The Complete Fawlty Towers

by John Cleese

  Miss Gurke: Yes, thank you.

  Miss Hare: Very good, thank you very much . . .

  Basil moves away. Miss Gurke looks disapprovingly after him. Sybil finally leaves Mr. Libson and goes into the kitchen. Basil comes up to Mr. and Mrs. Arrad’s table.

  Basil: Everything to your satisfaction?

  Mr. Arrad: Yes, thank you.

  Basil: Thank you. (he moves on)

  Mrs. Arrad (to her husband): Why don’t you say something?

  Mr. Arrad: There’s no point, is there. We just won’t come here again.

  Mrs. Arrad: Then I’ll say something.

  Mr. Arrad: Look, it won’t do any good, we’re leaving tomorrow.

  Mrs. Arrad: Well, I’m going to. We’ve been sitting here waiting for nearly half an hour . . .

  But Manuel has at last arrived with their meals—plaice for Mrs. Arrad and lamb for Mr. Arrad.

  Mr. Arrad: What’s this?

  Manuel: Si.

  Mr. Arrad: Look, I ordered the cold meat salad. I’ve been waiting about half an hour for it.

  Manuel: Salad?

  Mr. Arrad: Yes.

  Manuel: You want change?

  Mr. Arrad: . . . No! I don’t want to change . . .

  Manuel: OK. (starts to leave)

  Mr. Arrad: Wha . . . where are you going? I don’t want this!

  Manuel: You say you no want change.

  Mr. Arrad: I want the salad.

  Manuel moves off mystified. Basil is in the vicinity.

  Mrs. Arrad (nudging her husband): Go on . . .

  Mr. Arrad (to Basil): Excuse me.

  Basil: Yes.

  Mr. Arrad: Look, we’ve been waiting here for about half an hour now, I mean we gave the waiter our order . . .

  Basil: Oh, him. He’s hopeless, isn’t he.

  Mr. Arrad: Yes, well, I don’t wish to complain, but when he finally does bring something, he’s got it wrong.

  Basil: You think I don’t know? I mean, you only have to eat here. We have to live with it. I had to pay his fare all the way from Barcelona. But we can’t get the staff, you see. It’s a nightmare. (he moves off feeling better)

  Mrs. Arrad (to her husband): You were supposed to be complaining to him.

  Manuel comes running up with a plate of meat salad. He puts it in front of Mr. Arrad. Then he looks at it and stares. Mr. Arrad takes his first mouthful; Manuel whips the plate away again. Basil sees this. Manuel peers at the plate.

  Basil (taking the plate away from Manuel): Will you stop that! (he puts it in front of Mr. Arrad) I’m sorry about that.

  Manuel whispers in Basil’s ear. Basil peers over Mr. Arrad’s shoulder.

  Basil: Excuse me. (he takes the plate and examines it, puts it back and then removes it again just as Mr. Arrad is about to start eating; he consults Manuel) Where?

  Manuel (pointing): Look!

  Basil: Thank you so much. (he replaces the plate) Enjoy your meal.

  He moves off. The Arrads peer at the plate with suspicion. Manuel mimes whatever it is he has seen by flapping his arms. Basil passes the Johnstones’ table.

  Mr. Johnstone: You haven’t forgotten our lambs, have you?

  Basil: No, no, they’re coming, they’re coming!

  Mrs. Arrad (calling Basil): Excuse me. There is sugar in the salt-cellar.

  Basil: . . . Anything else?

  Mrs. Arrad: I’ve just put it all over the plaice.

  Basil: All over the place? What were you doing with it?

  Mrs. Arrad: All over the plaice.

  Basil (catching Polly): Polly—would you ask Terry not to finish yet—we need another one of these. (hands her the plaice) There is sugar on it.

  Polly: What a sweet plaice.

  Basil: What?

  Polly: I’ll have it re-placed.

  Basil: What is sugar doing in this salt-cellar? What do you think we pay you for?

  Polly: My staying power? (goes into the kitchen with the offending plaice)

  Mr. Johnstone (calling Basil): The lamb!

  Basil: I’m getting them, I’m getting them!

  He goes into the kitchen. Sybil comes out; Miss Gurke gestures to her.

  Miss Gurke: Er . . . excuse me.

  Sybil: Yes?

  Miss Gurke: I’m sorry, but do you think we could cancel our fruit salads?

  Sybil: Well, it’s a little tricky, chef’s just opened the tin.

  Miss Gurke: Oh.

  Miss Hare: Never mind, I’m sure it’ll be very nice.

  Sybil goes back to Mr. Libson’s table with his next course.

  Sybil: There we are.

  Mr. Libson: Ah, thank you.

  Sybil: Oh yes, I do like really beautiful places . . .

  Basil (coming by carrying several things): Busy this evening, isn’t it.

  Sybil (to Mr. Libson): I’ll tell you a few of my favourites . . .

  Basil: I said it’s busy this evening.

  Sybil: I’m talking to Mr. Libson, Basil.

  Basil: Good. Well, that’s a help.

  Sybil: I’m sure you can cope.

  Basil: Oh, yes, I can cope. Coping’s easy. Not puréeing your loved ones, that’s the difficult part.

  He is about to deliver the two plates of lamb to Mr. Johnstone, who is relieved that the moment has at last come. However, the reception bell sounds.

  Sybil (to Mr. Libson): Did you know Bideford bridge has all different . . .

  Basil: There’s someone at reception, dear. Shall I get it?

  Sybil: Yes.

  Basil: It’s my turn is it? Fine. Oh yes! So it is. Funny, it’s been my turn for fifteen years. (he manages to get the door to the lobby open, still holding the plates) Still, when I’m dead it’ll be your turn, dear—you’ll be ‘it’.

  Mr. Johnstone (seeing his lambs disappear): Excuse me, there are two lambs here.

  Basil: I’ll have them removed if they’re bothering you.

  He moves into the lobby. Mrs. Hamilton is standing by the reception desk.

  Basil (aggressively): Yes?

  Mrs. Hamilton: Good evening.

  Basil realizes she is rather attractive and slows down a bit.

  Mr. Johnstone (from the dining room): Are those lambs ours?

  Basil (over his shoulder): Not yet. (to Mrs. Hamilton) Good evening.

  Mrs. Hamilton: I reserved a room, by telephone, this morning . . . Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton.

  Basil: Indeed yes. I remember it well. (he goes behind the desk, putting down the plates) Ah, excellent, Hamilton? . . .

  Mrs. Hamilton: That’s right.

  Basil: Well, may I welcome you to Fawlty Towers. I trust your stay will be an enjoyable and gracious one.

  Mr. Johnstone (appearing in the lobby and pointing at the plates): Could we have those now?

  Basil: Oh, by all means.

  Mr. Johnstone: Finished with them, have you?

  Basil: Absolutely. (Mr. Johnstone takes the plates and turns.) Bon apétitttttttttttt.

  Mr. Johnstone turns round. Basil beams.

  Mr. Johnstone (to Mrs. Hamilton): I recommend the self-service here. It’s excellent.

  Basil: That’ll be all, thank you.

  Mr. Johnstone: What?

  Basil: Your lambs will be getting cold, Mr. Johnstone.

  Mr. Johnstone: Colder.

  Basil: If you’d like them warmed up?

  Mr. Johnstone: Forget it. (he exits angrily)

  Basil: You could get your wife to sit on ’em. (to Mrs. Hamilton) I’m so sorry, but the rubbish we get in here . . . Now, if you’d be so very kind as to fill that form out . . . (turns to get the key) Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, ah yes, now we’ve put you in room twelve, which has a charming panoramic view overlooking the lawn.

  Mr. Hamilton has come in. He is aggressively American. He is also very wet.

  Mr. Hamilton: What a drive, eh? Everything on the wrong side of the road—and the weather, what do you get for living in a climate like this, green stamps? It’s terrible.

  Basil (to Mrs. Ha
milton): I’m sorry about this.

  Mr. Hamilton: Took five hours from London . . . Couldn’t find the freeway. Had to take a little back street called the M5.

  Basil: Well, I’m sorry it wasn’t wide enough for you. A lot of the English cars have steering wheels.

  Mr. Hamilton: They do, do they? You wouldn’t think there was room for them inside.

  Basil (quietly, to Mrs. Hamilton): See what I mean?

  Mrs. Hamilton: What?

  Basil (to himself): Rub-bish. (flicks a glance at Mr. Hamilton and subtly holds his nose)

  Mrs. Hamilton: May I introduce my husband?

  Basil (rubs his nose hard, smiles at Mr. Hamilton, then looks round): The rubbish we get in here. (picks up a sheet of paper) Look at that. (rolls it into a ball; Sybil appears at the kitchen door; Basil waves the ball at her)

  Sybil: Basil!

  Basil: More rubbish, dear.

  Sybil: What?

  Basil: More of that bloody rubbish. Coh!

  Sybil: Polly and Manuel are going, Basil.

  Basil: Yes, just dealing with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, dear.

  Sybil: Good evening.

  Mr. & Mrs. Hamilton: Good evening.

  Sybil goes into the dining room. Basil rings the bell.

  Basil: Manuel! Manuel will bring your bags to your room. I hope you enjoy your stay.

  Mr. Hamilton: Thank you. Do we need to reserve a table for dinner?

  Basil: Dinner?

  Mr. Hamilton: Yes. (Basil does a lot of looking at his watch) Is there a problem?

  Basil: Well, it is after nine o’clock.

  Mr. Hamilton: So?

  Basil: Well, yes . . . we do actually stop serving at nine.

  Mr. Hamilton: Nine.

  Basil: Well, look—if you could go straight in I’m sure we could . . .

  Mr. Hamilton: Look, we’ve taken five hours to get here. We’d like to freshen up, maybe have a drink first, you know.

  Basil: Yes . . . um . . . you couldn’t do that afterwards?

  Mrs. Hamilton: Do what?

  Basil: Well . . .

  Mr. Hamilton: You mean have our drink before dinner, after dinner, freshen up and go to bed?

  Basil: If you could, it would make things a lot easier for us.

  Mr. Hamilton: Shall we go to bed now? Would that make it easier for you?

  Basil: What?

  Mr. Hamilton: We’re a little tired, fella. We want to clean up, relax. We’ll be down in a few minutes.

  Basil: Yes, well, the chef does actually stop at nine.

  Mr. Hamilton: Nine. Nine. Why does your chef stop at nine? Has he got something terminal?

  Basil: No, no, but that’s when he, in fact, stops.

  Mr. Hamilton: Now look, we drove from London to stay here, right? Are you telling me that you can’t stay open a few minutes longer so that we can eat properly?

  Basil: Well, we can do you sandwiches . . . ham, cheese . . .

  Mr. Hamilton: We want something hot.

  Basil: Toasted sandwiches?

  Mr. Hamilton: You’re joking.

  Basil: Well . . . not really.

  Mr. Hamilton: Not really. (to Mrs. Hamilton) Can you believe this? (to Basil) What the hell’s wrong with this country? You can’t get a drink after three, you can’t eat after nine, is the war still on?

  Basil: No, no, no, but it’s the staff, you see.

  Manuel comes from the kitchen to collect the bags.

  Mr. Hamilton: Oh, the staff . . .

  Basil: We have to get the staff . . .

  Mr. Hamilton: How much?

  Basil: What?

  Mr. Hamilton (pulling out a wad of notes): How much of this Mickey Mouse money do you need to keep the chef on for half an hour? One . . . two . . . twenty pounds, uh? Is that enough?

  Basil (pauses to think, then): I’ll see what I can do.

  Mr. Hamilton: Thank you.

  The Hamiltons start up the stairs. Basil looks at the notes, pockets them and hurries across to the kitchen. Manuel, barging through the Hamiltons, leads them up the stairs.

  Manuel: Excuse me, pardon, pardon, excuse me please, this way please . . .

  The kitchen. Terry is washing his hands as Basil enters, sees a trifle and sniffs it.

  Basil: Gosh, that does look absolutely marvellous, doesn’t it. Um . . . oh, Terry, I almost forgot. Some guests have just arrived, right at the last moment as usual, typical . . . I’m sorry, but this puts us out just as much as it puts you out.

  Terry: Don’t put me out, Mr. Fawlty.

  Basil: Er, no, they want dinner, you see, and they insist first on scraping off some of the filth that’s somehow got caked to them cruising down the M5.

  Terry: Well, I got my class tonight, Mr. Fawlty.

  Polly (looking round the door): We’re ready, Terry.

  Terry: Right-ho, Poll. (Polly goes)

  Basil: Wait a minute, wait a minute . . . didn’t I say? I mean that I will make it up to you, did I? Out of my own pocket.

  Terry: It’s not the money, Mr. Fawlty. My karate means a lot to me.

  Basil: Half an hour’s overtime and a taxi home.

  Terry: If I miss a week, Mr. Fawlty, next week I don’t get out in one piece.

  Basil: An hour’s overtime.

  Terry: Sorry, Mr. Fawlty.

  Basil: What am I going to say to them?

  Terry: . . . Two hours.

  Basil: What?

  Terry: Two hours’ overtime.

  Basil: I thought you said it wasn’t the money.

  Terry: It ain’t, but I can’t think what you’re going to say to your guests.

  Basil: Look, Terry, I’d pay you two hours’ overtime if I could afford it!

  A car horn sounds outside.

  Terry (making to go): Sorry, Mr. Fawlty.

  Basil: An hour and a half!

  Terry: Cash?

  Basil: Cash!

  Terry: All right, Mr. Fawlty, an hour and a half, but I go at half-past nine, then I still get some of my class.

  Basil: . . . And I do the washing up.

  Terry: Well, you know how it is, Mr. Fawlty.

  Basil: Yes, I know how it is. I pay you for an hour and a half and you clear off after half an hour, that’s how it is. (gives him some money) That’s socialism.

  Terry: Oh, no, Mr. Fawlty, that’s the free market.

  Polly (looking round the door again): Come on, Terry. Mustn’t keep the lady waiting.

  Basil: The lady!

  Polly: She’s from Finland, Mr. Fawlty, and very pretty. Tall, blonde . . . (Terry gestures frantically at her from behind Basil) um . . . (she stops and exits)

  Basil: This Finnish floozie’s your karate teacher, is she?

  Terry: Well, it’s a sort of karate, ain’t it . . .

  Basil: Right, give me that. (grabs the money back)

  Terry: What?

  Basil: I pay you overtime to miss a class, not to keep some bit of crumpet hanging around.

  Terry: Yes, but she’s . . .

  Basil: No, it’s all right, I’m doing the washing-up, I’ll do the cooking too. You go off and enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about me, you go and have a good time. I’ll be all right. Go and have a bit of fun with a Finn.

  Terry exits into the lobby. Polly is waiting.

  Polly: Come on, Manuel.

  Polly and Terry exit throught the main doors. Manuel comes in from the bar.

  Manuel: Hey, where are you, Polly? Wait for me. (he chases off after them)

  The dining room, a bit later. Sybil is sitting at a table near the door, reading a Harold Robbins novel. The door opens and Basil ushers in the Hamiltons.

  Basil: Thank you. If you’d care to sit over there . . .

  Sybil: Good evening.

  Mr. & Mrs. Hamilton: Good evening.

  Sybil: Is your room to your liking?

  Mr. Hamilton: Yes, it’s very nice.

  Mrs. Hamilton: Very nice, thank you.

  Sybil: Oh good. (she rises and carries her finished sta
rter back to the kitchen)

  Basil: I’ll just get you tonight’s menu . . . Oh, would you care for a drink before your meal?

  Mr. Hamilton: A scotch and water and screwdriver, please.

  Basil: Um . . . and for you, madam?

  Mrs. Hamilton: The screwdriver’s for me.

  Basil: I see . . . um . . . would you like it now or after your meal?

  Mrs. Hamilton: Well, now, please.

  Basil: There’s nothing I can put right?

  Mrs. Hamilton: What?

  Basil: Absolutely. So it’s one scotch and one screwdriver.

  Mr. Hamilton: I think I’ll join you. (to Basil) Make that two screwdrivers, will you?

  Basil: You’d like a screwdriver as well?

  Mr. Hamilton: You got it.

  Basil: Fine. So it’s one scotch and you each need a screwdriver.

  Mr. Hamilton: No, no, no. Forget the scotch. Two screwdrivers.

  Basil: I understand. And you’ll leave the drinks.

  Mr. Hamilton: What?

  Basil: Nothing to drink.

  Mr. Hamilton: What do you mean, ‘Nothing to drink’?

  Basil: Well you can’t drink your screwdrivers, can you. Ha ha.

  Mr. Hamilton: What else would you suggest that we do with them?

  Mrs. Hamilton: Vodka and orange juice.

  Basil: Ah, certainly madam.

  Mr. Hamilton: Make that two. And forget about the screwdrivers.

  Basil: You’re sure?

  Mr. Hamilton: We can manage without them.

  Basil: As you wish, sir. (he goes into the kitchen)

  Mr. Hamilton (reading from a tourist magazine): ‘Relax in the carefree atmosphere of old English charm . . .’ (he sees Sybil who has just come back in) I hope we’re not intruding on your dinner hour.

  Sybil (sitting at her table): Not at all, no. You’re American?

  Mr. Hamilton: That’s right.

  Sybil: Where are you from?

  Mrs. Hamilton: California.

  Sybil: How lovely. You’re English, though?

  Mrs. Hamilton: Yes, but I’ve been over there ten years now.

  Sybil: Ten years. Do you ever get home-sick?

  Mrs. Hamilton: Oh, yes. But I love it there—the climate’s so wonderful. You can swim and sunbathe and then after lunch drive up into the mountains and ski.

  Sybil: How wonderful. (Basil enters)

  Mr. Hamilton: I like England and the English people, but I sure couldn’t take this climate.

  Mrs. Hamilton: Harry finds it too gloomy.

  Basil (putting the drinks on the Hamiltons’ table): Oh, I don’t find it too gloomy. Do you, Sybil?