  Basil (seeing Sybil coming out): Ssssshhhh! . . . Well, I’m delighted you enjoyed your stay.

  Firkins: Very nice.

  Basil: Hope to see you again before long.

  Firkins (paying his bill): There you are.

  Basil: Thank you.

  Firkins: ’Bye, Mr. Fawlty.

  Sybil: Goodbye, Mr. Firkins.

  Basil (to Sybil): A satisfied customer. We should have him stuffed.

  Firkins (from the main door): Oh, Mr. Fawlty. Three o’clock Exeter. Dragonfly. Right? (he leaves)

  Basil: . . . Yes. Good luck. Jolly
good luck with it. (he busies himself; Sybil stares at him; the Major wanders up) Morning, Major.

  The Major: Morning, Fawlty.

  Basil (catching Sybil’s eye): Yes, dear?

  Sybil: What was that about the three o’clock at Exeter, Basil?

  Basil: Oh, some horse he’s going to bet on I expect, dear. (to the Major) You’re looking very spruce today, Major.

  The Major: St. George’s Day, old boy.

  Basil: Really?

  The Major: Got a horse, have you? What’s its name?

  Basil: Um . . . (to Sybil) Did you catch it, dear?

  Sybil: Dragonfly, Major.

  The Major: Going to have a flutter, Fawlty?

  Basil: No-o, no, no . . .

  Sybil: No, Basil doesn’t bet any more, Major, do you, dear?

  Basil: No dear, I don’t. No, that particular avenue of pleasure has been closed off.

  Sybil (quietish): And we don’t want it opened up again, do we, Basil? (she goes into the office)

  Basil: No, you don’t dear, no. The Great Warning-Off of May the 8th. Yes. Good old St. George, eh, Major?

  The Major: Hmmm.

  Basil: He killed a hideous fire-breathing old dragon, didn’t he, Polly?

  Polly: Ran it through with a lance, I believe.

  Manuel (running in): Mr. Fawlty, Mr. Fawlty. Is Mrs. . . . er, room, no like . . . she want speak to you, is problem.

  Basil (moving off): Ever see my wife making toast, Polly? (he mimes breathing on both sides of a slice of bread)

  The Major: Why did he kill it, anyway, Fawlty?

  Basil: I don’t know, Major. Better than marrying it. (he follows Manuel upstairs)

  The Major: Marrying it? But he didn’t have to kill it though, did he? I mean, he could have just not turned up at the church.

  Upstairs, Basil follows Manuel at a good pace towards Mrs. Richards’ room. They go in.

  Basil: Good morning, madam—can I help you?

  Mrs. Richards: Are you the manager?

  Basil: I am the owner, madam.

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Basil: I am the owner.

  Mrs. Richards: I want to speak to the manager.

  Basil: I am the manager too.

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Basil: I am the manager as well.

  Manuel: Manaher! Him manaher!

  Basil: Shut up!

  Mrs. Richards: Oh . . . you’re Watt.

  Basil: . . . I’m the manager.

  Mrs. Richards: Watt?

  Basil: I’m . . . the . . . manager.

  Mrs. Richards: Yes, I know, you’ve just told me, what’s the matter with you? Now listen to me. I’ve booked a room with a bath. When I book a room with a bath I expect to get a bath.

  Basil: You’ve got a bath.

  Mrs. Richards: I’m not paying seven pounds twenty pence per night plus VAT for a room without a bath.

  Basil (opening the bathroom door): There is your bath.

  Mrs. Richards: You call that a bath? It’s not big enough to drown a mouse. It’s disgraceful. (she moves away to the window)

  Basil (muttering): I wish you were a mouse, I’d show you.

  Mrs. Richards (at the window, which has a nice view): And another thing—I asked for a room with a view.

  Basil (to himself): Deaf, mad and blind. (goes to window) This is the view as far as I can remember, madam. Yes, this is it.

  Mrs. Richards: When I pay for a view I expect something more interesting than that.

  Basil: That is Torquay, madam.

  Mrs. Richards: Well, it’s not good enough.

  Basil: Well . . . may I ask what you were hoping to see out of a Torquay hotel bedroom window? Sydney Opera House perhaps? The Hanging Gardens of Babylon? Herds of wildebeeste sweeping majestically . . .

  Mrs. Richards: Don’t be silly. I expect to be able to see the sea.

  Basil: You can see the sea. It’s over there between the land and the sky.

  Mrs. Richards: I’d need a telescope to see that.

  Basil: Well, may I suggest you consider moving to a hotel closer to the sea. Or preferably in it.

  Mrs. Richards: Now listen to me; I’m not satisfied, but I have decided to stay here. However, I shall expect a reduction.

  Basil: Why, because Krakatoa’s not erupting at the moment?

  Mrs. Richards: Because the room is cold, the bath is too small, the view is invisible and the radio doesn’t work.

  Basil: No, the radio works. You don’t.

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Basil: I’ll see if I can fix it, you scabby old bat. (he turns the radio on loudly. Manuel puts his fingers in his ears; Basil turns the radio off) I think we got something then.

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Basil: I think we got something then.

  Mrs. Richards (to Manuel, who still has his fingers in his ears): What are you doing?

  Manuel (loudly): Qué?

  Basil: Madam . . . don’t think me rude, but may I ask . . . do you by any chance have a hearing aid?

  Mrs. Richards: A what?

  Basil: A hearing aid!!!

  Mrs. Richards: Yes, I do have a hearing aid.

  Basil: Would you like me to get it mended?

  Mrs. Richards: Mended? It’s working perfectly all right.

  Basil: No, it isn’t.

  Mrs. Richards: I haven’t got it turned on at the moment.

  Basil: Why not?

  Mrs. Richards: The battery runs down. Now what sort of a reduction are you going to give me on this room?

  Basil (whispering): Sixty per cent if you turn that on.

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Basil (loudly): My wife handles all such matters, I’m sure she will be delighted to discuss it with you.

  Mrs. Richards: I shall speak to her after lunch.

  Basil: You heard that all right, didn’t you.

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Basil: Thank you so much. Lunch will be served at half past twelve.

  He sweeps out of the room with Manuel just ahead of him. In the corridor he catches Manuel up.

  Basil: Manuel! Manuel!

  Manuel: Si.

  Basil: Are you going to the betting shop today?

  Manuel: What?

  Basil: Oh, don’t you start. You go betting shop. Today?

  Manuel: Oh, vetting shop. Si, si.

  Basil: Yes. Now put this (gives Manuel a fiver) on this little horse—Dragonfly (writes it on the back of Manuel’s hand) . . . but big secret. Sybil no know . . .

  The lobby, about 6 p.m. that evening. Sybil is on the phone at the reception desk; she is discussing a wig on a plastic display head.

  Sybil: No, no, it’s lovely, it’s just a bit buttery with my skin. I think I need something more topazy, for my colouring, you know, more tonal . . . Have you got Cosmopolitan there? . . . well on page 42 . . . you see Burt Reynolds . . . well there’s a girl standing behind him looking at James Caan . . . that sort of colour . . . mmm . . . lovely, all right. (she rings off and looks into the office where Polly is adding up bills) Polly, I’ve got to check the laundry, could you keep an eye on reception for me?

  Polly: Sure.

  Sybil goes off. Manuel comes furtively through the main doors. He dodges Sybil and peeps into the office.

  Manuel (whispering): Polly . . . Polly . . . where Mr. Fawlty?

  Polly: I don’t know. What’s the matter?

  Manuel (very agitated): I have money for him. He win on horse. But Big Secret. Sh! Mrs. Fawlty . . . Sh!

  Polly: Well give it to me, I’ll give it to him.

  Manuel gives Polly the money. He sees Sybil coming back and dashes fearfully off. Sybil looks into the office and sees Polly who, rather impressed, is counting the money. Sybil, unseen by Polly, looks at this and then goes into the lobby. Misses Tibbs and Gatsby are coming in through the main doors.

  Sybil: Good afternoon, Miss Gatsby. Good afternoon, Miss Tibbs.

  Miss Tibbs: Good afternoon.

  Miss G
atsby: Good afternoon.

  They turn towards the stairs, down which comes Mrs. Richards in a huff.

  Misses Tibbs & Gatsby: Good afternoon.

  Mrs. Richards: First they give me a room without a bath, then there’s no lavatory paper.

  Miss Tibbs: Oh.

  Miss Gatsby: Would you like some of ours?

  Mrs. Richards bangs the reception bell.

  Miss Tibbs: We keep an extra supply.

  Miss Gatsby: Would you like some of ours?

  Mrs. Richards continues to bang the bell. Misses Tibbs and Gatsby go upstairs.

  Mrs. Richards: Hallo! (Polly emerges) Girl. There’s no paper in my room. Why don’t you check these things? That’s what you’re being paid for, isn’t it?

  Polly: Well, we don’t put it in the rooms.

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Polly: We keep it in the lounge.

  Mrs. Richards: In the lounge?!!

  Polly (really trying to help): I’ll get you some. Do you want plain or ones with our address on it?

  Mrs. Richards: Address on it?!!

  Polly: How many sheets? (Mrs. Richards looks appalled) How many are you going to use?

  Mrs. Richards (hitting the bell): Manager!!

  Polly: Just enough for one? Tell me.

  Mrs. Richards: Manager!! Manager!!!

  Basil (appearing from kitchen): Yes? Testing, testing . . .

  Mrs. Richards: There you are! I’ve never met such insolence in all my life. I come down here to get some lavatory paper and she starts asking me the most insulting . . . personal . . . things I ever heard in my life.

  Polly (to Basil): I thought she wanted writing paper.

  Mrs. Richards: I’m talking to you, Watt.

  Basil: . . . Watt?

  Mrs. Richards: Are you deaf? I said I’m talking to you. I’ve never met such insolence in my life. She said people use it in the lounge.

  Basil: Yes, yes, she thought you . . .

  Mrs. Richards: . . . Then she starts asking me the most . . .

  Basil: No, no, please listen.

  Mrs. Richards: . . . appalling questions . . .

  Basil: . . . Please. I can explain! . . .

  Mrs. Richards: . . . about . . . about . . .

  Basil (actually managing to shout her down): No, no, look, you see . . . she thought you wanted to write.

  Mrs. Richards: Wanted a fight? I’ll give her a fight all right.

  Basil: No, no, no, no, wanted to write. (he mimes writing)

  Mrs. Richards: . . . What?

  Basil: Wanted to write. On the paper.

  Mrs. Richards: . . . Why should I want to write on it?