Fawlty Feb: Day Twenty Two

Lost in translation.

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.

And because we're running out of Fawlty Feb days, I'm going to throw in an extra one today. No extra charge.

On Harold Robbins (not that awful Harold Robinson).

Basil: Oh, of course, yes. My wife likes Harold Robbins. After a hard day's slaving under the hair-dryer she needs to unwind with a few aimless thrills.

Sybil: Basil! (she exists into the kitchen)

Basil: Have you ever read any? It really is the most awful American... well, not American, but trans-Atlantic tripe. A sort of pornographic muzak. Still, it keeps my wife off the streets.