by John Cleese
Basil: I’ll read it for you.
Mr. Hamilton: I want my steak!
Basil: It won’t be a moment. (opens the letter and reads) ‘Dear Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, I hope you are well. This is just a brief note to say I take full responsibility for the dreadful mess-ups tonight. If I’d only listened to Mr. Fawlty none of this fiasco would have happened.’ (feigning spontaneity) Oh! (smoke starts to pour into the room from the kitchen; not seeing it, Basil goes on reading) ‘I’d just like to tell you that such a cock-up . . . (the Hamiltons have seen the smoke) . . . has never occurred in my career before, but now that everything has been sorted out I’ll be back to my very best form. Signed, Terry.’
Basil smiles at the Hamiltons, catches their line of vision and sees the smoke. Emitting a strange angry moan, he moves towards the kitchen, looks at the Hamiltons, punches his palm three times meaningfully, and then hurriedly enters the kitchen. Sounds of banging and screaming emerge.
Basil’s voice: What are you doing? What do you mean, you’ve burnt it?
Mr. Hamilton: I’ve had just about enough of this. (he rises and goes towards the kitchen)
Basil’s voice: How could you forget about it?
Mr. Hamilton enters the kitchen and stands behind Basil, who is haranguing empty space.
Basil (pretending to be Terry): Well, I was making another Waldorf salad. (as himself) Making another Waldorf salad? What are you making another Waldorf salad for? (he takes his hat off and belabours the fridge; as Terry) Careful, Mr. Fawlty! I’m only a little fellow! (as himself) What do you think Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton must think . . . (he gestures towards the dining-room door; this brings Mr. Hamilton into his field of view; he stops dead, then recovers and smiles welcomingly) Mr. Hamilton, may I introduce Terry, who . . . (indicates the empty space, then jumps) Where did he go? (to Hamilton) Where’s he gone? Did you see him?
Mr. Hamilton: Maybe he went to get something to eat.
He leaves the kitchen decisively and goes to his wife in the dining room.
Mr. Hamilton: Come on, honey.
Mrs. Hamilton: What is it, Harry?
Mr. Hamilton: We’re leaving.
Mrs. Hamilton: Well, what’s happened?
Mr. Hamilton: I’ll tell you later.
They both leave the dining room, go into the lobby and make for the stairs. Basil sticks his head out of the kitchen door.
Basil: Your steak will be ready in a moment, Mrs. Hamilton . . . (Hamilton checks but Mrs. Hamilton goes on upstairs.) He must have heard you coming and panicked and slipped out into the yard, you know, after all the problems . . .
Mr. Hamilton: How big a butterball do you take me for?
Basil: . . . Butter . . . ?
Mr. Hamilton: Do you think I don’t know what’s been going on out there?
Basil: Oh—it’s a bit of a debacle, I’m afraid . . .
Mr. Hamilton: I’m talking about you taking twenty pounds off me to keep the chef on, letting him go, cooking the meal yourself and then pretending he’s still out there.
Basil: Oh, that.
Mr. Hamilton: Yes, that. And I’d be interested to know what you’ve got to say about it.
By this time some guests have gathered within earshot. They include the Major, Mr. Arrad and Misses Tibbs and Gatsby.
Basil (to them): Good evening.
Mr. Hamilton: I asked you a question!
Basil: Yes—I’m sorry that your meal has not been fully satisfactory this evening . . .
Mr. Hamilton (addressing the guests): Hah! What I’m suggesting is that this is the crummiest, shoddiest, worst-run hotel in the whole of Western Europe.
The Major: No! No! I won’t have that! There’s a place in Eastbourne . . . what’s its name . . . ?
Mr. Hamilton (to Basil): And that you are the British Tourist Board’s answer to Donald Duck.
Basil: No, look, I know things have gone wrong this evening, but you must remember we’ve had thousands of satisfied customers . . .
Mr. Hamilton: All right, let’s ask them, eh?
Basil: What?
Mr. Hamilton: Let’s ask them. (to the spectators) Are you all satisfied? (a pause; to Mr. Arrad) You—are you satisfied?
Basil (to the Major): Yes, Major, you’ve been here seven years, are you satisfied?
The Major: Oh, yes, I love it here.
Basil (to Misses Tibbs and Gatsby): Ladies, are you satisfied?
Misses Tibbs & Gatsby: Oh yes, thank you, Mr. Fawlty.
Miss Gatsby: And thank you for asking.
Basil: Not at all . . . Mr. Arrad—are you satisfied?
Mr. Arrad: Er, well, yes, I . . .
Basil: Miss Gurke?
Miss Gurke: Oh, very nice, yes . . .
Basil (to Mr. Hamilton): You see . . . satisfied customers! Of course if this little hotel is not to your taste, then you are free to say so, that is your privilege. And I shall of course refund your money. (he looks for the £20; unseen by him, Mr. Johnstone comes up and stands behind him) I know how important it is to you Americans. But you must remember (he hands the money over) that here in Britain there are things that we value more, things that perhaps in America you’ve rather forgotten, but which here in Britain are far, far more important . . .
Mr. Johnstone: I’m not satisfied.
Basil: . . . in our . . . what?
Mr. Johnstone: I’m not satisfied.
Mrs. Johnstone: No, we’re not satisfied.
Basil: Well, people like you never are, are you.
Mrs. Johnstone: What?
Basil: There is nothing I could do would please a pair like you, short of putting straw in the rooms.
Mrs. Johnstone: I think you’re the rudest man I’ve ever met.
Basil: I haven’t started yet . . .
Mr. Hamilton (taking over): And you’re not going to. You’re going to stand here nice and quiet while these people say whether or not they’re satisfied. And if you move off that spot, Fawlty, I’m going to bust your ass.
Basil: Everything’s bottoms, isn’t it.
Mr. Hamilton (to Johnstone): Yes, sir?
Mr. Johnstone: I think this is probably the worst hotel we’ve ever stayed in.
Mrs. Johnstone: Yes it is. The service here is an absolute disgrace.
Mrs. Arrad: I agree.
Mr. Hamilton: You do?
Mrs. Arrad: Yes. Do you know that we had to wait nearly half an hour for our main course and when it arrived it was wrong.
Mr. Arrad: And when I complained he completely fobbed me off with some rubbish about . . .
Mrs. Johnstone: My prawns were off and when I told him there was an argument.
Miss Gurke: And her meat was awfully poor.
Mr. Libson: And I asked you to fix my radiator three times and nothing’s been done.
Mr. Hamilton (grabbing Basil by the tie): Satisfied customers, huh? Hot dog! (releases him and goes off upstairs)
Basil: This is typical, absolutely typical . . . of the kind of . . . (shouting) ARSE I have to put up with from you people. You ponce in here expecting to be waited on hand and foot, well I’m trying to run a hotel here. Have you any idea of how much there is to do? Do you ever think of that? Of course not, you’re all too busy sticking your noses into every corner, poking around for things to complain about, aren’t you. Well, let me tell you something—this is exactly how Nazi Germany started, you know. A lot of layabouts with nothing better to do than to cause trouble. Well I’ve had fifteen years of pandering to please the likes of you and I’ve had enough. I’ve had it. Come on, pack your bags and get out!
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton come back down the stairs.
Mrs. Hamilton (to Basil): They’re packed.
Mr. Hamilton: And order ten taxis, will you, I’ll pay for ’em. (he and Mrs. Hamilton go upstairs)
Basil: Come on! Come on!
Miss Gurke: What?
Basil: Out, everybody out.
Mrs. Arrad: Out?
Basil: Come on. Upstairs. Pack your bags. Adi
os! Out!
Mr. Johnstone: It’s raining.
Basil: Well, you should have thought of that before, shouldn’t you. Too late now. Come on, out! Raus! Raus!
The guests start to go upstairs. Sybil has appeared in the lobby.
Sybil: Basil—what are you doing?
The guests stop on the stairs.
Basil: Well, let me explain, my little workhorse. The guests and I have been having a bit of an old chin-wag, and the upshot of it all is, they’re off.
Sybil (disbelieving): Off!?
Basil: Well, let me put it this way, dear—either they go or I go. (Sybil just looks at him) Right! Come on back everybody. My wife’s had a better idea. Come on back. I’m going instead. (the guests come back into the lobby) Well, goodbye dear. It’s been an interesting fifteen years but all good things must come to an end. (kisses her) I hope you enjoy your new work here, helping to run a hotel. Goodbye, Major. Goodbye, ladies, give my regards to Polly and Manuel. ’Bye, dear.
He makes to leave. The Hamiltons come downstairs with their bags.
Sybil: You’ve forgotten your keys, Basil.
Basil: So I have dear, yes. (he gives them to her) Oh, and goodbye to all the rest of you. I hope you enjoy your stay here. Don’t forget—any complaints, don’t hesitate to tell my wife. Any hour of the day or night—just shout! ’Bye!
He stalks out through the main doors. Outside it is pouring with rain. He keeps going but after a few yards comes to a halt and stands there getting soaked. He looks up and thinks . . . Back in the lobby Mr. Hamilton is on the telephone and the other guests are still clustered around.
Mr. Hamilton (to phone): Ten minutes, that’ll be fine.
He puts the phone down. Basil comes back in.
Basil (to Sybil): Hallo dear, I’m back.
Sybil: What do you want, Basil?
Basil: A room, please. Number twelve is free, I think. I’d like breakfast in bed at half past nine in the morning please, that’s eggs, bacon, sausage and tomato, Waldorf salad washed down with lashings of hot screwdrivers . . .
THE KIPPER AND THE CORPSE
Mrs. Chase ..... Mavis Pugh
Major Gowen ..... Ballard Berkeley
Basil Fawlty ..... John Cleese
Sybil Fawlty ..... Prunella Scales
Manuel ..... Andrew Sachs
Dr. Price ..... Geoffrey Palmer
Guest ..... Len Marten
Mr. Leeman ..... Derek Royle
Mr. Xerxes ..... Robert McBain
Mr. Zebedee ..... Raymond Mason
Miss Young ..... Pamela Buchner
Polly ..... Connie Booth
Terry ..... Brian Hall
Miss Tibbs ..... Gilly Flower
Miss Gatsby ..... Renée Roberts
Mr. White ..... Richard Davies
Mrs. White ..... Elizabeth Benson
Mr. Ingrams ..... Charles McKeown
Fourth of second series, first broadcast on 12, March 1979, BBC2.
The hotel bar; evening. Sybil is at the bar, Manuel is serving guests. The Major is sitting at a table with Mrs. Chase, who is fondling a little lap dog.
Mrs. Chase: And he loves pecans and walnuts and he simply adores those little cheese footballs . . . don’t you, my darling . . . isn’t he beautiful?
The Major (who is not that interested): Very attractive little feller . . . what is it?
Mrs. Chase: He’s a little Chitzu.
The Major: Is he really? . . . Oh dear, dear, dear. What breed is it?
Mrs. Chase: Well, they’re lap dogs, aren’t they.
The Major: A Lapp dog? Oh, hard to imagine him stalking a reindeer, what?
Basil (coming up to the table): Ah, Major, can I get you another one?
The Major: Ah . . . (looks at watch) Why not, why not?
Basil: For you, Mrs. Chase?
Mrs. Chase: Oh, nothing for me, thank you, but Prince would like a little saucer of warm milk as it’s nearly our bed-time . . .
Basil: Yes . . . Manuel! (to Mrs. Chase) Manuel will attend to its heart’s desires. I’m afraid I’m lumbered with the people tonight . . . (he moves off; Manuel hurries up) Manuel—por favor, el perro microscópico . . .
Dr. Price comes into the bar.
Sybil: Oh, good evening, Dr. Price.
Dr. Price: Good evening.
Sybil: What can I get you?
Dr. Price: Scotch, please . . . and I suppose it’s too late to get anything to eat, is it?—I missed dinner.
Sybil: What did you have in mind?
Dr. Price: Well, I rather fancy some sausages.
Sybil: Oh, I’m afraid chef would have locked them away. We could do you sandwiches—ham, cheese, tomato . . .
Dr. Price: Er . . . ham, thank you.
Sybil: I’ll just arrange it for you. Basil . . .
Basil (who is serving drinks): Yes, dear?
Sybil: Would you make some ham sandwiches, please.
Basil: Look, I’m trying . . .
Sybil: For Dr. Price. (the phone rings in the lobby)
Basil: Oh . . . of course. Yes, one moment, Doctor. (delivers the drink) There we are, Major.
Sybil: Excuse me . . . the phone. (she leaves)
Basil (to Manuel, who is trying to close the window): Ah, found another draught, have we?
Mrs. Chase: We have to be very careful, Mr. Fawlty, he’s not very strong.
Basil: Indeed yes. A rapid movement of air could damage him irreparably. If only one could keep them in air-tight containers.
The Major: Wouldn’t be able to breathe, would he, Fawlty?
Basil: Well, he could try, Major, he could try. (he sweeps on to the next table, where sit a short balding man and a rather obviously sexy redhead) Anything else for you?
Man: Er, no thank you . . . it’s a bit late and we’d better . . . get upstairs.
Basil: Quite, quite. (to himself) Sorry to have kept you. (to Dr. Price) Um . . . doctor . . . one round? Two?
Dr. Price: Oh, just one, please.
Basil: My pleasure. (he leaves for the kitchen)
In the lobby Sybil is on the reception phone, definitely gossiping.
Sybil: No, no, she was the one he had with him the third time, the first time was the dowdy one, then his wife, then her, and now this red . . . (the man and the redhead approach the desk) . . . Oh yes, that must have been lovely. (to man) Number twelve . . . let’s see . . . (gets the key)
Man: Thank you. (he and his companion go upstairs)
Sybil (to phone): . . . How very lovely, yes that was them . . . not much, they get less fussy as they get older.
A party comes in through the main doors: Miss Young, Mr. Leeman, Mr. Xerxes and Mr. Zebedee; they are business associates. Mr. Leeman is apologetic.
Mr. Leeman: Sorry about this.
Mr. Xerxes: Please. It couldn’t matter less, we’re meeting in the morning anyway.
Mr. Zebedee: You’ve had a long journey.
Mr. Xerxes: You get a good night’s sleep.
Miss Young: You’re sure you’re feeling all right?
Mr. Leeman: Oh, fine, fine, just a little . . .
Miss Young: Oh yes, of course.
Mr. Xerxes: Well, you get straight to bed, and we’ll pick you up here at nine-thirty.
Mr. Zebedee: We’ll have a coffee and go in to the MD at ten.
Mr. Leeman: Fine, thanks, OK.
The Others: Goodnight. See you in the morning . . . sleep well . . .
Mr. Leeman: See you at nine-thirty . . . sorry . . . (they leave and he turns towards Sybil)
Sybil (to phone): Harris . . . oh no, on his own again . . . oh, no, I wouldn’t have thought so, he watches the football. (to Mr. Leeman) Number eight, isn’t it? . . . Where are we . . . (gives him the key) Are you feeling all right?
Mr. Leeman: Er . . . not too good, no . . .
Sybil: Oh dear. Would you like a little hot something?
Mr. Leeman: Oh, no, no . . . I’m fine, thank you.
Sybil: Oh, well, if there’s an
ything you need . . .
Mr. Leeman (moving away): Yes. Thank you.
Sybil (to phone): No, that wasn’t him, that was a new one.
Basil (appearing from the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches; to Leeman): Good night. (Leeman does not respond, moving past towards the stairs) I said ‘Good night.’
Mr. Leeman: Oh, good night.
Basil: That didn’t hurt, did it.
Sybil: Basil!
Mr. Leeman disappears uncertainly as Basil crosses the lobby.
Basil: Good manners cost nothing, dear.
Sybil: He’s not feeling very well, Basil.
Basil: He only had to say ‘Good night’, dear. It’s not the Gettysburg address.
Sybil: Basil, when you’re not feeling well . . .
Basil (going into the bar): Just two little words, dear, to bring a little happiness into the world.
Mr. Leeman (coming down again): Excuse me.
Sybil: Yes, Mr. Leeman. What can I do for you?
Mr. Leeman: Do you think I might have breakfast in bed in the morning?
Basil (coming back in): . . . In bed?
Mr. Leeman: Yes.
Sybil: Of course, Mr. Leeman.
Basil: Yes, we can manage that, can we dear?
Sybil: Yes, we can. (to phone) I’ll call you back. (puts the phone down)
Basil: Is it your legs?
Mr. Leeman: . . . I’m sorry?
Basil: Well, most of our guests manage to struggle down in the morning.
Sybil: A full breakfast or the continental?
Mr. Leeman: Oh, er . . .
Sybil: Our chef does a very good full breakfast, eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato, fried bread . . .
Mr. Leeman: The continental.
Sybil: You wouldn’t care for kippers?
Mr. Leeman: Oh . . . fine, kippers, yes, thank you.
Basil departs resignedly.
Sybil: Toast, butter, marmalade . . .
Mr. Leeman: Yes, thank you.
Sybil: Tea or coffee?
Mr. Leeman (not feeling at all well): Yes, er . . . tea, thank you.
Sybil: A newspaper?
Mr. Leeman: Er . . . Telegraph.
Sybil: Thank you . . . Good night.
Mr. Leeman starts to move off. Sybil goes into the office; Basil comes back in.
Basil: Rosewood, mahogany, teak?
Mr. Leeman: . . . I beg your pardon?
Basil: What would you like your breakfast tray made out of?
