Italian Correspondents Contessa BYRD, Signora MANSKI and Contessa UNCLE EV have a Torquay weekender holiday organised for our footy coaches.
Newly appointed AFL CEO Gillon “McMoron” McLachlan decided to send all six coaches’ – Geelong – Chris (Beam Me Up Scotty) Scott, Greater Western Shitney – Leon (King of Leon) Cameron, West Coast – Adam (Go West!) Simpson, Hawthorn – Alistair (Angry Little Man) Clarkson, Gold Coast Bums – Guy (Sly) McKenna, and Carlton – Mick (The Wise One) Malthouse to an all expenses paid weekend retreat to a hotel in the seaside town of Torquay.
The gateway of the Great Ocean Road. South Geelong.
Arriving at 8:00am to hotel Fawlty Towers on a wet, cold and miserable Saturday morning, all six coaches approached the reception desk for check in. The coaches’ were met by the rude and put upon owner – Basil Fawlty, screaming at the Spanish Waiter – Manuel, his bossy wife – Sybil and a comparatively normal chambermaid Polly.
“Welcome to Fawlty Towers gentleman, we sincerely hope your stay will be a memorable one. Manuel will show you to your rooms, won’t you Manuel?” Quizzed Basil nervously.
“Che?” Manuel replied awe struck by the coaches’ athletic appearance.
“Sorry he’s Spanish”. Basil shouting: “Manuel! ROOMS NOW! RA’PIDO! COMPRENDE!”
“Ah si Signor.” Eventually realizing what he had to do. “This way, follow me, up these stairs”. Smiled Manuel.
“What? No lifts?” Whined Alistair Clarkson.
Rolling his eyes Mick Malthouse retorted: “Stop your whining, you could do with some exercise.”
Meeting at the hotel restaurant for dinner, all six coaches’ witnessed a frantic Basil Fawlty running in and out of the kitchen panic stricken. Stopped by his wife Sybil, she questions: “Basil dear, are you not going to tell these gentleman of the specials on the dinner menu tonight?”
“I was just doing it, you stupid woman. I just put it down, to come here to be reminded by you to do what I’m already doing. I mean what is the point in reminding me to do what I’m already doing? I mean, what is the bloody point? I’m doing it aren’t I?” Fumed Basil.
After taking their orders, Chris confesses to the other coaches’: “My twin brother Brad always says the same thing to me whenever I try to give him some coaching advice.”
GWS (God! What Slobs)
Leon Cameron was standing by reception waiting patiently to be served.
“Polly can you help me with this picture frame? I need a hammer. Where is Manuel?” Asked Basil.
Basil: “Look, uh, go get me a hammer.”
Manuel: “Uh, como?”
Manuel: “Hammer, oh, oh hamma sandwich?”
Basil: “Oh, do I have to go through this every time? Look a HAMMER.”
Manuel: “My Hamster?”
Basil: “ No, not your hamster. How can I knock a nail in with your hamster? Well…I could try; no it doesn’t…No I’ll get it. You come here and tidy. You know – tidy?”
Manuel: “Oh tidy. Si.”
Basil Fawlty walking away: “Yes, I’ll get hkhammer and hkit you on the hkead with it hkard.”
Leon Cameron eventually walked away from reception laughing hysterically.
With the unrelenting rain still pelting down, the foul weather kept all of the coaches’ unwillingly indoors.
Adam Simpson was reading the morning paper, as he overheard the following:
“Are you going to the car?” Asked Sybil.
“In a moment my little piranha fish.” Teased Basil Fawlty.
“God I’m bored. What is the point in all this? What a waste of a weekend.” Moaned Alistair Clarkson to Mick, Guy, Adam, Leon and Chris as they were doing stretching exercises by the stairwell at the foyer of the hotel. Alistair continuing: “I’m actually about to undergo an operation.”
Mick Malthouse snaps: “Oh Yes. How is the old toenail? Still growing in hmm? Still burrowing its way down to the bone? Still macheteing its way through the nerve aye?”
“That was a bit harsh mate”. Replied Leon Cameron.
“I know, better that than a fist in his face.” Smiled Mick.
Gold Coast Bums
Guy McKenna and crew were once again united at the hotel restaurant with his pals having a meal. What else is there to do? Can’t exactly go for a jog, the lawns outside resemble a swimming pool.
Excitedly Basil Fawlty with poor Manuel by his side skips towards the table hoping to whet the coaches’ appetites.
Basil Fawlty: “So, uh, this is your new menu.” Manuel with his pen and note pad ready, nervously looking on.
Guy McKenna reading the menu: “Duck with orange; duck with cherries; duck surprise.”
Chris Scott: “What’s duck surprise?”
Basil Fawlty: “Er…that’s duck without orange or cherries.”
Mick Malthouse clearly annoyed: “I mean, is there all there is – duck?”
Basil Fawlty: “Umm…yes…done, of course, in three extremely different ways.
Alistair Clarkson miffed: “And what do we do if we don’t like duck?”
Basil Fawlty: “Ah, well, if you don’t like duck, uhhh you’re all rather stuffed.”
Mick Malthouse decided he could no longer take this anymore; he rounded up the other coaches’ and convinced them to pack their belongings and immediately call a taxi.
Basil Fawlty was at reception rudely answering the phone, Sybil was applying her flaming red lipstick using the hallway mirror, Polly was quietly humming to herself as she was feather dusting the reception area, finally Manuel walks and trips on to the bear rug, toppling over the silver tray he was carrying, dropping the decanter and spilling the entire contents of 80 year old malt Scotch whiskey on to the floor.
Basil Fawlty: quietly: “This is typical. Absolutely typical…of the kind of…”
Basil Fawlty was now shouting: “ARSE I have to put up with from you people!
You ponce in here expecting to be hand…waited on hand and foot, while 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 about for things to complain about, aren’t you? Well let me tell you something – You lot are a bunch of layabouts with nothing else better to do than to cause trouble!
Well, I’ve had fifteen years of pandering to the likes of you, and I’ve had enough!
Come on, pack your bags and get out!”