by John Cleese
Basil (pianissimo): Handbag, knuckle-dusters, flick-knife . . .
Sybil: Come on, Basil, don’t hang about. (she goes out)
Basil: I’m just coming, dear! . . . Quick, Polly! . . .
Polly (coming out of the office): Yes?
Basil: Now Polly, the men will be here at four o’clock. You know what they’re doing?
Polly: Well, they’re putting a door through to the kitchen (indicating the right-hand wall beyond the dining room).
Basil: At the bottom of the stairs. And . . . ?
Polly: . . . And . . . ?
Basil: And blocking the drawing-room door.
Polly: . . . Blocking it?
Basil: Yes, blocking it off, girl! So we can get a bit of privacy away from the plebs. Don’t you take anything in? Where’s my cap? (he is wearing it)
Polly: It’s on your . . .
Basil (casually): Oh, and one other thing. They won’t be Stubbs’s, they’ll be O’Reilly’s. Where is that cap? (he prowls off looking for it)
Polly: What? . . . O’Reilly?
Basil: Yes, yes!
Polly: Does Mrs. Fawlty know?
Basil: I don’t know, probably not. I wouldn’t mention it though, they don’t quite hit it off.
Polly: But . . .
Basil: I had to change it. Stubbs has got a virus or something.
Polly: . . . She said you were never to use him again. I don’t want to be responsible . . .
Basil: He’s sending his best men, all you’ve got to do is take a quick look when they’ve finished. Any problems, call me. Right—have a nice weekend.
Polly: If she asks me, I’ll tell her.
Basil: Oh, thank you, thank you Polly, so much. Yes, I’ve always been a great admirer of loyalty.
Basil exits. Manuel enters: he remembers something, rushes to the desk where he left the golf shoes.
Manuel: I forget.
Polly: Oh, it doesn’t matter, Manuel . . . de nada.
Manuel (seeing the drawing): Oh! Is Mr. Fawlty!
Polly: Shh! Windows, por favor!
Manuel scampers off.
In the lobby, later that day. Manuel is posing for Polly.
Manuel: Oh, Polly, finish, I tired.
Polly: Oh, that’s wonderful, Manuel—just hold it a second.
Manuel: Qué?
Polly: Quiero ascender para dormir.
Manuel: No, no—you must speak me English. Is good. I learn.
Polly: I want to go upstairs in a moment.
Manuel: Qué?
Polly (pointing): I . . . go upstairs . . .
Manuel: Si. Is easy.
Polly: For a little sleep.
Manuel: Is difficult.
Polly: For siesta.
Manuel: Siesta . . . little sleep?
Polly: Yes.
Manuel: Same in Spanish.
Polly: When O’Reilly’s men come, you must wake me.
Manuel: When Orrible men . . . ? (looks alarmed)
Polly: Now Manuel, listen. When men come here . . . Señor O’Reilly . . .
Manuel: When men come . . .
Polly: You come upstairs and wake me up . . . despierteme.
Manuel: Ah! When men come, I . . . vendre arriba para despertartle en su cuarto.
Polly: Antes que ellos comienzan a trabajar aqui, si?
Manuel: Comprendo, comprendo.
Polly: Finished!
She finishes the sketch and disappears upstairs. Manuel relaxes from his pose. He goes behind the reception desk and enjoys his new responsibility. He rings the desk bell in an imperious manner.
Manuel: Manuel! (picks up the phone, although it has not rung) Manuel Towers. How are you. Is nice today. Goodbye. (rings off as he sees Bennion the delivery man arriving, complete with a rather large garden gnome) Ah! Hallo. Good day! How are you?
Bennion (referring to delivery note): Number sixteen?
Manuel (consulting the register): Si, si, sixteen. But no eat.
Bennion: What?
Manuel: Sixteen is free. But not possible . . . (mimes eating)
Bennion (indicating the hotel generally): Is this . . . number sixteen?
Manuel: No no, this . . . lobby. Sixteen upstairs, on right.
Bennion: Who’s in charge here?
Manuel: No, no, charge later. After sleep.
Bennion: Where’s the boss?
Manuel: Boss is, er . . . Oh! I boss!
Bennion: No no, where’s the real boss?
Manuel: Qué?
Bennion: The . . . the generalissimo.
Manuel: In Madrid.
Bennion: Look, just sign this, will you?
Manuel (signing the note): Si, si . . . er . . . sixteen?
Bennion: What?
Manuel: You want room sixteen.
Bennion: No, I don’t want a room, mate, I’m just leaving him, right? (points at the gnome and walks out)
Manuel: You want room sixteen . . . for him?
Bennion (as he leaves): Yeah, with a bath, you dago twit.
Manuel (calling after him): You mad! You . . . mad . . . You pay for room first . . . He crazy! (he picks up the gnome) Room sixteen . . . No pay, no room sixteen.
He puts the gnome out of sight behind the desk. The phone rings; as he goes to answer it O’Reilly’s men—Lurphy, Jones, and Kerr—enter.
Manuel (to phone): Hallo, Fawlty Towers. How are you, is nice day . . . No, he not here . . . No, no, he not here, very very sorry, goodbye. (rings off; to the men) Hallo, men.
Lurphy: Good day, now. (he is Irish)
Manuel: You are men?
Lurphy (dangerously): You what?
Manuel: . . . You are men?
Lurphy (threateningly): Are you trying to be funny?
Manuel: What . . . ?
Lurphy: I said, ‘Are you trying to be funny?’
Kerr (restraining him): Not here, Spud, not here.
Manuel: But, you are men with Orelly?
Jones: . . . What?
Manuel: You are Orelly men?
Lurphy (menacingly): What does that mean?
Manuel: You Orelly.
Lurphy: You watch it!
Manuel: . . . Where Orelly?
Jones: What’s he going on about?
Kerr: He means O’Reilly.
Lurphy (understanding at last): Oh yes, that’s right, yes—we are Orelly men. (to his companions) Thick as a plank.
Manuel: You wait here, please, I go . . . (indicates upstairs; the phone rings; he answers it) You wait too, please.
He puts the phone down, hurries upstairs and knocks on the door of Polly’s room. There is no response; he knocks again, he opens the door quietly and looks inside. Polly is on the bed, fast asleep.
Manuel (whispering): Polly . . . Polly . . .
But she is in a very deep sleep so he decides to take care of things himself. Back in the lobby, the men are looking around. The phone is ringing; Manuel rushes down the stairs and answers it.
Manuel: Hallo, Fawlty Towers, how are you, is nice day . . . oh, you again! No, I say he is not here, very very sorry, goodbye. (rings off) Choh! Choh!
The men are consulting the plan.
Manuel: You men know what to do?
Jones: Oh, I think so. This is the dining room?
Manuel (nods): . . . You are certain you know?
Jones: It looks pretty straightforward. We’ve just got to block this one off.
The phone rings again. Manuel answers it.
Manuel: Yes, yes, yes . . . Is you again! Listen! He not here! How many times? Where are your ears?! You great big . . . hhhalf wit, I tell you, he not here! Listen! (he holds the receiver out so that the caller may register the lack of Basilic noises) Now you understand? . . . (sudden comprehension and horror) Oh, Mr. Fawlty! I very sorry!! I very sorry . . . is you . . . yes, is me, Mr. Fawlty . . . No, no, Polly is . . . she very busy . . . Men? Yes, yes, the men are here . . . (to men, imperiously) You work, men . . . (to phone) Yes . . . Man with beard? (to men) Please
, which one is man with beard?
Lurphy, who is the only bearded one, thinks this over for a bit and then indicates himself.
Manuel (to phone): . . . Yes . . . hid . . . o . . . angtang . . . tag . . . tang . . . si . . . one moment, please. (puts the receiver on the desk and addresses Lurphy) You are a hid . . . eous . . . orang . . . tang. (he bows; Lurphy hits him)
Basil’s voice (from, the phone): Well done, Manuel. Thank you very much. (dialling tone is heard)
The next morning; it is a lovely day. Outside the hotel birds are singing; moles frolic; weasels dance the hornpipe. Polly is still fast asleep in her room. Outside, Basil’s car draws up. He leaps out and runs up the steps. He strides into the lobby.
Basil: Polly!
He goes to the wall by the stairs where the new door to the kitchen should be . . . it isn’t. He looks round to the door to the drawing room to see if it is blocked off. It isn’t.
Basil: Polly! Polly!!
He opens the new door at the foot of the stairs and is halfway up the flight when he registers that this is wrong. He comes back and examines the door with mounting fury.
Basil: . . . Polly!! Polly!!! . . . Manuel!!!
He makes for the dining-room door . . . but there is now a blank wall there. Polly has just opened the stairs door and sees his apoplectic reaction. She tries to close the door quietly but he has seen her.
Basil: What have you done with my hotel?! Polly!! . . . What have you done to my hotel?
Polly: What?
He grabs her by the ear and shows her the stairs door.
Basil: Look!
Polly: Oh, it’s nice. I like it there. (he leads her, lobe first, to the late dining-room door) Ow! You’re hurting me. (she escapes the ear-lock)
Basil: What have you done with my dining-room door? Where is it?
Polly: I don’t know.
Basil: Why don’t you know? I left you in charge.
Polly: Oh . . . I fell asleep.
Basil: You fell asleep!!
Polly: It’s not my fault.
Basil: You fell asleep, and it’s not your fault!!?
Polly: He forgot to wake me.
Basil: Who forgot to wake you?
Polly: . . . It is my fault.
Basil: Manuel!!! I knew it!
Polly: Don’t blame him.
Basil: Why not?
Polly: It wasn’t really his fault.
Basil: Well, whose fault is it then, you cloth-eared bint—Denis Compton’s?!!!
Polly: Well, you hired O’Reilly, didn’t you?
A pause; Basil’s eyes go oddly glazed.
Polly: We all warned you . . . who else would do something like this?
Basil: . . . I beg your pardon?
Polly: You hired O’Reilly . . .
Basil: . . . Oh! Oh, I see! . . . It’s my fault, is it? . . . Oh, of course, there I was, thinking it was your fault because you had been left in charge, or Manuel’s fault for not waking you, and all the time it was my fault! Oh, it’s so obvious now, I’ve seen the light. Ah well, if it’s my fault, I must be punished then, mustn’t I? (slaps his bottom) You’re a naughty boy, Fawlty! Don’t do it again! (he catches himself a real cracker across the head, staggers, and straightens up) . . . What am I going to do? She’ll be back at lunch time!
Polly: Now wait . . .
Basil: I’m a dead man, do you realize!
Polly (soothingly): Easy! . . .
Basil: You’re dead too. We’re all dead!! (he is quivering violently)
Polly: Don’t panic.
Basil: What else is there to do? (starts crying)
Polly: We’ll call O’Reilly—he made this mess, he can clear it up! (Basil has not taken this in; she shakes him) Oh, just pull yourself together. (shakes him again) Come on! Come on!
But he is worse. She pauses, takes a step back, then slaps his face. He goes to hit her back, then realizes it has done him some good.
Basil: . . . Again! (she slaps him, rather deferentially) . . . Harder!! (she slaps him really hard) Right! I’ll call O’Reilly. (runs behind the reception desk and falls over something) What is this? (lifts up the gnome) I mean, what is going on here?
Polly: Your wife ordered it. Call O’Reilly.
Basil: That golfing puff-adder . . . (he places the gnome on the desk and starts strangling it)
Polly (banging the phone): Call O’Reilly!!!
Basil: What?
Polly: Shall I call him?
Basil (releasing the gnome): No, I’ll do it, I’ll call him . . . (dialling) You go and see if the roof’s still on . . . (Polly is drawing him) . . . What are you doing?
Polly: Stay there!
Basil: You can’t do that now!
Polly: Hold it, hold it.
Basil: Go and see if they’ve started breakfast! . . . Now!!
Polly completes her lightning portrait and hurries off.
Basil (to phone, silkily): Hallo, Mr. O’Reilly, and how are you this morning? . . . Oh good, good, no rare diseases or anything? . . . Oh, I do beg your pardon, Basil Fawlty, you remember, the poor sod you do jobs for . . . Well now, how are things your end . . . Oh, good. Good, good, good. Well now, how would you like to hear about things my end? . . . Oh well, up to your usual standard I think I could say, a few holes in the wall, the odd door missing, but nothing you couldn’t be sued for.
Manuel (trotting in): Good morning.
Basil (to Manuel): . . . I beg your pardon?
Manuel: Good morning!
Basil (to the phone): One moment please. (walks round desk to Manuel) Did you say ‘Good morning’?
Manuel: Si.
Basil: I see. Well, what are you going to do now, then?
Manuel: Qué?
Basil: What . . . you . . . do . . . now?
Manuel: I serve breakfast.
Basil: Ah! Let’s see you, then.
Manuel looks for the dining-room door, without success.
Manuel: Where is door?
Basil: Ah ha!
Manuel: Door is gone. (points to wall) Door was here.
Basil: Where? (picks Manuel up and slams his head against the wall in three different places) Here? . . . or here? . . . or here?
Manuel droops. The Major enters and strolls up to them.
The Major: Morning, Fawlty.
Basil: Good morning, Major. I’m so sorry, I’m afraid the dining-room door seems to have disappeared. (knees Manuel in the back)
The Major: Oh yes, so it has. It used to be there.
Basil: Yes, well, I was silly enough to leave the hotel for a few minutes.
The Major: Well, these things happen, you know. Now, I wonder where it’s got to? Don’t worry—it’s bound to turn up . . . Er, have the newspapers arrived yet?
Basil: No, not yet, no, Major. Manuel!—would you please show the Major how to get into the dining room via the kitchen?
Manuel: . . . Is difficult.
Basil: Major, will you please show Manuel how to get into the dining room via the kitchen?
The Major: Oh, yes, yes, of course . . . come here, come on . . . what’s your name . . . Manuel. (he leads Manuel off)
Basil (back on the phone): . . . Now look here, O’Reilly, I want my dining-room door put back in and the other one taken out by one o’clock, you understand? . . . No, no, I don’t want a debate about it. If you’re not here in twenty minutes with my door, I shall come over and insert a large garden gnome in you. Good day. (rings off with panache)
In the lobby, one hour later. O’Reilly is nearly at work on the dining-room door.
O’Reilly: Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Fawlty, but my men won’t work on a Sunday and that’s the way it is. There’s nothing I can do about it.
Basil: Well, how long’s it going to take you?
O’Reilly: I’m working as fast as I can.
Basil: Well, it had better be fast enough. I mean, she is back in four hours!
Polly (coming through the main entrance with tea and biscuits): Tea up!
Polly: Brewed a cuppa for him, guv.
O’Reilly: Lovely!
Basil: He hasn’t got time to drink that now!
Polly: Biscuits?
O’Reilly: Oh, these look good.
Basil: Give them to me. (he confiscates the biscuits) Now, will you get on with it!
O’Reilly: Look, look—this lot here (pointing to the dining-room door) . . . an hour and a half. That one (pointing to the stairs)—easy. Lick of paint all round, one hour. What’s the time now?
Basil: Ten to nine.
O’Reilly: All right. Ten to nine and two and a half hours is . . . is . . . plenty of time. Give us a biscuit.
Basil: No. You can have one when you’ve done that door. Polly, take them away. (to O’Reilly, confiscating the cup of tea) You can have that when you’ve finished the door, too.
Polly exits with the tea and biscuits.
O’Reilly: The trouble with you, Mr. Fawlty, is that you worry too much. You keep it up like this, you’ll have a stroke before you’re fifty. Stone dead you’ll be.
Basil: Suits me.
O’Reilly: Oh! That’s a dreadful thing to say.
Basil: Not at all. Get a bit of peace.
O’Reilly: Don’t be so morbid. The Good Lord made the world so that we could all enjoy ourselves.
Basil: Look, my wife enjoys herself. I worry.
O’Reilly: Well, let me tell you, if the Lord had meant us to worry, he would have given us things to worry about.
Basil: He has! My wife!! She will be back here in four hours and she can kill a man at ten paces with one blow of her tongue. How am I supposed not to worry?
O’Reilly (calmly): Just remember, Mr. Fawlty, there’s always somebody worse off than yourself.
Basil: Is there? Well I’d like to meet him. I could do with a laugh.
O’Reilly: You’ll have to worry for the both of us. I tell you, if the Good Lord . . .
Basil: Is mentioned once more, I shall move you closer to him. Now, please . . .
Polly (running in): Mr. Fawlty! . . . She’s here!
Basil: What?
Polly: She’s here!
Basil: Oh God.
Goes to main entrance and sees Sybil. She gets out of the car, sees O’Reilly’s van, and strides furiously towards the entrance. Basil runs back into the lobby.
Basil: Quick—hide!! Hide!! I’ll try and get rid of her! Hide!!
O’Reilly: Where?
Basil (pointing towards the bar): In there!
O’Reilly runs into the bar.
