No Sex Please Weer Britsh

So read—verbatim—the marquee of the Fauquier County Community Theater, where I went last night with my friends Tiberius and Fluffy. You see, every couple of months the three of us gather for a Classy Evening Out, a title laced with irony, as our events are usually a step or ten below ‘classy,’ but which are entertaining in their own way all the same. Examples include a single-A baseball game in exurban Maryland (ask Tiberius about the ‘Mountain Ninjas,’ as I’m still too scarred to discuss them) and Schoolhouse Rock adapted for the stage.

Last night was along the same lines as the latter example: a community theater production (a good 60 miles outside of DC) of ‘No Sex, Please, We’re British.” I quite like community theater: there’s an earnestness and purity to it that makes it really charming. That, and it’s impossible to get a bad seat. And the troupes also seem more willing to take chances on random plays that no one’s attempted in decades, such as the little gem they dusted off last night. Admittedly, I use the term ‘gem’ generously; there are often good reasons why some plays are done less frequently. I think Fluffy summed up last night’s performance best when, during intermission, she observed, “This is like ‘Three’s Company’ for the stage.” And—wow—it really was. When it was over, Fluffy also noted that there’s a reason why “Three’s Company” was a half-hour show. I seriously kept expecting Norman Fell to be the next one to ring the doorbell. Still, it was a good time with surprisingly good British accents coming out of the mouths of a couple of the actors—not bad for a theater that couldn't get the marquee right. Now, of course, we need to start planning for our next Classy Evening Out. I’m thinking that the six-month-long DC Shakespeare Festival may have some offerings, but we’d have to balance the actual dignity of such an event with dinner at IHOP or something.