The Complete Fawlty Towers

by John Cleese

  Mr. Lloyd: Yes, I think she probably did.

  The lobby. Late evening; it is quite dark outside. Basil is at the desk. Major Gowen appears.

  The Major: Evening, Fawlty.

  Basil: Ah, evening, Major.

  The Major: Papers arrived yet?

  Basil: Oh, yes. Sorry they’re so late. (hands one over) Didn’t get here till five. I’ll have to have a word with them again.

  The Major: Where’s your lady wife this evening?

  Basil: Oh, she’s spending the night at Audrey’s. George has walked out on her again so she’s in the usual state.

  The Major: Still, I suppose it must have upset her a bit.

  Basil: Yes, but she makes such a song and dance about it.

  The Major: You don’t like Audrey very much, do you?

  Basil: Oh, dreadful woman, dreadful.

  The Major: Well, I think it’s very decent of your wife to go round there and listen to all that rubbish.

  Basil: Couldn’t do without it, Major.

  The Major: She’s a fine woman, Mrs. Fawlty.

  Basil: No, no, I wouldn’t say that.

  The Major: No, nor would I. Well, goodnight, Fawlty.

  Basil: Goodnight, Major.

  The Major goes upstairs. Basil puts his recorder on; it plays Chopin. Mrs. Peignoir comes in through the main entrance.

  Mrs. Peignoir: Ah, Mr. Fawlty.

  Basil: Oh. Good evening. Sorry. (turns the recorder off)

  Mrs. Peignoir: No, no, don’t switch it off. I love Chopin.

  Basil: Oh, really? Hah. There’s your key. (he switches the recorder back on)

  Mrs. Peignoir: Ah, it’s so romantic!

  Basil: Exactly.

  Mrs. Peignoir: Are you romantic, Mr. Fawlty?

  Basil: No, good God, no! (switches off the tape)

  Mrs. Peignoir: Well, I think you are. I think beneath that English exterior throbs a passion that would make Lord Byron look like a tobacconist.

  Basil: Oh, no. No way, no, sorry.

  Mrs. Peignoir: Oh, don’t look so bashful. I won’t try and sit on you again!

  Basil: Ah! Ha ha ha!

  They begin to climb the stairs.

  Mrs. Peignoir: And where is your charming wife this evening?

  Basil: Oh, she’s er . . . spending the night with a friend.

  Mrs. Peignoir (naughtily): Oooh!

  They are now in the upstairs corridor.

  Basil: A girl . . . lady friend.

  Mrs. Peignoir: While the cat’s away, eh?

  Basil: Oh, hardly, no. There’s too much to do. (he glances at his watch) Oh well, goodnight.

  Mrs. Peignoir: Bonne nuit . . . oh! Mr. Fawlty . . .

  Basil: . . . Yes?

  Mrs. Peignoir: Did you fix my window?

  Basil: Oh, er . . . no . . . damn.

  Mrs. Peignoir: If you could, please—it’s so hot tonight.

  Basil (cautiously): Yes, yes. OK. Right.

  They move off upstairs. After a pause, Sybil comes in through the main entrance. Upstairs in Mrs. Peignoir’s bedroom, Basil has lifted the sash window.

  Basil: There we are.

  Mrs. Peignoir: Ah, you’re so strong.

  Basil: Well, I’m sure you are too . . . if you put your mind to it.

  Mrs. Peignoir: Your wife shouldn’t leave you alone with strange women.

  Basil: Oh, I wouldn’t call you that strange.

  Mrs. Peignoir: Oh, Mr. Fawlty, you’re so charming.

  Basil: Oh, only a little. (he looks hard at his watch)

  Mrs. Peignoir: Oh, feel that breeze, isn’t it wonderful?

  Basil (backing out): It is nice, isn’t it.

  Mrs. Peignoir: I shall sleep au naturelle tonight.

  Basil: Good idea!

  Mrs. Peignoir: Only it’s not so much fun on your own . . .

  Basil: Oh well, one can always pretend. Agh! A twinge from the old leg. Better go and lie down. Goodnight!

  Mrs. Peignoir: Goodnight.

  Basil: Damned shrapnel.

  He closes the door, leaving Mrs. Peignoir giggling, and goes to his bedroom, closing the door with a sigh of relief. Meanwhile in the lobby, Sybil switches off the light and makes for the stairs; but a loud bump and moan come alarmingly from the kitchen. Back in the Fawltys’ bedroom, Basil is pottering. There is a knock at the door.

  Basil: Er . . . who is it?

  Mrs. Peignoir’s voice: Oh, Mr. Fawlty.

  Basil (opening the door a fraction): Oh, hello.

  Mrs. Peignoir: I’m so sorry, but I have to leave early tomorrow. Could I have a call at seven o’clock, please?

  Basil: Oh, yes, marvellous, is that all, absolutely, seven o’clock.

  Mrs. Peignoir: Please don’t go yet.

  Basil: What? (he looks at his watch)

  Mrs. Peignoir: I think you’ve forgotten something.

  Basil: Did I? Damn. Well, there you go.

  Mrs. Peignoir: Your recorder. (gives it to him)

  Basil: . . . Oh. Thank you.

  Mrs. Peignoir: You left it in my room.

  Basil: . . . Oh, thank you so much.

  Mrs. Peignoir: You left it in my room so you could come and get it, didn’t you?

  Basil: Ha ha ha!

  Mrs. Peignoir (coquettishly): I’m not having you knocking on my door in the middle of the night!

  Basil (falsetto): Ha ha ha ha ha . . . I should coco!

  Mrs. Peignoir: You naughty man! Goodnight.

  Basil: Goodnight. (he closes the door and locks it firmly)

  In the lobby, Sybil is listening to the strange noises from the kitchen. She hurries upstairs, and tries to open her bedroom door, but it is locked. She knocks. Basil makes snoring noises. She knocks again; he goes on snoring. She knocks again.

  Basil (Oh, God!): Look, go to your room. I won’t ask you again.

  Sybil (outside): Open the door.

  Basil: Listen, I can’t, my wife’s just got back unexpectedly. She’s in the bathroom. (loudly, to an imaginary Sybil) What, dear? I think you’ll find it on the second shelf, Sybil darling.

  Sybil: Let me in, Basil.

  Basil: Look, you’ll meet somebody else sooner or later. (she hammers on the door) Try to control yourself. Where do you think you are? Paris?

  Sybil: Let me in!

  Basil: Shut up, will you, you silly great tart! Go away! My wife will hear us.

  Sybil: This is your wife.

  Realisation dawns. There are no first-class explanations. He opens the door.

  Basil: Oh, what a terrible dream!

  Sybil (her mind elsewhere): There’s a burglar downstairs.

  Basil: George got back, did he?

  Sybil: There’s a burglar downstairs. Quick!

  Basil: What?

  Sybil: A burglar!!! Quick!

  Without bothering to put his trousers back on, Basil runs downstairs to the darkened lobby, failing to recognize Manuel as he comes out of the kitchen. Basil reaches into the kitchen for a frying-pan, creeps up behind Manuel and clouts him on the head with it. Manuel collapses face down. Basil sits astride him and is about to clout him again when the back of Manuel’s head seems familiar. He takes a closer look.

  Basil: Manuel?

  The lights go on; it is the Lloyds, Alan, and Jean. Faced with the vision of Basil, in shirt and underpants, sitting across the prone Manuel, Jean is amused, Alan bewildered, and Mrs. Lloyd slightly shocked.

  Mrs. Lloyd: . . . Goodnight.

  She, Alan and Jean go upstairs. Mr. Lloyd, slightly drunk, surveys the scene.

  Mr. Lloyd: We’ve been to a wedding!

  He goes upstairs. Basil covers his face in his hand in mortification, and then draws back the frying pan for a revengeful clout . . .

  THE HOTEL INSPECTORS

  Basil Fawlty ..... John Cleese

  Sybil Fawlty ..... Prunella Scales

  Polly ..... Connie Booth

  Manuel ..... Andrew Sachs

  Mr. Hutchison ..... Bernard Cribbins

  Mr.
Walt ..... James Cossins

  Major Gowen ..... Ballard Berkeley

  Miss Tibbs ..... Gilly Flower

  Miss Gatsby ..... Renée Roberts

  John ..... Geoffrey Morris

  Brian ..... Peter Brett

  Fourth of first series, first broadcast on 10, October 1975, BBC2.

  Morning at Fawlty Towers. In the office, Basil is reading a newspaper. At the reception desk, Sybil is on the phone. She laughs—machine-gun plus seal bark.

  Sybil: . . . I know . . . well, it all started with that electrician, didn’t it . . . a real live wire he was, only one watt but plenty of volts as they say . . .

  She laughs again. The noise rattles Basil, who puts a cigarette in his mouth and looks in vain for a match.

  Sybil: . . . Well, anything in trousers, yes . . . or out of them, preferably. (she laughs) Yes . . . um . . . no, just lighting up, go on . . . I know, I’d heard that, with her mother in the same room.

  Basil comes out and takes the matches; she takes them back from him and gives him just one. Basil is disgruntled but spots a guest coming and slips smartly back into the office.

  Sybil: No, no, of course I won’t, go on. (the new arrival, Mr. Hutchison, stops at the desk; Sybil sees him) Basil!

  Basil (in the office): Yes, dear?

  Sybil: Oh no! . . . Who saw them? . . . Basil!

  Basil (trying to strike his match on the desk): Yes, dear?

  Sybil: Could you come and attend to a gentleman out here, dear? (to phone) nineteen?

  Basil: What, you mean out where you are, dear?

  Sybil: Well, the last one was only twenty-two . . . he was!

  Basil: Actually, I’m quite busy in here, dear . . . are you very busy out there?

  Sybil: I’m on the telephone, Basil. (to Mr. Hutchison) My husband will be with you in a moment.

  Hutchison: Thank you.

  Basil: So I’ll stop work and come and help out there, shall I?

  Sybil: No, no, no, the Maltese one.

  Basil: Well, I’m glad that’s settled, then. (comes to the reception desk reluctantly)

  Sybil: No, no, dear, he was an Arab.

  Basil: Darling, when you’ve finished, why don’t you have a nice lie-down? (to Mr. Hutchison) I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, sir. I had no idea my wife was so busy.

  Hutchison: Fear not, kind sir, it matters not one whit.

  Basil: . . . I beg your pardon?

  Hutchison (loudly): It matters not one whit, time is not pressing on me fortunately. Now some information please. This afternoon I have to visit the town for sundry purposes which would be of no interest to you I am quite sure, but nevertheless I shall require your aid in getting for me some sort of transport, some hired vehicle, that is, to get me to my first port of call.

  Basil: Are you all right?

  Hutchison: Oh, yes, I find the air here most invigorating.

  Basil: I see . . . Well, did I gather from your first announcement that you want a taxi?

  Hutchison: In a nutshell.

  Basil (turning away): Case more like. (he picks up a minicab card; Sybil finishes her call and goes into the office)

  Hutchison: At two o’clock, please.

  Basil (giving him the card): Well, there’s the number of the local firm.

  Hutchison: Please, please—could you get it for me, because I never use the telephone if I can avoid it.

  Basil: Why not?

  Hutchison: The risk of infection . . . Now. I have a rendezvous at five o’clock at this address which I must reach from the Post Office in Queen’s Square, so as the map is sadly inadequate I would be very grateful if you could draw me a diagram of the optimum route?

  Basil: May I ask what’s wrong with the map?

  Hutchison: It’s got curry on it.

  Basil: . . . Look it’s perfectly simple, you go to the end of Queen’s Parade, bear left . . . (Hutchison rudely waves the pen and paper in Basil’s face) . . . Look, just listen.

  Hutchison: No, I just want a diagram.

  Basil: It really is very simple.

  Hutchison: Well, I’d rather have the diagram if it doesn’t put you out.

  Basil: It does put me out.

  Hutchison: Well, I’d like it all the same!

  Sybil (who has come back from the office): Basil!!!

  Basil (through clenched teeth): . . . Right. (he looks round for paper and pen)

  Hutchison (brandishing his pen at Basil): Here we are, then.

  Basil: We do have pens, thank you.

  Hutchison: What?

  Basil: We have actually got pens in the hotel, thank you so much . . . (looks around vainly) Somewhere . . . I mean, where are the pens . . . ? I mean, would you believe it?

  As Basil looks around, Mr. Walt, a smoothish-looking gentleman in his mid-forties, arrives at the desk; Sybil starts checking him in.

  Basil: I mean, there are no pens here! (to Mr. Walt) I mean, this is supposed to be a hotel.

  Sybil is holding out a cardboard box which she has just picked up from the desk. She shakes it. It rattles.

  Basil: . . . Well, what are they doing in there?

  Sybil: I put them there.

  Basil: Why?

  Sybil: Just sign there, Mr. Walt. Because you’re always losing them, Basil.

  Basil: I am not always losing them. People take them.

  Sybil: Well, they don’t take them from me.

  Basil: They wouldn’t dare . . . (takes a pen and starts drawing the diagram, muttering) Well, I’m sorry I didn’t guess that you’d suddenly done that after twelve years, dear. I’m afraid my psychic powers must be a little bit below par this morning. (pushing the diagram at Hutchison) There we are.

  Sybil: Don’t be silly, Basil. It’s written quite clearly on the top of the box. (she gets Mr. Walt’s key)

  Basil (staring): . . . ‘Pens’? . . . It looks more like ‘Bens’ to me.

  Sybil: Well, when Ben comes you can give it to him. Mr. Walt’s in room seven.

  Basil (to Walt): What do you think? Doesn’t that look like ‘Bens’ to you?

  Walt: . . . Not really.

  Basil: Well, it does to me. Look, that’s a ‘P’ . . .

  Hutchison (studying his diagram): I don’t understand this, where is the Post Office?

  Basil: It’s there, where it says ‘Post Office’. I’m sorry if it is confusing.

  Hutchison: Oh. ‘P.Off.’ You’ve used the abbreviation.

  Basil: Ah, the penny’s dropped.

  Hutchison: Well, I thought it said Boff.

  Basil: Of course.

  Hutchison: Yes. I thought Boff was the name of a locale . . . you know, the name of a district. That ‘P’ looks like a ‘B’, you see.

  Basil: No it doesn’t.

  Hutchison: Yes it does . . . there’s a little loop on the bottom of it . . .

  Basil (taking the diagram and showing it to Walt): Excuse me—would you say that was a ‘P’ or a ‘B’?

  Walt: . . . Er . . .

  Basil: There. Does it say ‘Boff’ or does it say ‘Poff’?

  Walt: . . . Er . . .

  Basil: There! There! It’s a ‘P’, isn’t it?

  Walt (unwillingly): I suppose so.

  Basil: P. off.

  Walt: . . . I beg your pardon?

  Basil: P. Off. Not B. Off. Whoever heard of a Bost Office?

  Manuel arrives.

  Basil (to Walt): Nine?

  Walt: What?

  Basil: Room nine?

  Walt: Room seven.

  Basil: Manuel, would you take these cases to room seven, please.

  Manuel: Qué?

  Basil takes some cards from below the desk. He shows Manuel a drawing of a suitcase.

  Basil (to Walt, indicating Hutchison): He thinks Boff is a locale . . .

  Walt: He thinks what?

  Basil (showing Manuel a vertical arrow): You know, some zone, some province . . . in equatorial Torquay. (he shows Manuel a number ‘7’ Manuel holds up a card saying ‘OK
’)

  Basil (to Walt): Manuel will show you to your room . . . if you’re lucky.

  Manuel takes Walt’s cases and scurries upstairs; Walt follows.

  Hutchison: Excuse me, excuse me—in how many minutes does luncheon commence, please?

  Basil: Here, I’ll write it down for you.

  Hutchison: You won’t forget the taxi, will you . . . two o’clock. And if anybody wants me, I shall be in the lounge.

  Basil: . . . If anybody wants you?

  Hutchison: I’ll be in the lounge. (goes into bar)

  Basil (calling after him): Anyone in particular? . . . I mean, Henry Kissinger? . . . or just anyone with a big net? (goes into the office, where Sybil sits filing her nails) I don’t know what it is about this place . . . I mean, some of the people we get here . . .

  Sybil: What are you on about?

  Basil: I wish you’d . . . help a bit. You’re always . . . refurbishing yourself.

  Sybil: What?

  Basil: Oh . . . never mind! Never mind!!

  Sybil: Don’t shout at me. I’ve had a difficult morning.

  Basil: Oh dear, what happened? Did you get entangled in the eiderdown again? . . . Not enough cream in your eclair? Hmmm? Or did you have to talk to all your friends for so long that you didn’t have time to perm your ears?

  Sybil: Actually, Basil, I’ve been working.

  Basil: Choh!

  Sybil: You know what I mean by ‘working’, don’t you, dear? I mean getting things done, as opposed to squabbling with the guests.

  Basil: I would find it a little easier to cope with some of the cretins we get in here, my little nest of vipers, if I got a smidgeon of co-operation from you.

  Sybil: Co-operation—that’s a laugh. The day you co-operate you’ll be in a wooden box. I’ve never heard such rudeness.

  Basil: Look, if you think I’m going to fawn to some of the yobboes we get in here . . .

  Sybil: This is a hotel, Basil, not a Borstal, and it might help business if you could have a little more courtesy, just a little.

  Basil: I suppose talking to Audrey for half an hour helps business, does it?

  Sybil: It was about business for your information. Audrey has some news that may interest you.

  Basil: Oh, really—this’ll be good. Let me guess . . . The Mayor wears a toupée? Somebody’s got nail varnish on their cats? Am I getting warm? . . .