The Complete Fawlty Towers Read online

  Sybil: There are some hotel inspectors in town. (she exits)

  Basil is stunned. After a moment he runs into the lobby after her.

  Basil: What? What does she know?

  Sybil: That’s all she knows.

  Basil: How does she know?

  Sybil (calmly): A friend of Bill Morton’s overheard three men in a pub last night comparing notes on places they’d just been in Exeter.

  Basil: Three men!? . . . I’ll call Bill.

  Sybil: You don’t have to call Bill, Basil. Just try and exercise a little courtesy.

  She exits into the kitchen. Basil picks up the phone on the reception desk and is dialling when the Major comes in from the bar.

  The Major: Papers arrived yet, Fawlty?

  Basil: No, not yet . . . not yet, Major, sorry, sorry . . .

  The Major exits. Basil sees Hutchison approaching again. He pretends not to and starts dialling again. Hutchison, ignored, starts ringing the bell insistently.

  Hutchison: Could you do that in a moment, please?

  Basil: I’m on the telephone.

  Hutchison: Well, you haven’t finished dialling yet, have you? (he puts his finger on the receiver rest, cutting Basil off; Basil slams the receiver down; Hutchison gets his finger away just in time) Now listen . . . there is a documentary tonight on BBC2 on Squawking Bird, the leader of the Blackfoot Indians in the late 1860s. Now this commences at eight forty-five and goes on for approximately three-quarters of an hour.

  Basil: I’m sorry, are you talking to me?

  Hutchison: Indeed I am, yes. Now, is it possible for me to reserve the BBC2 channel for the duration of this televisual feast?

  Basil: Why don’t you talk properly?

  Hutchison: I beg your pardon?

  Basil: No, it isn’t.

  Hutchison: What?

  Basil: It is not possible to reserve the BBC2 channel from the commencement of this televisual feast until the moment of the termination of its ending. Thank you so much. (he starts to re-dial, but Hutchison puts his finger on the rest again)

  Hutchison: Well, in that case, may I suggest you introduce such a scheme?

  Basil: No. (he brings the receiver down hard, missing the finger by a whisker)

  Hutchison: I’d just like to tell you that I have a wide experience of hotels and many of those of my acquaintance have had the foresight to introduce this facility for the benefit of their guests.

  Basil (unimpressed): Oh, I see, you have had a wide experience of hotels, have you?

  Hutchison: Yes, in my professional activities I am in constant contact with them.

  Basil (dialling again): Are you. Are you really. (he stops; he has registered a potential connection between Hutchison and ‘hotel inspector’)

  Hutchison: Well, then, is it possible for me to hire a television to watch the programme in the privacy of my own room?

  Basil (playing for time): . . . I beg your pardon?

  Hutchison: Have you the facility to hire a television set to one of your guests?

  Basil: Er . . . good point. I’m glad you asked me that. Not . . . as such.

  Hutchison: Oh.

  Basil: However, we do plan to introduce such a scheme in the near future.

  Hutchison: Well, that’s not much use to me tonight, is it?

  Basil: No, but . . . I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I introduce another scheme straight away, along the lines that you’ve already suggested, by which I reserve BBC2 channel for you tonight.

  Hutchison: Now that’s more like it.

  Basil: Not at all. I mean, that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it.

  Hutchison: Yes . . .

  Basil: Is there anything else, before I call your taxi?

  Hutchison: Well, yes, there is. Someone in there mentioned that you have a table-tennis table.

  Basil: Indeed we do. It is not . . . in absolutely mint condition. But it certainly could be used in an emergency.

  Hutchison: Ah.

  Basil: It is to be found in the South Wing, overlooking the courtyard, where there is of course ample parking.

  Hutchison: What?

  Polly has entered the main door.

  Basil: Ah, Polly!

  Polly: Yes, Mr. Fawlty?

  Basil: Mr. Hutchison, may I introduce Polly Shearman, who is with us at the moment.

  Hutchison: Oh . . . how do you do?

  Polly: How do you do.

  Hutchison: Wait a minute. We’ve met before, I think.

  Polly: Yes, I served you at breakfast.

  Hutchison: Oh yes. (wagging his finger at her) And you spilt the grapefruit juice, didn’t you, you naughty girl?

  Polly (charmingly): And you moved the glass, didn’t you?

  Basil (quickly): Thank you, Polly. (she moves off) Awfully nice girl. Very bright. She’s a fully qualified painter, you know.

  Hutchison: Oh, really?

  Miss Tibbs and Miss Gatsby come down the stairs.

  Basil: Ah, good morning . . . good morning, ladies.

  Miss Tibbs & Miss Gatsby: Good morning, Mr. Fawlty.

  Basil (to Hutchison): We do like to have girls of that calibre to help us out, it does add a certain . . . Well, would you care to partake of lunch now? (he moves round to usher Hutchison into the dining room)

  Hutchison: Surely it’s not yet . . .

  Basil: Oh, goodness, we don’t worry about things like that here. No fear—I mean, this is a hotel, not a Borstal!

  He ushers Hutchison into the dining room. Sybil appears.

  Sybil: Basil?

  Basil (at the dining-room door): Yes, dear?

  Sybil: It’s not half past yet.

  Basil: I was just saying to Mr. Hutchison, dear, this is a hotel not a Borstal, ha ha ha. (he mouths the word ‘inspector’ at her)

  Sybil: Chef won’t be ready, Basil.

  Basil: Leave it to me, dear, leave it to me.

  Sybil: Did you ring Bill?

  Basil: No, dear, not necessary. (still signalling)

  Sybil: What?

  Basil: Explain later. (winks) But I must look after Mr. Hutchison now. (mouths ‘inspector’ again)

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

  Polly: A Spanish omelette.

  Hutchison (loudly): And all on the plate, please, none on the tablecloth.

  Polly: . . . Er, excuse me, you’re not by any chance the Duke of Kent, are you?

  Hutchison: No, no . . . oh no. You’ve got the wrong person there.

  Basil (bustling up): Ah, Mr. Hutchison! You’ve ordered, have you?

  Hutchison: Oh yes, I’m going to have your Spanish omelette.

  Basil: Splendid.

  Hutchison: Yes—I assume that all the vegetables within the omelette are fresh?

  Basil: Oh, yes, yes.

  Hutchison: Including the peas?

  Basil: Oh yes, they’re fresh all right.

  Hutchison: They’re not frozen, are they?

  Basil: . . . Well, they’re frozen, yes.

  Hutchison: Well, if they’re frozen, they’re not fresh, are they.

  Basil: Well, I assure you they were absolutely fresh when they were frozen.

  Hutchison: Oh dear—there’s a lot of this nowadays in hotels.

  Basil: A lot of what?

  Hutchison: Yes, I’ll just have cheese salad, please.

  Basil: What?

  Hutchison: I eat only fresh vegetables, you see—I’ll just have the cheese salad.

  Basil: Well, we could do the omelette without the peas.

  Hutchison: Oh, no, I always feel that the peas are an integral part of the overall flavour—might I suggest that in future you avail yourself of sufficient quantities of the fresh article?

  Basil: . . . Now look! We’ve been serving . . . (recovers himself) Yes, yes, good idea . . . now, something to drink?

  Hutchison: Yes, I’ll have a ginger beer, please.

  Basil: A ginger beer?

  Hutchison: Yes, and a glass of fresh water.
r />   The phone rings in the lobby.

  Basil: . . . Fresh?

  Hutchison: Water, yes.

  Sybil (putting her head round the door): Mr. Hutchison—a telephone call for you at reception.

  Hutchison: Telephone? . . . Oh dear . . . oh dear . . . (he takes out a clean handkerchief and exits)

  Basil (to himself): . . . Clever . . . clever . . .

  Basil goes into the kitchen. Mr. Walt enters from the lobby and looks around, wondering where he should sit.

  Walt (to Manuel, who is busily putting napkins on tables): Good afternoon.

  Manuel: No, is no sun. Is no good for me.

  Walt: I beg your pardon?

  Manuel: I homesick, yes?

  Walt: Is there anywhere you’d like me to sit?

  Manuel: Qué?

  Walt: I’m in room seven.

  Manuel (ushering Walt to door and pointing up the stairs): Oh yes please, here . . . you go up . . . room seven.

  Walt: No, no.

  Manuel: Yes, please, I show you.

  Walt: No, look, I want a table.

  Manuel: A table?

  Walt: For one.

  Manuel: Ah! Table one. Oh, please—yes, table one—so sorry. (indicates a table)

  Walt: . . . Thank you.

  Manuel helps Walt to sit, then gets a menu and a piece of card. He gives Walt the menu.

  Manuel: So sorry, but I think you say for room and I do it for I am myself not want to know it easily.

  Walt: I’m sorry?

  Manuel: No. Is my fault.

  Walt: Well, I’ll try the pâté . . . and the lamb casserole.

  Manuel (looking at the card): You . . . room ten?

  Walt: No. Room seven.

  Manuel: Seven? Si.

  Walt: Yes.

  Manuel: No, no, this is table one. Is Wednesday. Room seven is table five. Please. (Walt moves patiently to Mr. Hutchison’s table) So sorry . . . seven is what I think you say but one is for table not for this one so is come se habla en Ingles pero puedo ver las nombres solamente quando estan delante de mi.

  Walt (stoically): The pâté and the lamb.

  Manuel: Si. Pâté . . . Lamb . . . (he exits muttering into the kitchen)

  Basil (coming in and delivering the ginger beer and the glass of water down in front of Walt): One ginger beer . . . and one glass of fresh water. (he looks at Walt and jumps violently) What are you doing there?

  Walt: . . . I . . .

  Basil: You can’t sit there, it’s taken. Come on.

  Walt: Look, I’ve been moved once already.

  Basil: Well, you’re in room seven, aren’t you?

  Walt: Yes, but the waiter said table five.

  Basil: Well, this isn’t table five, is it? (sees the plastic table number; it says ‘five’) Tch. (picks it up and moves to another table) Would you come over here, please, this is table five. (puts the ‘five’ down on the new table, takes an ‘eight’ off and pockets it) . . . Come on!

  Walt: Look, I did ask the waiter.

  Basil: Well, he’s hopeless, isn’t he. You might as well ask the cat. Now, settle down, come on, come on.

  Walt: . . . I beg your pardon?

  Basil: Would you sit down please? (Walt resignedly sits) Thank you. (moves off)

  Walt: I hate to trespass further on your valuable time, but might I look at the wine list?

  Basil: Now?

  Walt: Yes, please.

  Basil (removing the Major’s wine list from his grasp): Excuse me . . . (gives it to Walt) Here we are. Are you happy now?

  Walt: Could I have an ashtray, please? (Basil produces an ashtray) Thank you—I’ll have a bottle of the Aloxe-Corton ’65.

  Basil: The what?

  Walt (showing him): The Aloxe-Corton ’65.

  Basil (registering the price): Oh! The Cortonne. Yes, of course, my pleasure. (he returns the wine list to the Major; Hutchison re-enters, wiping his ear with his handkerchief) Ah, there you are, Mr. Hutchison! Nice to have you back again. (fawns after him)

  Hutchison: Not so close, please, not so close.

  Basil: Oh, sorry . . . everything to your satisfaction?

  Hutchison: Your earpiece was very greasy—I’ve wiped it out for you.

  Basil: Oh, thank you so much. (exits to kitchen)

  Hutchison (muttering): Dreadfully greasy, it was . . . I don’t know who’s been using it. (tastes his ginger beer) Oh dear—that’s tepid! (Basil and Polly come in from the kitchen) Have you got an ice bucket, please?

  Basil: An ice bucket?

  Hutchison: This ginger beer is distinctly warm.

  Basil: Ah, Polly—an ice bucket for Mr. Hutchison, please. Thank you. (Polly looks dazed; Basil goes to Walt’s table with the bottle) There we are—the Cortonne ’65.

  Clearly performing for Hutchison, he inserts the corkscrew with panache and pulls. He struggles, gamely smiles, turns his back, struggles again and it comes. Triumphantly, he pours. Alas, no wine is forthcoming.

  Basil: Ah . . . a bit still in there. Sorry.

  He re-inserts the corkscrew, struggles, and pours again. Nothing happens. He pokes some pieces of cork out and pours. A dribble flows, followed by a torrent. Some goes in the glass.

  Basil: Thank you so much. May I congratulate you on your choice.

  Walt (tasting the wine): Excuse me.

  Basil: Yes?

  Walt: I’m afraid this is corked.

  Basil: I just uncorked it. Didn’t you see me?

  Walt: What?

  Basil (shows him the cork on the end of the corkscrew): Look.

  Walt: No, no . . .

  Basil: No, you see, I took it out of the bottle—that’s how I managed to get the wine out of the bottle into your glass.

  Walt: I don’t mean that. I mean the wine is corked. The wine has reacted with the cork.

  Basil: I’m sorry?

  Walt: The wine has reacted with the cork and gone bad.

  Basil: Gone bad? May I . . . ? (he tastes the wine and turns into the corner to cover his reaction) So you don’t want it?

  Walt: I’d like a bottle that’s not corked.

  Basil: Right! Right! That’s cost me, hasn’t it? Well never mind—I’ll get another bottle. (he takes the bottle; on his way out, he addresses the guests) I do hope you’re all enjoying your meals. (no reaction) I said, ‘I do hope you’re all enjoying your meals.’ (there is a bit of nodding) Thank you, thank you. (calls to Walt) Excuse me . . . excuse me!! Table five!

  Walt: . . . Er yes?

  Basil: Are you having the lamb or the mackerel?

  Walt: . . . The lamb.

  Basil: I’ll have another one standing by just in case. (exits con brio)

  Sybil comes in, looks round for Basil, and exits. Polly comes in, followed by Basil with a fresh bottle.

  Basil: Let’s give this one a go, then, shall we? . . . Polly, would you get Mr. Hutchison his main course, please. (to Hutchison, fawning) So sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Hutchison. It will be with you in just one moment. Thank you.

  Sybil (looking in): Basil.

  Basil: Yes, dear? (but she’s gone; he leaves the replacement bottle on the sideboard behind Walt and goes into the lobby)

  Sybil (sweetly): How are you getting along with your hotel inspector?

  Basil: . . . Fine. Fine.

  Sybil: He sells spoons.

  Basil: . . . Sorry?

  Sybil: I listened in on his phone call. He works for a cutlery firm. But he specializes in spoons.

  Basil: You listened in?

  Sybil: Yes.

  Basil: You listened in on a private call to one of our guests?

  Sybil: That’s right, Basil.

  Basil: . . . The little rat! I’ll get him for that.

  Sybil: Now, Basil . . .

  Basil: Trying that on with me.

  Sybil: Trying what on?

  Basil: Pretending he’s a hotel inspector . . . ‘Do we hire television sets’ . . . ‘fresh peas’ . . . ‘ice buckets’ . . .

  Sybil:
Basil, it was your mistake. You can’t . . .

  Basil: Now, you let me handle this!

  Sybil: Basil!!! This whole inspector business was in your own imagination. It’s nothing to do with him. There is no excuse for rudeness, do you understand? . . . Do you understand?

  Basil: Yes!!!

  Sybil: Good. (she turns and walks away)

  Basil, planning revenge, enters the dining room and stalks the sitting Hutchison.

  The Major: Papers arrived yet, Fawlty?

  Basil: Not yet, Major, no. (he stands behind Hutchison) Spoons, eh?

  Hutchison: I’m sorry?

  Basil: Sppppppppppoooooons!

  Hutchison: I beg your pardon?

  Basil: I understand you’re in the spoon trade.

  Hutchison: Oh! Yes . . .

  Basil: Ah, fascinating! Fascinating. How absorbing for you.

  Hutchison: Yes, as a matter of fact . . .

  Basil: So much more interesting than being a hotel inspector!

  He leaves. Hutchison is puzzled. Polly arrives and places an omelette in front of him.

  Hutchison: What . . . oh, thank you . . . (looks at it) No . . . Miss!! Miss!!

  Polly: Yes?

  Hutchison: I didn’t order that.

  Basil (from afar): Is there something we can get you, Mr. Hutchison? A tea cosy for your pepper pot, perhaps?

  Hutchison: No, no. (to Polly) I changed the order, you see.

  Basil (coming up, aggressively): What seems to be the trouble?

  Polly: Well, I thought Mr. Hutchison ordered an omelette, but . . .

  Basil: No, he went off it, Polly, so we changed the order. It’s perfectly simple . . .

  Polly: Well, I’m sorry, but I wasn’t told.

  Basil: Well, I told the chef, so he should have told you.

  Polly: Well, he didn’t.

  Basil: Well, is that my fault?

  Polly: No, is it mine?

  Hutchison: No, it’s his fault.

  Basil: What?

  Hutchison: It’s the chef’s fault.

  Basil: I beg your pardon?

  Hutchison: Well clearly in a case like this where the order has been changed and the chef’s been informed it’s obviously his responsibility.

  Basil: You want to run the place?

  Hutchison: What?

  Basil: You want to come and run the hotel? Right! Mr. Hutchison is taking over, Polly, so I’ll have the omelette. (trying to get Hutchison to his feet) I’m sure with his natural charm and wide experience there’ll be no more problems . . .

  Hutchison: No, no . . .

  Basil: Come on, then, you can’t sit about all day, there’s lots to be done. (jiggling Hutchison’s chair) Come on!