The Complete Fawlty Towers

by John Cleese

  Basil (giving up): Oh! I’ll have some sent up to your room immediately. Manuel! (rings the bell)

  Mrs. Richards: That doesn’t work either. What were you saying just then?

  Basil: Oh . . . turn it on!

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Basil: Turn it . . . (furious, he writes on a piece of paper) Turn . . . it . . . on. (shows it to her)

  Mrs. Richards: I can’t read that. I need my glasses! Where are they? (they are in fact propped up on her forehead)

  Polly: They’re on your head, Mrs. Richards.

  Mrs. Richards: I’ve lost them. They’re the only pair I’ve got. I can’t read a thing without them.

  Basil: Excuse me . . .

  Mrs. Richards: Now, I had them this morning when I was buying the vase. I put them on to look at it. And I had them at tea-time . . .

  Basil: . . . Mrs. Richards . . .

  Polly: . . . Mrs. Richards . . .

  Basil: . . . Mrs. Richards . . . (she looks up; they both point at her glasses) Your glasses are there.

  Mrs. Richards (looks round and sees the dining room): There?! Well, who put them in there? (she goes towards the dining room)

  Polly: . . . No!

  Basil: No, no, no, on your head . . . (Mrs. Richards does not hear him) On your . . . look . . . on . . . on your head!!!

  Mrs. Richards (stopping and turning): What?

  Basil starts to write again, realizes, throws the paper at her and disappears into the office. Mrs. Richards goes on into the dining room. Polly follows Basil into the office.

  Polly: I’m sorry about that, Mr. Fawlty . . . Manuel asked me to give this to you. (hands him the money)

  Basil: Oh!! Thank you, Polly. Er . . . Polly . . . not a word to the dragon, eh?

  Polly goes out to the lobby; Manuel is there.

  Polly: Manuel, get some loo paper, muchos, for twenty-two.

  Manuel runs off towards the bar. Mrs. Richards emerges from the dining room.

  Mrs. Richards: Are you blind? They were on my head all the time. Didn’t you see?

  Polly: Yes.

  Mrs. Richards: Didn’t God give you eyes?

  Polly: Yes, but I don’t use them ’cos it wears the batteries out.

  Mrs. Richards: Send my paper up immediately.

  Manuel enters from bar carrying a huge stack of loo paper.

  Polly: Manuel, that’s too much.

  Manuel: You say twenty-two.

  Mrs. Richards goes upstairs, followed by Manuel. Basil bustles into the kitchen merrily rubbing his hands together. Terry is there, vaguely preparing for the evening’s cooking.

  Basil: Evening, Terry. (sings a quick bit of Cav) Do you like Cavallero Rusticana, Terry?

  Terry: I never had it, Mr. Fawlty.

  Basil: Never mind. (he sings another bit, while getting himself a snack)

  Terry: You’re in a good mood, Mr. Fawlty.

  Basil: Had a little bit of luck on the gee-gees, Terry. Er . . . not a word to the trouble and strife, eh? (prepares his snack) De Camptown ladies sing dis song, doo dah, doo dah, the Camptown race track five miles long, doo dah doo dah day. Going to run all night . . . (Sybil enters) Going to run all day . . . I’ll bet my money on the bob-tail nag . . . (sees Sybil) . . . I did it my-y way. Can’t stand Frank Sinatra. ‘You make me feel so young’ . . . rubbish.

  Sybil (suspiciously): You seem very jolly, Basil.

  Basil: Hmmm?

  Sybil: You seem very jolly.

  Basil: Jolly?

  Sybil: Yes, jolly. Sort of . . . happy.

  Basil: Oh, ‘happy’. Yes, I remember that. No, not that I noticed, dear. I’ll report it if it happens, though.

  Sybil (accusingly): Well, you look happy to me, Basil.

  Basil: No I’m not, dear.

  Sybil: All that dancing about, singing and rubbing your hands.

  Basil: No, just my way of getting through the day, dear. The Samaritans were engaged.

  Sybil: I thought maybe you were in love. (laughs)

  Basil: Only with you, light of my life.

  Sybil: Or had a bit of luck or something . . . (Basil reacts guiltily; then catches her eye and stares uncomprehendingly; Sybil turns to Terry) Did Mr. Hawkins deliver those tonics, Terry?

  Terry: Yes he did, Mrs. Fawlty.

  Sybil goes out into the lobby. Basil dashes into the dining room where Manuel is laying tables.

  Basil: Manuel, Manuel.

  Manuel: Your horse, it win, it win!

  Basil: Sshh . . . Manuel . . . (putting his head close to Manuel) You know nothing. (Manuel is puzzled) You know nothing.

  Manuel: You always say, Mr. Fawlty. But I learn.

  Basil: What?

  Manuel: I learn, I learn.

  Basil: No, no, no, no . . .

  Manuel: I get better.

  Basil: No, you don’t understand.

  Manuel: I do.

  Basil: No, you don’t.

  Manuel: I do understand that.

  Basil: Shh . . . you know nothing about the horse.

  Manuel (doubtfully): I know nothing about the horse.

  Basil: Yes.

  Manuel: Ah . . . which horse?

  Basil: What?

  Manuel: Which horse I know nothing?

  Basil: My horse, nitwit.

  Manuel: Your horse, ‘Nitwit’.

  Basil: No, no, Dragonfly.

  Manuel: It won!

  Basil: Yes, I know.

  Manuel: I know it won, too.

  Basil: What?

  Manuel: I put money on for you. You give me money. I go to vetting-shop, I put money on . . .

  Basil: I know, I know, I know.

  Manuel: Why you say I know nothing?

  Basil: Oh. Look . . . look . . . look . . . you know the horse?

  Manuel: Witnit? Or Dragonfly?

  Basil: Dragonfly. There isn’t a horse called Nitwit. You’re the nitwit.

  Manuel: What is witnit?

  Basil (puts his hand round Manuel’s throat): It doesn’t matter . . . look . . . it doesn’t matter . . . Oh . . . I could spend the rest of my life having this conversation. Please try to understand before one of us dies.

  Manuel: I try.

  Basil: You’re going to forget everything you know about nitwit.

  Manuel: No, Dragonfly.

  Basil: Dragonfly! Yes!

  Manuel: Si, si, si . . . eventually.

  Basil: What?

  Manuel: . . . Eventually. At the end.

  Basil: . . . No, no, no, forget it now!

  Manuel: Now?

  Basil: Well, pretend you forget.

  Manuel: Pretend?

  Basil: Don’t say anything to anyone about the horse!!!

  Manuel: Oh, I know that, you tell me this morning. Tch! Choh!

  Basil stares. Sybil puts her head round the door.

  Sybil: Basil.

  Basil (to Manuel): So don’t do it again. (to Sybil) Yes, dear?

  Sybil: It’s Mrs. Richards.

  Basil: A fatal accident?

  Sybil: She’s had some money stolen.

  Sybil leaves. Basil moves after her emitting a moan. Manuel grabs his arm.

  Manuel: Ah, Mr. Fawlty, I tell Polly.

  Basil: What? Oh, that’s all right. But don’t tell anyone else. Not even me. You know nothing.

  Sybil (from lobby): Basil!

  Basil: Yes, dear? (he catches her up in the lobby)

  Sybil: Basil, you’ve got to help me handle this. She’s in a frightful state, I can’t get a word in edgeways. She’s had eighty-five pounds taken from her room, I’ve said we’ll search everywhere but she insists we call the police. What do you do with someone like that, she just keeps on.

  They go into the office; Mrs. Richards is there.

  Basil (loudly): Mrs. Richards, how very nice to see you. Are you enjoying your stay?

  Mrs. Richards: There’s no need to shout. I have my hearing aid on.

  Basil: . . . Oh!

  Sybil: Mrs. Richards, I’ve explained to
my husb—

  Mrs. Richards: I’ve just been up to my room. Eighty-five pounds has been taken from my bag which I had hidden under the mattress.

  Basil: Oh, yes? . . .

  Mrs. Richards: It’s a disgrace, I haven’t been here a day. What sort of staff do you employ here?

  Sybil: Mrs. Richards . . .

  Mrs. Richards: If you knew anything at all about running a hotel, this sort of thing wouldn’t happen! Well . . . what have you got to say for yourself?

  Basil launches into a long, but entirely mimed, speech.

  Mrs. Richards: What?

  Basil continues to mime. Sybil nudges him.

  Sybil (very quietly): Basil.

  Basil: (mimes ‘Yes, dear?’)

  Sybil (very quietly): Don’t.

  Mrs. Richards: Wait. Wait. Wait, wait, I haven’t turned it up enough. (she fiddles with the control and looks at Basil; he rubs his hands)

  Sybil (whispers warningly): Basil!

  Mrs. Richards turns the control full up.

  Basil (fortissimissimo): I said I suggest . . .

  Mrs. Richards reels back holding her head in her hands and bangs her head on the shelf on the wall behind her.

  Mrs. Richards: My head!

  Basil: Has it come away?

  Sybil (pushing past Basil): Get away. (to Mrs. Richards) Did you bang your head?

  Mrs. Richards: Yes, yes.

  Sybil: Oh dear, let me have a look.

  Basil: You’d better go and lie down before something else happens.

  Sybil (elbowing him): Shut up, Basil.

  Mrs. Richards: Why don’t you call the police?

  Sybil: We will the moment we’ve searched the rooms.

  Mrs. Richards: My money’s been taken.

  Sybil: Yes, yes, I know, try not to speak.

  Basil (offering something he has found on the floor): Is this a piece of your brain?

  Sybil kicks his shin. He sits down clutching it.

  Mrs. Richards: Eighty-five pounds.

  Sybil: Take my arm.

  Mrs. Richards: I don’t need your arm, thank you. I can get down the stairs perfectly well by myself.

  Basil: Down the stairs? Oh well, don’t stop when you get to the basement. Keep straight on. Give my regards to the earth’s core.

  Mrs. Richards has left the office. Sybil is looking after her.

  Sybil: Are you sure you can manage?

  Basil: And if you give us any more trouble I shall visit you in the small hours and put a bat up your nightdress. (still rubbing his shin) Well, that was fun, wasn’t it, dear. The odd moment like that, it’s almost worth staying alive for, isn’t it. (Sybil is poker-faced) It’s nice to share a moment like that, isn’t it, dear. It’s what marriage is all about. I know, it said so on the back of a matchbox.

  Sybil: Basil, sometimes . . .

  Basil (putting a hand on her waist): Seriously, Sybil, do you remember, when we were first . . . manacled together, we used to laugh quite a lot.

  Sybil (pushing him away): Yes, but not at the same time, Basil.

  Basil: That’s true. That was a warning, wasn’t it. Should have spotted that. Zoom!—what was that? That was your life, mate. That was quick, do I get another? Sorry mate, that’s your lot.

  Sybil: Basil.

  Basil: Back to the world of dreams. Yes dear?

  Sybil (irritated): What are we going to do?

  Basil: Give it another fifteen years?

  Sybil: About the money. Do you think we should . . .

  Basil: Oh, she’s left it in her room, or she’s dropped it or eaten it or something. We’ll get Manuel to go through the room. Polly can check the lounge . . .

  Sybil: Wait a moment. I saw Polly with some money just now.

  Basil: Well, there you are.

  Sybil: It was quite a bit, too. She was counting it in here.

  Basil (gripped by sudden fear): Well, it’s probably hers.

  Sybil: No . . . she’s been very short lately, Basil. I’ll ask her.

  Basil: Well, you can’t. You can’t just ask her like that, Sybil!

  Sybil: Why not?

  Basil: Well . . . it’s terribly rude asking someone if money is theirs or not. It’d be so embarrassing. (the reception phone rings)

  Sybil: Rubbish, Basil.

  Basil moves into the lobby and answers the phone.

  Basil: Hallo, Fawlty Towers. (he cuts off the call by putting his finger on the cradle, but continues to talk as if still connected) Polly Shearman? Certainly. I’ll get her straight away. (he puts the phone down and hurries towards the kitchen)

  Sybil (calling): Polly . . .

  Basil rushes into the kitchen.

  Basil: Terry, where’s Polly?

  Terry (indicating the dining room): In there.

  Basil goes into the dining room; Polly is putting flowers on the tables.

  Basil: Polly! . . . Polly, she saw you with the money.

  Polly: What?

  Basil: Sybil. She saw you counting the horse money. She’s coming to ask you . . . (Sybil enters) Hallo dear. Here she is. Found her in here. As I was just saying, Polly, my wife would like to have a word with you about a slightly delicate matter.

  Sybil: It’s not delicate, Basil, don’t be silly. (to Polly) He thinks it’s embarrassing for me to ask you about that money I saw you with earlier on in the office. I was wondering if someone had handed it in. Mrs. Richards has lost some.

  Polly: The money . . . in the office . . .

  Sybil: You were counting it, weren’t you. Did someone hand it in?

  Polly: Oh, no. No, it’s mine.

  Sybil: Yours?

  Polly: I won it.

  Sybil: You won it?

  Polly: On the horse Mr. Fawlty got a tip on. (to Basil) I hope you don’t mind, I just . . .

  Basil: No, no, not at all.

  Sybil: I didn’t know you bet on the horses, Polly?

  Polly: Oh, I don’t . . . I was in the town, passing the betting shop, and I thought . . . well, why not?

  Basil: Why not indeed. (to Sybil) Jolly good question, eh, dear? Pity you didn’t let me put something on, really. Do you realize how much we would have won? Seventy-five pounds for a five-pound stake. Still, you know best.

  Sybil: Those were the odds, were they, Basil?

  Basil: Yes, that’s right, dear. Fourteen to one. I listened in on the wireless just to make sure it had triumphed. (to Polly) Enjoy your winnings, Polly. (he goes into the lobby)

  Polly: Thank you.

  Sybil (quietly): Polly?

  Polly: Yes, Mrs. Fawlty?

  Sybil: What was the name of the horse?

  Polly: Er . . . the name . . . I’ve gone blank . . .

  Basil dashes to the dining-room door, behind Sybil. He mouths ‘Dragonfly’. Polly stares. He points to Sybil and flaps his hands.

  Polly: Bird Brain.

  Sybil: Bird Brain?

  Polly: No, no, that came in third. (Basil makes flying movements, then points at Sybil) Fishwife.

  Sybil: What?

  Polly: No, no, not fishwife. (Basil points at Sybil, then at his fly) Small . . . fly! Flying . . . Flying Tart . . . no, no . . . (Basil repeats his Sybil-making-toast mime) No, it got off to a flying start, and its name was (with relief) Dragonfly.

  Sybil: Thank you, Polly. (she goes into the lobby and turns on Basil) If I find out the money on that horse was yours, you know what I’ll do, Basil. (she exits upstairs)

  Basil (calling after her): You’ll have to sew ’em back on first. (the Major appears, heading for the bar; Basil has an inspiration) Major!

  The Major (without checking his stride): Six o’clock, old boy.

  He goes into the bar. Basil follows him.

  Basil: Oh, so it is, Major. Can I offer you . . .

  The Major: Oh, that’s very decent of you. Just a quick one, going to a memorial service.

  Basil: Tie’s a bit bright, isn’t it, Major?

  The Major: What?

  Basil: For a memorial ser
vice?

  The Major: Oh, I didn’t like the chap. One of those. Know what I mean. Cheers!

  Basil: Major . . . could you do me a favour?

  The Major: Well, I’m a bit short myself, old boy.

  Basil: No, no, no, could you look after some money for me. (he takes it out) I won it on that horse, only Sybil’s a bit suspicious you see, and she goes through my pockets some nights . . .

  The Major: Oh, absolutely. Which horse?

  Basil: . . . Dragonfly. (gives the Major the money)

  The Major: When’s it running?

  Basil: No, no. It ran today. I won that on it.

  The Major: Oh! (starts to give the money back) Well done, old boy.

  Basil: No, no, could you keep it.

  The Major: Oh, no, no, I couldn’t do that. No, it’s very decent of you.

  Basil: No, no, could you keep it just for tonight. It’s Sybil, you see. Secret?

  The Major: Ah. Present.

  Basil: Sort of, yes. Don’t mention it.

  The Major: Mum’s the word.

  Basil: I’ll get it from you in the morning and bank it.

  The Major: Understood, old boy. Cheers.

  The Major makes off out of the bar. Basil pours himself a whisky and cheerfully bounces an ice cube off his forearm into the drink.

  The lobby. Basil is at reception making out Mr. Mackintosh’s bill.

  Basil: There you are, Mr. Mackintosh. (gives him the bill)

  The Misses Tibbs and Gatsby appear at the foot of the stairs.

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

  Basil: Good morning, ladies. (the phone rings and he answers it) Hallo. Fawlty Towers.

  Mrs. Richards (off, loudly): Watt!

  Basil (seeing Mrs. Richards bearing down on him): . . . I didn’t say anything. (to phone) Yes?

  Mrs. Richards: Have you called the police yet?

  Basil: Er, excuse me, I’m just trying to take a telephone call.

  Mrs. Richards: Have you called them yet?

  Basil (about to say no, but changes his mind): . . . Yes. Yes, we have.

  Mrs. Richards: Well, when are they going to be here?

  Basil: As soon as possible. They’re very busy today.

  Mrs. Richards: Busy. Tch. (she moves off)

  Basil: There was a lot of bloodshed at the Nell Gwynn tea-rooms last night. (to phone) Hello . . . yes, certainly, yes . . . (calling after Mrs. Richards) Mrs. Richards! Mrs. Richards!!! (Mr. Mackintosh jumps) Sorry, sorry . . . (to Mrs. Richards as she returns) Telephone for you. Here. (she takes the phone; Mackintosh points at his bill) Yes?

  Mackintosh: What’s this for?