Fawlty Towers
FAWLTY TOWERS
A WORSHIPPER’S COMPANION
LARS HOLGER HOLM
FAWLTY TOWERS
A WORSHIPPER’S COMPANION
LEO PUBLISHING
Leo Publishing
Heleneborgsgatan 44
117 32 Stockholm
Sweden
Telephone/fax: +46 86 69 46 16
E-mail: leopublish@comhem.se
www.leo.infosite.tc
ISBN 91-973661-8-8
Illustrations by the author
Copyright: Lars Holger Holm, 2004
Cover and graphic design: John Eyre
Printed by Preses Nams Corporation
Jana seta printing, Riga 2004
All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Thank you Clive, Gilles and Alma for support and inspiration!
A BLESSING IN DISGUISE
It was toward the end of 2002 that the author of this book began to close in on me in a pincer-like movement. Persistently he had been bombing my agency with ominous epistles — by that time well aware that I do not wish to receive any material related to either Monty Python’s Flying Circus or Fawlty Towers — and eventually managed to coerce my manager into such submission that he felt compelled to forward the manuscript. My immediate reaction to it, after having ignored its existence for weeks, was one of genuine indifference. As if that were not enough, I soon also had my long time friend and partner, Bill Morton, on the line, saying he had been contacted by a man who wanted to make sure that I had in fact received his opus with its accompanying letter. I sullenly replied this was the case, but also that I had no idea when, if ever, I would get a chance to read it — and to be sure, I didn’t have the slightest intention of doing so. I then buried my head in the sand, hoping the menace would disappear by itself. It did not. Some weeks later the author had Bill forwarding me a fax with the following wording:
“I am well aware that you are a busy man and that written material of various quality and interest relentlessly keeps adding to the piles in your study. However, beware that Sybil has been dead for quite some time now, so the entire manuscript wrapping her remains is likely to surface quite soon, giving you a last chance to rid yourself of her dead weight and the consequences of your terrible deed ... Let me add on a personal note that Fawlty Towers — A Worshipper’s Companion involves a very interesting deal for you. Several editors have shown interest in publishing the script, especially after I told them that you would happily contribute with a merry preface to it. I can promise you a handsome percentage of the sales figures if you were to accept this invitation. After all, it is a potential bestseller. Invested with the aura of your fame, your wit and my analytical as well as literary prowess, Dragonfly simply must make it this time! Please, take a look at it. You won't regret it. Then, tell me that you will be more than happy to put your signature under an illustrious preface to this incomparable opus. So take the script now to the ‘comfi-chair’, open page one and let enjoyment be yours!”
Realising that the aim of his manouevre was to convince me of writing a preface to a book on a subject that has long since ceased to hold any fascination for me, I felt obliged to tell him the truth: “I apologise that what I am going to say will disappoint you. But I have neither the time nor the motivation to read your book. I have been talking for twenty-five years about Fawlty Towers now, and I would not be at all disappointed if it went away and I could forget about it forever. I am sorry that I can’t be more helpful, but I have four projects of my own at present, all of which take up practically every moment that I have. Besides, there are many things that I want to read before I die, which are of higher importance to me than a book, no matter how good, about something I did twenty-five years ago.” In essence this was the message I finally faxed to the writer, adding that I was of course delighted that people (such as the author himself) continue to enjoy it, but also that my interest in it beyond that was long gone. I concluded by committing to the ‘uncommittal’. “Forgive my being so direct, but I’d rather be quite honest with you. I wish you every success in your endeavours to get a deal.”
Still, the peremptory nature of his nonetheless funny, cheerful and, as it eventually turned out, strangely premonitory letter kept haunting me. Then one night I actually dreamt that Sybil (not Prunella Scales!) was dead. But that wasn’t all. I had murdered her and I was trying to make money off her in an insurance scam. As I woke up — bathing in sweat, scratching my head — I turned around to my terrified wife with the words: “Sybil, Sybil — what a terrible dream!” Coming to my senses again, it began to dawn on me that whatever crimes we have committed in the past, there is no way we will ever escape them, and the surest way to become the unwilling prey of that same past, is to deny it its rightful place in our present lives. For me, Fawlty Towers belongs to a painful, confused, not to say disturbed, period of my life. It involved such an effort that I almost ended up in a mental asylum, and I dare say that if it hadn’t been for the vast quantities of Prozac I was prescribed during my ‘convalescence’, I don’t think I would ever had got over and beyond it. Today, I feel happy and relieved that the problems dealt with in the series are no longer of my concern, but when I finally, in a sense of obligation toward myself, actually started to read Mr. Holm’s manuscript, I fortunately realised that the subject of his writing was no longer of my doing; it was a creation which, like Frankenstein’s monster, had taken an appearance of its own in order to continue its work of destruction in the world.
Lars Holger Holm’s book on Fawlty Towers is in my opinion pretty close to a nightmare come true. It pleases me to be able to add, though, that it is also, simultaneously, an incredibly well written and witty book, which, in its delightful blend of farce and profundity, will above all please anyone sufficiently neurotic and tormented to see a role model in that most twisted of human characters named Basil Fawlty. I shall consequently not hesitate to recommend the book to anyone interested in making a thwarted thing even more thwarted. I will likewise — and in order to forestall all unwanted attention — seize the opportunity to assure the reader that the facts stated in his book are all correct. There are, of course, a few things that the writer doesn’t and can’t know anything about, but I think that is only proper. Then, so far as it remains to be seen if the “handsome percentage” offered to the writer of this preface will in any significant way materialise. If it does, I might even consider releasing on DVD the ruthlessly revealed thirteenth episode, of which I unfortunately still have the original copy. This much I promise. But don’t call me, or Bill, and don’t send any letters or e-mails. It will only make Sybil suspicious in her grave and my present wife jealous. You see, in spite of my efforts to the contrary, she has never been quite able to convince herself that I actually managed to leave 16, Elmwood Avenue behind for good. Lars Holger Holm, obviously, is of the same opinion. Thus, I have all good reason to fear the spectre of sibylline revenge.
J.C.
INTRODUCTION
This guide book addresses itself to those ardent admirers of Fawlty Towers who have long since left the innocent stage behind when Manuel seemed merely funny, Polly only benevolent, Sybil just acrimonious and Basil plain crazy. It proposes to probe deep, deeper and still deeper into the texture of this work; to reveal intricate codes, hidden staircases and secret chambers; to interpret runes and unravel psychological mysteries. It is a spiritual adventure into the black hole in the centre of a speculative universe in constant expansion; a Gnostic, hermetic, alchemical experiment of rar
e complexity and eerie fascination. Last but not least, the book seeks to finally put an end to the ludicrous assumptions that there were only twelve episodes in all, that the only Jesus that ever lived died on the cross, and that Hitler committed suicide in the bunker.
On a more mundane level the book can also be used as a kind of dictionary for those who are irritated when unable to tell exactly in which show a specific line originates, or those who feel in adequate and embarrassed when one of Basil’s references eludes them. It is expressly and most emphatically dedicated to the fanatic who already has all the Towers on video or DVD — perhaps even all the records with Manuel presenting the shows, all the other books, the T-shirt, the jig-saw puzzle, the tea cups and the spppooons! — and yet can not help chuckling with delight every time an episode is aired on TV. To this spectator and reader, — that is, to anyone who recognises and appreciates the fact that a reference, like a Russian doll, may hide another reference hiding yet another one — the present work will be of immense, not to say immeasurable, value, as well as a constant source of joy and entertainment.
To secure the greatest benefit from the many analyses and reflections following this brief introduction, the reader, who for some reason or other does not meet with the above-mentioned qualifications, is well advised to refresh his memory of ‘all’ twelve episodes. It will also be expected that he keeps to hand a copy of the printed script to the shows (can be bought or ordered at the best book shops — Guild Publishing sponsored me for adding this last line, so bear with me: it had to be there ...). Assuming the last exhortation to be superfluous to any Real Fawlty Devotee (RFD), I shall no longer keep anyone in suspense but press on with my task. First I turn to the dramatis personae themselves. As we get to know them they are all guests, staff or owners at the Towers. Each also has a past, albeit, perhaps, not much of a future. But as I’m sure that the merry spectator has always been eager to know what the Major really did during the war, and how on earth radiant Polly ended up in stuffy old Torquay, I have the honour and the privilege to present:
1
THE CONDENSED BIOGRAPHIES OF THE INHABITANTS OF FAWLTY TOWERS
THE MAJOR
Major Gowen was born in 1904 in the county of Sussex in a small village half-way between Tunbridge Wells and East Grinstead. He was the second son of parents who, although they were of modest means, nevertheless considered themselves rich indeed in their veneration of the Royal family. It was only natural that young Henry Gowen, ever respectful of his parents’ wishes, from an early age should consider it incumbent upon him to go out and help govern India.
After leaving school he was admitted to the Military Academy at Sandhurst, at which establishment his singular lack of military aptitude was at once, and generally, recognised — though all who thought they remembered him also testify to his benign and equable disposition. Gowen finally passed out of the Academy in 1926 — there was still a dearth of subalterns, the result of the slaughter of the First World War, so pass-marks were perhaps somewhat relaxed — to become a soldier at last. He was at once, and in accordance with his ardent wish, posted to India.
During his service on the subcontinent, Gowen’s military exploits made little impression on any that happened to be subjected to them, Indians and Sahibs alike. Needless to add, it became a matter of principle to him not to pick up more than a few scattered phrases from any ‘native’ language. This proved to be a wise precaution, as it did effectively prevent others from realising his constitutional inability to produce even the guttural sounds of Indian dialects. In addition, he was conveniently convinced that an Englishman who condescended to the language of natives was betraying his nation and, in doing so, civilisation per se. Nonetheless, Gowen was to pay his tribute to India by perfecting his one indubitable accomplishment, a stunning imitation of the roar of a tiger. His propensity for demonstrating this particular talent at inopportune moments, however — the District Commissioner’s garden party is a case in point — somewhat detracted from its entertainment value, and indeed, as time wore on, from its novelty.
When the British Raj, in agreement with the government back home, finally felt that the time had come for old Britannia to pass on the sceptre she had herself once seized from the hands of the last Moghul emperor and to grant India independence, Gowen was seconded to England on ‘special duties’ of a nature so secret that he never did discover what they actually were. Repatriated after nearly fifteen years in the tropics, Gowen, paradoxically, found himself rather unoccupied in the very opening stages of another war. He also found himself thinking more and more often of the redemptive power of the love of a good woman. But in spite of his no doubt sincere intentions to find one, he proposed marriage to a French girl, rumoured to have connections with the Resistance. His proposal was fatefully accepted, a fact that in later years would induce him to speak of the lady as having been rather, and somewhat perfidiously, a member of the ‘lack of resistance’ — he would always refer to this as his best joke, and fearful of forgetting it, made sure to tell it as often as possible.
His beloved, unaccustomed to the charms of tea and crumpets, proved to be immune to the seductive qualities of slippers, cardigans and pipe-smoking by the fire, and, in making off with a proportion of the gallant soldier’s savings, became something of a disappointment to him. The lady’s younger sister, to whom he then turned — having high hopes of initiating her into the mysteries of cricket — likewise proved unsatisfactory, absconding with his wallet during the course of a test match. Twice-bitten and thrice-shy, but unembittered, the Major resumed a bachelor existence. He never remarried.
Some years into the war, Captain Gowen, although eager to do his duty for Queen and country, was removed by his superiors even farther away from the principal field of action, and sent to join a detachment of superannuated warriors somewhere in the north of England. In this remote and peaceful area he uncomplainingly served out his time until happening to read in the morning newspaper one day that the war was over. (He has, as we know, been mildly obsessed with newspapers ever since.)
Such was Captain Gowen’s military history, then, in an attempt to forestall the difficulties in finding him an adequate post-war assignment, his masters decided to remove him from what might loosely be termed ‘active service’, and bade him a honourary farewell as a Major. He was never to adopt another career.
His modest army pension afforded him little in the way of luxury, so he sold his flat and left London. He moved thence to Eastbourne, where he lived in the seafront hotel East Eden until its proprietor, in a fit of absent-mindedness, burnt it to the ground. He then moved westward along the coast, searching for some quiet backwater blessed with a benign microclimate, surrounded by emerald-green golf courses. He was eventually washed up, like a crab in a tide’s end pool, in Basil Fawlty’s stagnant domain. Here Major Gowen has come to rest, the only apparent reminiscensces of his former life being the daily battle cry, “Papers arrived yet, Fawlty?” and the gin-and-tonics he imbibes in quantities calculated sufficient to stave off the occasional malarial attack.
POLLY SHERMAN — THE HANDY GIRL
Polly first saw the light of day in Kansas City in 1950. In her earliest years her greatest wish was to become a film star. Like so many other young hopefuls she headed west to California, then at the height of flower power. She had a letter of introduction to the fairly famous producer Max Holger, who arranged a screen test for her. This, alas, most incontrovertibly proved that she could no more act, dance or sing than she could fly to the moon. Ambition undimmed, Polly decided that her real future was in live theatre. She moved from the west to the east coast, specifically to New York, took a job as a waitress in a Brooklyn diner, and enrolled in theatre classes. Her conspicuous lack of acting talent was immediately recognised by her tutors, and made brutally clear to her. But Polly, ever optimistic, interpreted this to mean that her real vocation was to become, not a Broadway artist, but a Shakespearean actress, and that there was nothing for it but to come to
the U. K., where her gifts would be immediately obvious to all.
She worked day and night, poor girl, to raise the money for the fare to London, only to find on her arrival in England that the London theatre was every bit as competitive as that of New York. Polly came to her senses at last; she turned to art and literature, hoping to become a successful painter or playwright. Her drawing skills were happily superior to her histrionic abilities, and she won a place at Goldsmiths College.
By the end of her second term Polly was out of funds. The college authorities had pronounced themselves sufficiently satisfied with her progress, and would award her a grant at the beginning of the autumn term. Meanwhile the long vacation was approaching, and she could not afford to keep her flat over the summer months. What to do? She had after all come a considerable way, and was happy in London, but there weren’t many jobs to be had in the city.
She was looking at the Jobs Vacant boards at the employment centre one morning when an advertisement on the Out-of-Town board caught her attention. It read “Female assistant required in clean and respectable hotel on the English Riviera. Contact Mr. Basil Fawlty, Fawlty Towers. Note: No bleeding pets or boyfriends on the premises.” There was a telephone number. Polly decided to give it a try, and was lucky, or unlucky, to speak to Sybil rather than Basil.
She went down to Torquay on the coach. Upon her arrival she met with and was interviewed by Sybil. Basil, strolling by, took a look down Polly’s nicely filled decolletage, and without reference to or further discussion with Sybil, hired her on the spot. To avenge herself for this affront Sybil offered to pay only half her travelling expenses, although Basil said he would reimburse her in full. Surprisingly enough, he did honour his promise. Sybil must never know, of course.