The Complete Fawlty Towers

by John Cleese

  Sybil: Well, he didn’t mind the medals, did he. The military decorations.

  Basil: That’s not the point.

  Sybil: I suppose the reason you confuse them with monkeys is that monkeys have fun—they know how to enjoy themselves. That’s what makes them sexy, I suppose. (Dr. and Mrs. Abbott enter through the main doors) I’d never thought of that. (to the Abbotts) Good evening.

  Dr. Abbott: Good evening. I telephoned earlier, the name is Abbott.

  Sybil: Oh yes. There hasn’t been a cancellation, I’m afraid, so it is still a room without bath.

  Dr. Abbott: That’s fine.

  Sybil: Good. Would you just fill that in for me please. Yes, we’re terribly busy at the moment.

  At his end of the desk Basil does a subdued monkey impression. Mrs. Abbott looks at him. He sees her.

  Basil: Just enjoying myself. Good evening.

  Mrs. Abbott: Good evening.

  Basil (to Dr. Abbott): Good evening.

  Dr. Abbott: Good evening.

  Basil (beats his chest a few times, Tarzan style): Ah . . . that felt better.

  Sybil: Thank you, Mr. Abbott. (she takes another look at the card) Oh, Doctor Abbott, I’m sorry.

  Basil (freezes for a split second): Doctor?

  Dr. Abbott: . . . Yes.

  Basil: I’m terribly sorry, we hadn’t been told. (Dr. Abbott looks at him questioningly) We hadn’t been told you were a doctor.

  Dr. Abbott: Oh.

  Basil: How do you do, doctor. (he offers his hand; Dr. Abbott shakes it briefly) Very nice to have you with us, doctor.

  Dr. Abbott: Thank you.

  Sybil: You’re in room five, doctor.

  Basil: And Mrs. Abbott, how do you do. (he shakes hands with her)

  Dr. Abbott: Dr. Abbott, actually.

  Basil: . . . I’m sorry?

  Dr. Abbott: Doctor Abbott.

  Mrs. Abbott: Two doctors.

  Basil (to Dr. Abbott): You’re two doctors?

  Mrs. Abbott: Yes.

  Basil: Well, how did you become two doctors? That’s most unusual . . . I mean, did you take the exams twice, or . . . ?

  Dr. Abbott: No, my wife’s a doctor . . .

  Mrs. Abbott: . . . I’m a doctor.

  Basil: You’re a doctor too! So you’re three doctors.

  Dr. Abbott: No, I’m just one doctor. My wife is another doctor.

  Sybil (ringing the bell pointedly): Manuel! (Basil is silenced; to the Abbotts) Your room is at the top of the stairs along to the left.

  Basil: Oh I see! You see, I thought, when you said you were two doctors . . . (Manuel comes running in from the kitchen) Manuel, would you take the doctors’ cases up to number five, please. (he shows the way, then follows them up the stairs. Manuel comes behind with the cases) Yes, this way please, doctors . . . Yes, when you said you were two doctors I thought perhaps you were a doctor of medicine, perhaps a doctor of archaeology . . .

  They have gone. Mr. Johnson comes up to the desk.

  Sybil: Did you get through all right?

  Mr. Johnson: One was busy, I’ll try again in a moment. Look, I forgot to ask, any news on that room for my mother?

  Sybil: Oh yes, number sixteen has decided to stay, I’m afraid . . . I tried a couple of other places for you but everywhere’s full at the moment.

  Mr. Johnson: Oh well, no hassle . . . she won’t mind sharing with me.

  Sybil: Lucky mum, ha ha ha.

  Mr. Johnson: I’ll just go and try that number again.

  Sybil: Oh, here, use this one.

  Mr. Johnson: Oh, thank you. (he starts to dial; Sybil looks at the adornments round his neck)

  Sybil: May I ask . . . the sign on the chain, by the Egyptian fertility symbol . . . what is that . . . ?

  Mr. Johnson: It’s a Greek astrological sign.

  Sybil: Oh, it’s beautiful. Where did you get it?

  Mr. Johnson: Er, Colchester, I think.

  Sybil: Colchester!

  Mr. Johnson (to phone): Oh, hello, can I speak to John Lawson please . . . oh all right, I’ll hold on . . .

  Sybil: So your mother will be arriving tomorrow?

  Mr. Johnson: Yes, first thing. She’s getting the overnight train down from Newcastle.

  Sybil: Newcastle.

  Mr. Johnson: Yes, visiting grandchildren. She’s seventy-seven . . .

  Sybil: Seventy-seven! Isn’t that amazing . . . old people are wonderful when they have so much life, aren’t they? Gives us all hope, doesn’t it.

  Mr. Johnson: Mmmm . . .

  Sybil: My mother . . . on the other hand . . . is a little bit of a trial really . . . you know, it’s all right when they have the life force, but mother, well, she’s got more of the death force really . . . she’s a worrier . . .

  Mr. Johnson (to phone): No, it’s all right, I’ll hold.

  Sybil: She has these, well, morbid fears they are, really . . . vans is one . . . rats, doorknobs, birds, heights, open spaces . . . confined spaces, it’s very difficult getting the space right for her really, you know . . .

  Mr. Johnson (nodding, not much interested): Mmmm . . .

  Sybil: Footballs, bicycles, cows . . . and she’s always on about men following her . . . I don’t know what she thinks they’re going to do to her . . . vomit on her, Basil says . . .

  Mr. Johnson (to phone): Can I leave my number, he can call me back . . .

  Sybil: And death.

  Mr. Johnson: Oh, I see, right.

  Sybil: She’s frightened of death. On about it the whole time. I told her there’s nothing she can do about it, I mean, nature can only take its course . . . the only thing you can hope is that it won’t be long drawn out and painful, but she can’t accept that . . .

  Mr. Johnson: Excuse me . . . (to phone) Hallo, John. How are you . . . fine . . . no, just down for the weekend . . .

  Basil appears down the stairs and walks across the lobby towards the desk, seeing Johnson and registering displeasure. Sybil ignores this. He joins her behind the desk.

  Basil: Charming people.

  Sybil: Hmmm.

  Basil: The Abbotts . . . charming couple.

  Sybil: Yes. All three of them.

  Mr. Johnson: . . . No, I’m all right for tonight . . .

  Basil: You know, dear, that outfit that Mrs. Abbott is wearing, you should get yourself something like that.

  Sybil: What, for the gardening, you mean?

  Mr. Johnson: . . . No, no, I can’t tomorrow night, but how about lunch?

  Basil: Attractive woman. How old would you say she was, Sybil?

  Sybil: Forty-eight, fifty.

  Basil: Oh, no, Sybil.

  Sybil: I really don’t know, Basil. Perhaps she’s twelve.

  Mr. Johnson: . . . No, favourite . . . magic . . .

  Basil: Yes, nice to have that kind of person staying, isn’t it. Professional class. Educated, civilized . . . (he looks at Johnson) We’ve got both ends of the evolutionary scale this week, haven’t we.

  Moving behind Johnson’s field of vision he comes out from behind the desk and does a monkey walk. The Abbotts appear at the foot of the stairs. He checks himself but just a little late.

  Basil: Good evening.

  Dr. Abbott: We’re just going out for a stroll. What time do you serve dinner?

  Basil: Seven-thirty till nine.

  Mr. Johnson: . . . See you tomorrow, then. Ciao. (rings off)

  Mrs. Abbott: Do you have a guide to Torquay?

  Basil: A guide . . . um . . . oh dear, I think we’re out of them again.

  Mr. Johnson (to Mrs. Abbott): Do you want to look at this one? I got it in the town.

  Mrs. Abbott: Oh, thanks . . . What’s on in Torquay.

  Mr. Johnson: Yes, it’s one of the world’s shortest books. (they laugh)

  Basil: What?

  Mr. Johnson: One of the world’s shortest books . . . like ‘The Wit of Margaret Thatcher’ or ‘Great English Lovers’.

  They all laugh except you know who.

  Sy
bil (amused): Oh, very funny, isn’t it, Basil. (goes into the office)

  Mrs. Abbott: (to Johnson) Thank you.

  The Abbotts go out.

  Basil (to Johnson): Are you taking dinner here tonight?

  Mr. Johnson: Sorry?

  Basil: Are you dining here tonight? Here in this unfashionable dump.

  Mr. Johnson: . . . Well, I wasn’t planning to.

  Basil: Not really your scene, is it.

  Mr. Johnson: I thought I’d try somewhere in town. Anywhere you’d recommend?

  Basil: Well, what sort of food were you thinking of—fruit? Or . . .

  Mr. Johnson: Is there anywhere they do French food?

  Sybil comes back from the office.

  Basil: Yes, France, I believe. They seem to like it there. And the swim would certainly sharpen your appetite. You’d better hurry, the tide leaves in six minutes.

  Sybil: Excuse my husband’s sledge-hammer wit, Mr. Johnson. There is a very nice place—La Pomme d’Amour.

  Mr. Johnson: La Pomme d’Amour? The apple of love.

  Sybil: Yes, in Orchard Street.

  Basil (thoughtfully): Or that Ancient Egyptian place . . . The Golden Dog . . . something . . .

  Sybil (to Johnson): Do enjoy yourself . . . we’ll see you later.

  Mr. Johnson: Thank you. (he goes out)

  Sybil (turns and speaks quietly to Basil): I’ve had it up to here with you.

  Basil: What, dear?

  Sybil: You never get it right, do you. You’re either crawling all over them licking their boots, or spitting poison at them like some benzedrine puff-adder. (she goes into the office)

  Basil (to himself): Just trying to enjoy myself.

  The dining room, towards the end of dinner. The Abbotts are just finishing their main course. Basil approaches them.

  Basil: Ah . . . did you enjoy your beef?

  Mrs. Abbott: Oh, yes, thank you.

  Basil: Oh good. Would you care for a dessert?

  Mrs. Abbott: No, just coffee, thank you.

  Dr. Abbott: Just coffee for me.

  Basil: Two coffees, Sybil! Two coffees here, please, dear . . . would you care for a little something with us . . . (the Abbotts look puzzled) . . . Um . . . a little aperitif, cognac, brandy . . . on us, with us . . . which we’ll pay for, on the house—as it were.

  Mrs. Abbott: Well, thank you. Yes, I’d like a cognac if I may . . .

  Basil: Dr. Abbott?

  Dr. Abbott: A port, thank you.

  Basil: Mon plaisir.

  He moves off to the sideboard to get the drinks. Sybil slides up.

  Sybil: Coffee for you, doctor?

  Mrs. Abbott: Thank you.

  Sybil: And for you, doctor.

  Dr. Abbott: Thank you.

  Sybil: Have you been to Torquay before?

  Mrs. Abbott: Well, not for a few years, no—we had a free weekend and we suddenly thought we’d like to get out of London.

  Sybil: Lovely . . . white or black?

  Mrs. Abbott: Black, thank you.

  Sybil (to Dr. Abbott): Black for you, doctor?

  Dr. Abbott: Thank you.

  Basil (arriving with the drinks): A cognac for you, doctor. It’s rather fascinating your both being doctors—port for you, doctor—because at one point I was contemplating becoming a surgeon.

  Sybil: A tree surgeon. (laughs)

  Basil: Thank you, Sybil.

  Sybil: He had to give it up. Couldn’t stand the sight of sap. (laughs)

  Basil: That’s a bit old, isn’t it, dear. My great-grandfather on my mother’s side was a doctor, and so it was always felt that I might . . .

  Sybil: Run a hotel. Are you both in general practice?

  Mrs. Abbott: No, I’m a paediatrician.

  Basil: Feet?

  Mrs. Abbott: Children.

  Sybil: Oh, Basil.

  Basil: Well, children have feet, don’t they? That’s how they move around, my dear. You must take a look next time, it’s most interesting. (to Dr. Abbott) And you, doctor? Are you a . . .

  Dr. Abbott: I’m a psychiatrist.

  Basil: Very nice too. Well cheers. (he sips Dr. Abbott’s port, then realizes) I’ll get you another one. (he hurries off to the sideboard)

  Sybil: A psychiatrist, how fascinating. We’ve never had a psychiatrist staying here before. We had a faith healer the first month we were open.

  Dr. Abbott: Really.

  Sybil: It’s a relatively new profession, psychiatry, isn’t it?

  Mrs. Abbott: Well, Freud started about 1880.

  Sybil: Yes, but it’s only now we’re seeing them on the television.

  Basil (returning with the port): There we are. I must just . . . er . . . excuse me (he retires to the kitchen)

  Dr. Abbott (changing the subject): How long have you had this hotel?

  Sybil: Well, my husband and I bought it in 1966 . . .

  In the kitchen, Basil is standing by the door peeping back into the dining room.

  Basil: Keep back, keep back.

  Polly: . . . What is it?

  Basil: . . . Abbott . . .

  Polly: What’s the matter with him?

  Basil: . . . Psychiatrist . . . look at him . . . look . . . look at the way he’s listening . . . see . . . ? He’s taking it all in. She doesn’t realize. Look! Look at the way she’s talking! They’ve got photographic memories. (looks to Polly but she’s gone calls) Sybil! Sybil! (he moves back into the dining room)

  Sybil: Yes, Basil?

  Basil: Could I bother you, dear?

  Sybil: What is it?

  Basil: Just a little problem. (Dr. Abbott turns towards Basil) Nothing personal. Nothing of a private nature or anything. Just to do with . . .

  Sybil: Excuse me, would you?

  Basil and Sybil move into the kitchen.

  Sybil: What is it, Basil?

  Basil: Just . . . just . . . take it easy . . . OK?

  Sybil: What?

  Basil: Just keep your distance. I mean, remember who you are, all right?

  Sybil: . . . Remember who I . . .

  Basil: Well, just don’t tell him about yourself.

  Sybil: Basil, I’m perfectly capable . . .

  Basil: All right, all right . . . what have you told him?

  Sybil: Nothing. We were talking about Scotland.

  Basil: Scotland? What does he want to know about Scotland? (Sybil touches him to calm him; he jumps)

  Sybil: Oh Basil . . . why are you so nervous?

  Basil: I’m not nervous. I’m just saying ‘take it easy’. All right? All of us. Just take it easy, right?

  Sybil: What’s got into you?

  Basil: Nothing’s got into me. I just said ‘take it easy’. Can’t I say ‘take it easy’ without starting a panic? (with increasing mania) I mean, what is going on here?

  Sybil: Now, Basil, look . . .

  Terry: Look, Mr. Fawlty, take it easy.

  Basil: Now look—get one thing clear. All right? You don’t tell me to take it easy. I don’t pay you to tell me to take it easy. I pay you to take it easy. No—I pay you to tell you to take it easy. So take it easy. All right? (Sybil puts a hand on his arm; he jumps)

  Sybil (taking his arm anyway and leading him aside): Listen—why are you getting so upset?

  Basil: I’m not . . .

  Sybil: You liked him when he arrived . . .

  Basil: Look . . .

  Sybil: . . . and then just because you find out he’s a psychiatrist you get all . . .

  Basil: I’m not bothered by that. I’m not . . . I’m not bothered by that. If he wants to be a psychiatrist that’s his own funeral. They’re all as mad as bloody March hares anyway but that’s not the point. Look. Look! How does he earn his money? . . . He gets paid for sticking his nose . . .

  Sybil: Oh, Basil . . .

  Basil: No, I’m going to have my say . . . into people’s private . . . um . . . details. Well, just speaking for myself, I don’t want a total stranger nosing around in my private parts. Details. Tha
t’s all I’m saying.

  Sybil: They’re down here on holiday. They’re just here to enjoy themselves . . .

  Basil: He can’t.

  Sybil: Can’t what?

  Basil: He can’t tell me anything about myself that I don’t know already. All this psychiatry, it’s a load of tommy-rot. (Sybil gives him the Abbotts’ bill; he takes it and goes muttering towards the dining room) You know what they’re all obsessed with, don’t you.

  Sybil: What?

  Basil: You know what they say it’s all about, don’t you . . . mmm? Sex. Everything’s connected with sex. Choh! What a load of cobblers . . . (he goes into the dining room)

  In the dining room. Basil approaches the Abbotts’ table.

  Mrs. Abbott: Yes, but you see, if they want to do that they’d have to close the hotel, wouldn’t they.

  Basil (putting the bill down next to Dr. Abbott): Yes . . . if you would just sign that. Thank you so much. (he moves away and clears the Major’s table, then goes into the kitchen)

  Dr. Abbott: Yes. (studying the bill) We were just speculating how people in your profession arrange their holidays. How often can you get away? (but Basil has not heard this; he arrives back at the table just before Dr. Abbot glances up and asks) How often do you manage it?

  Basil: I beg your pardon?

  Dr. Abbott: How often can you and your wife manage it? (a fairly long pause as various thoughts go through Basil’s head) . . . You don’t mind my asking?

  Basil: Not at all, not at all . . . about average, since you ask.

  Mrs. Abbott: Average?

  Basil: Uh huh.

  Dr. Abbott: What would be average?

  Basil: Well, you tell me, ha ha ha.

  Mrs. Abbott: Well . . . a couple of times a year?

  Basil: . . . What?!

  Dr. Abbott: Once a year?

  Basil looks astonished.

  Dr. Abbott: Well, we knew it must be difficult . . . my wife didn’t see how you could manage it at all . . . you know . . .

  Basil: Well, as you’ve asked . . . two or three times a week, actually. (the Abbotts stare)

  Dr. Abbott: A week . . .

  Basil: Yes. Pretty normal, isn’t it? We’re quite normal down here in Torquay, you know.

  He turns and heads for the kitchen, leaving them puzzled. He enters the kitchen briskly but as soon as the doors have shut behind him reverts to a dazed state. Sybil and Polly are chatting.

  Sybil: . . . and he says, ‘Pretentious? Moi?’ I always like a man who can make me laugh.