A busy weekend, part one

It's shaping up to be a busy weekend for Basil Fawlty. It's the height of the mmer season in Torquay. The World Cup is on. He is short-staffed as his new waiter is on holiday in Cyprus and he is too stingy to hire a temp replacement. 'These things happen, we'll do it ourselves!' A rather annoying film crew has arrived to make a documentary about the hotel and they insist upon turning every problem into a major crisis, as is their wont. I should say that the opinions expressed here are mostly those of Basil Fawlty and not my own!

The place is a hotel: Fawlty Towers, or "Floating Turds" as someone had rather unkindly written on the sign outside. Inside, a tall, thin hotelier, Basil Fawlty, was on his own at reception dealing with a sudden glut of customers. 'So, that's a bedroom for two, breakfast for two nights, Mr and Mrs Smith, fine!' Basil gave a charming smile as he filled out a form. 'Sign here please.'

But his next guest he was slightly less pleasant too. 'So you want a double room? What, a single one? Single? They are a bit scarce at the moment. That puts me out, that does. Are you married?'

'No, not at all!'

'Have you ever thought of it?' Basil snapped.

'Basil,' his wife Sybil whispered sharply in his ear.

'Oh, all right. Fine Sybil, over to you!' Basil smiled and moved quickly to the dining room. Basil looked around. Manuel was frantically taking orders from two tables at once and mixing them up terribly.

'Que?'

'Fish!' the exasperated man yelled.

'Dish, si,' Manuel said, snatching a dirty plate Polly was taking to the kitchen and placing it in front of the man.

'Waiter!' the woman at the other table said. 'Where is my soup?'

'Que?' Manuel said.

Meanwhile Polly was taking the dirty plate from the man at the other table and apologizing. 'Your fish will be out shortly.' On her way out of the room she grabbed Manuel by the ear with her free hand and dragged him with her.

'Don't let that stupid git back in here until he learns English,' Basil called after her. 'Or until he learns Italian, just don't let him back in here,' he grumbled under his breath.

He cast a gimlet eye on a table of England fans making noise at a table across the room. They were well-behaved otherwise, but Basil sometimes missed the times when one 'dressed for dinner.'

'Excuse me,' said a guest.

'Yes, what is it?' Basil replied.

'I'm sorry, we have been waiting a while for our order. Could you take it please?'

'Could I take your order? Well, I have been a bit busy. I was up at 7:00. I had to organise reception as I am the only one who does any work around here. I had to go to the butcher for a delivery of bacon. I had to clean the living room by myself, re-paint our sign as some idiot thought it highly amusing to re-arrange the letters, shout at Manuel, give Polly jobs to do, so I have only had one break and quite frankly you can stick your order were the sun doesn't shine,'

This is what Basil thought. What he actually said was, if slightly tight-lipped, 'So sorry for your delay, how may I help?' Though the request turned out to be a simple one.

'So, what's the score going to be, Basil, 3-0 to England?' cried one with quite illogical optimism. The next day, England were facing Germany in the World Cup and for some unknown reason everyone thought England would win. This optimism was catching!

'2-1 to England,'

'2-0,' said another lad.

Basil gave them a withering look and went back to reception, where he met another couple trying to register. After a few pleasantries a woman asked, 'One thing, we have just been over the channel to Europe on holiday we have lots of Euros, do you mind if we pay in that currency?' Basil's face looked at her in horror. Basil's opinions on all things Europe and the EU made the average Daily Mail writer look moderate.

'Could you pay by card? There is a cash machine nearby,' suggested Basil hopefully.

'Well, we could, but it is a mile there and back. Euros would be more convenient.'

Basil disappeared for a few moments. Over the speakers came the glorious sounds of Rule Britannia. Basil came rushing back. He pointed at a picture of Winston Churchill, his hands shaking and his neck looking like its veins were about to burst.

'Who's that?' cried he at the picture.

'Winston Churchill, obviously,'

'And what is this music?'

'Very patriotic stuff, but the point is?' the man laughed.

Basil pulled himself to all of his considerable height and cried, 'In1940 we stood alone. Against the might of the Hun. Nation after Nation fell and it would have been more "convenient" for us to surrender, wouldn't it? But is that what Churchill did? No! Was it convenient for those Spitfire pilots to run sorties against the Luftwaffe? I don't think so.

'Basil.'

'Did Henry V say it was convenient to surrender at Agincourt? No. Did Francis Drake think it convenient to fight the Armada? Maybe not. Was it convenient to fight Napoleon's might in 1815? I don't think so. Neither do I suppose that the charge of the light brigade was done for the cavalries personal comfort. But now we have to be in Europe because apparently we cannot manage our own affairs by ourselves without help and this generation...'

'BASIL!'

'Wouldn't bother to find its arse with both hands if it wasn't convenient. We had an Empire where the sun didn't set and which covered the globe. But now we have scarce control over even our own currency thanks to French, German, Italian or even Belgium. They have found themselves something to do at last! Eurocrats! And I for one say...'

'BASIL!' Sybil snapped at her husband and dragged him away. Well the English might have stood alone and halted the march of the Nazi legions, not Basil obviously. For all his bold talk he would have run a hundred miles away from any war that had come close, but an angry Sybil Fawlty was far too much. 'They are staying for two weeks, paying ?1000 and are very generous and can give us a good tip!'

Basil paused for thought. He was in a dilemma! His patriotic feelings as opposed to hard cash. In the end, hard cash won. 'Oh, very well, then!' he crumpled like the Maginot line and it was therefore fortunate for him that those guests laughed at his comments in good humour rather than being offended.

The Major had heard the entire exchange. 'I think this just about sums up international finance!' said he shaking his old head a little sadly.

Then Basil bumped into just about the last thing he expected to see, apart from satisfied customers. A TV camera! Basil looked at the thing. Why was someone filming here? 'Hello!' said a man next to him in a charming old-school manner. He looked at Basil with a broad grin and clapped him on the shoulder.

'Yes, can I help?' asked Basil in irritation.

But the man grinned further. 'Come now, you know who I am!'

'Can't say I do!'

The man laughed. He was so conceited that he couldn't get his head around the concept of someone not knowing who he was. 'Very funny. But I'm sure you know me, TV producer, chatshow host, BBC representative Steven Norty! I have 5 million followers on Chatter don't you know? Anyway we have come to film an average day at Fawlty Towers for our daytime afternoon slot on Channel 5.'

'Channel 5? Thank God. In that case no-one will be watching!' Basil muttered, with some accuracy as it happened.

'Ooh! It's Steven Norty, we'll be on TV!' squealed Sybil, going quite weak-kneed at the prospect. It was a slight weakness of Sybil that she did so love every soap or reality TV doc or cooking program that the TV channels could throw at her. 'Come on Basil, smile! You're on TV! This is Steven Norty. He has 5 million followers on Chatter!' Chatter was a website where people were encouraged to follow others brief Chats.

'Maybe, but 4,999,999 of them are only doing so to see what a prat he is!'

'Basil!'

'Oh all right but, did we really invite him here? I don't remember doing so.'

'Oh, I handled all the details. It was so exciting!' Sybil explained, but this time it was Basil's turn to give Sybil a poisonous look.

His mood wasn't improved by Polly buckling her knees at the sight of the celebrity.

'Steven Norty! Oh my God!'

'Haven't you got something to do, Polly?'

Or Terry, the hotel's cook. 'That's Steven Norty that is!'

'I am aware, thank you, Terry.' Basil said snidely

'I'll have to get enthusiastic about chopping those onions!' Terry exclaimed.

Basil raised his eyebrows. Terry was a good cook but the idea of him being enthusiastic about his cooking was a new concept. Maybe Steven Norty and his film crew coming might have some good effects. He buckled as Polly poked him in the ribs. 'That might be a good move as Tracy, our second cook, is on holiday and you haven't found a replacement.'

'Oh, it's only for a fortnight, we'll manage!' Basil waved Polly away.

'It will be tricky though,' argued Sybil.

'Have we arrived at a time of major crisis in the affairs of Fawlty Towers?' asked Steven Norty with a hopeful expression on his face. A bit like vultures, docusoaps do so revel in people's misfortunes, and if they can't find them they will make them up. He put his arm around Sybil's and Basil's shoulders. Curiously, Steven was very tall and one of the few people that could look down upon Basil.

'No, no it's a trivial matter, we can cope!' snapped Basil.

'I'm not so sure,' Sybil countered.

'Really?' said Mr. Norty, making a mark in his notebook.

Basil sighed and made his way to the hotel bar, serving himself a much needed stiff drink. He saw the England fans were now chatting to the Major. 'How will we get on Major?' they asked.

'As long as Greavesies fit we'll be fine!' informed he, to a mixture of puzzlement and amusement. The Major's knowledge of football anytime in the last 50 years was a little hazy and some of those England fans had never heard of Jimmy Greaves, a dinosaur from the age before even satellite they thought.

Then the guest who had annoyed Basil by having the cheek to be single sat on the barstool next to the Major. 'All right,' said he with a thumbs up and the Major nodded back. The guest, Nathan, nudged the major. 'I have a few days off which I intend to spend in this lovely seaside town. But I feel lucky. Are there any nice young ladies staying here?'

'You are in luck, young man! There are a couple of young women here next door.

'Here they are and they are both available.'

Nathan looked around with a wide, hopeful smile.

'Good evening, young man!'

'Good evening!' replied Miss Tibbs and Miss Tubs. As Nathan didn't fancy sex with women old enough to be his mother, his hopes of an exotic night were dashed.

To be continued...