Mrs. Richards: Now listen to me. I booked a room with a bath. When I book a room with a bath I expect to get a bath.
Basil: (confused) You've got a bath.
Mrs. Richards: I'm not paying Seven Pounds Twenty Pence per night plus VAT for a room without a bath.
Basil: [goes into the bathroom] There is your bath.
Mrs. Richards: You call that a bath? It's not big enough to drown a mouse. It's disgraceful...
Basil: [quietly] I wish you were a mouse, I'd show you...
Mrs. Richards: And another thing. I booked a room with a view.
Basil: [quietly to Manuel] Deaf, mad and blind. [Goes to the window] Yes, this is the view as I remember it, yes, yes, this is it.
Mrs. Richards: When I pay for a room with a view, I expect something more interesting than that.
Basil: That is Torquay madam.
Mrs. Richards: Well it's not good enough.
Basil: Well, may I ask what you expected to see out of a Torquay hotel bedroom window? Sydney Opera House, perhaps? The Hanging Gardens of Babylon? Herds of wildebeest sweeping majestically...?
Mrs. Richards: Don't be silly. I expect to be able to see the sea.
Basil: You can see the sea. It's over there between the land and the sky.
Mrs. Richards: I'd need a telescope to see that.
Basil: Well, then, may I suggest you move to a hotel nearer the sea? [mutters] Or preferably in it.
Mrs Richards: Now listen to me. I am not satisfied. However, I have decided to stay. But I shall expect a reduction.
Basil: Why, because Krakatoa's not erupting at the moment?
Mrs Richards: Because the room is cold, the bath is too small, the view is invisible and the radio doesn't work.
Basil: No, the radio works. [mutters] You don't.
Mrs Richards: What?
Basil: I'll see if I can fix it [mutters] you scabby old bat. (walks over to the radio and turns it up loud, then turns it off)

Basil: Listen, don't mention the war! I mentioned it once, but I think I got away with it all right. [returns to the Germans] So! It's all forgotten now, and let's hear no more about it. So, that's two egg mayonnaise, a prawn Goebbels, a Hermann Goering, and four Colditz salads.

Basil: Hello, Fawlty Towers. Ah, yes, Mr. O'Reilly. Well, it's quite simple. When I asked you to build me a wall, I was rather thinking that instead of just dumping the bricks down in a pile, you might find time to cement them together one on top of the other in the usual fashion. [to Melbury] Could you fill it in, please? [to O'Reilly] Oh, splendid! Yes, but when, Mr. O'Reilly? [to Melbury] There. There. [to O'Reilly] Yes, but when? Ah, I see: the flu. [to Melbury] Both names, please. [to O'Reilly] Yes, I should have guessed, Mr. O'Reilly; that and the potato famine, I suppose.
Melbury: I'm sorry?
Basil: Could you put both your names please? [to O'Reilly] Well, can you give me a date?
Melbury: I only use one.
Basil: You don't have a first name?
Melbury: No. I am Lord Melbury, so I simply sign "Melbury."
Basil: [to O'Reilly] Go away. [hangs up] So sorry to have kept you waiting, your lordship. I do apologise.

Basil: [yelling at his car] Come on! Come on! Start! Start, you vicious bastard! Come on! Oh, my God! I'm warning you! If you don't start... I'll count to three! 1, 2, 3! Right! That's it! [leaving the car, he starts yelling at it] I've had enough! You've tried it on just once too often! Right! Well, don't say I haven't warned you! I've laid it on the line for you time and time again! Right! Well, this is it! I'm going to give you a damn good thrashing! [he leaves the frame, returns holding a branch and starts thrashing the car over the bonnet]

Basil: Ah, hello, Mr. O'Reilly. 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 can say. A few holes in the floor, the odd door missing; but nothing you can't be sued for.

Mrs Richards: [Leaving the room] I can get down stairs by myself.
Basil: "Down" the stairs? Oh well, don't stop when you get to the basement! Keep straight on! Give my regards to the Earth's core!
Sybil: [to Mrs Richards] Are you sure you can manage?
Basil: If you give us any more trouble I shall visit you in the small hours and put a bat up your nightdress!

Basil: [about Sybil's laughter] Please don't alarm yourself, it's only my wife laughing. I'm afraid her local finishing school was bombed.
Mrs. Peignoir: [shocked] Oh dear!
Basil: No, no, not really. Just a thought. Well now, what can I get you?
Mrs. Peignoir: Do you have any Ricard?
Basil: [confused] I'm sorry?
Mrs. Peignoir: Any Ricard?
Basil: [unsure what Ricard is, he pretends to check the bar] uh, we're just out of it, I think...

Basil: I would find it a little easier to cope with some of the cretins we get in here, my little nest of vipers, if I got smidgen of co-operation from you.
Sybil: Co-operation? That's a laugh. The day you co-operate, you'll be in a wooden box. I've never heard such rudeness.

Manuel: I say to man in shop "Is rat." He say "No, no, no. Is a special kind of hamster. Is filigree Siberian hamster." Only one in shop. He make special price: only five pound.
Basil: Have you ever heard of the bubonic plague, Manuel? It was very popular here at one time. A lot of pedigree hamsters came over on ships from Siberia.

Basil: (down the phone to O'Reilly) ...No, I don't want to debate about it, if you're not over here in twenty minutes with my door I shall come over there and insert a large garden gnome in you.

Basil: Don't tell anyone, but he's dead.
Major Gowen: Oh. Shot, was he?
Basil: No, No. Died in his sleep.
Major Gowen: In his sleep. Well, you're off your guard, you see.

Mr. Hutchinson: There is a documentary on BBC2 this evening about Squawking Bird, the leader of the Blackfoot Indians in the late 1860s. Now this starts at 8.45 and goes on for approximately three-quarters of an hour.
Basil: I'm sorry, are you talking to me?
Mr. Hutchinson: Indeed I am, yes. Now is it possible for me to reserve the BBC2 channel for the duration of this televisual feast?
Basil: Why don't you talk properly?
Mr. Hutchinson: I beg your pardon?
Basil: No it isn't.
Mr. Hutchinson: What?
Basil: It is not possible to reserve the BBC2 channel from the commencement of this televisual feast until the moment of the termination of its ending, thank you so much.

Basil: He's drunk!
Sybil: Drunk?
Basil: Drunk! Soused! Potted! Inebriated! Got it?!
Sybil: I don't believe it!
Basil: Neither do I. Perhaps it's a dream. [pounds his head on the desk several times, sits up, looks around.] Nope, it's not a dream. We're stuck with it.

Basil: Did you ever see that film, "How To Murder Your Wife"?
Major Gowen: "How To Murder Your Wife"?
Basil: Yes, awfully good. I saw it six times.

Basil: Are you going to take something like that seriously?!
O'Reilly: Well...well, I thought I might...
Basil: YOU THOUGHT YOU MIGHT?!?!! What kind of man ARE you!?! Are you going to let her talk to us like that?!
O'Reilly: She just did!!
Basil: No, no, no, she only thinks she did. But we'll show her! We're not only going to take that door out and put the other one back, we're going to add that new door and block that one off as well. We're going to to the BEST day's work you've EVER done, O'Reilly!!