It is the great irony of Oedipus that his destiny is written in his name. Whenever he is called by his nickname, Clubfoot, his history is thrown in his face and his tragedy follows from his failing to observe the primary command of Greek philosophy as inscribed on the statue of Apollo at Delphi – ‘Know Thyself’. The Destiny of Florence Espeut-Nickless’s play commits no such irreverence, but her name haunts her as powers that are beyond her control dog her every attempt at happiness and betterment.

In this one-woman show Ms Espeut-Nickless has pulled off the almost magical feat of making the unlovely loved. Her creation is the kind of girl whom the police have, historically, not bothered with, having supposedly brought on whatever befalls them by their own actions. She is what we might benevolently call a victim; of bad parenting, predatory men and boys, her environment, inadequate social services and educational support, a list that only leads in one direction. By the time she meets a man who is apparently going to be her saviour we know, with a sinking sense of inevitability, how it will end.

And yet it is far from a gloom-laden hour and a bit. There is a sparky humour in her chavvy argot. In the same vein of tribalism that prompted Bernard Shaw’s observation that an Englishman couldn’t open his mouth without making one of his countrymen hate or despise, him Destiny shows us a world where a person’s claim to respect derives from the trainers they wear. This lippy, truculent girl is surprisingly resilient, sustained by an unrealized dream of showbiz glamour as a backing dancer on MTV videos.

It is a magnificent piece of acting and writing, varied in mood with sustained interest and intensity. We are brought into this sad girl’s life – and she undoubtedly stands token for legions in a similar position – and see it through her eyes. This is the tensile spine of muscular literature, and what more could we ask than to have our perceptions readjusted without being lectured? The audience becomes society and we are invited to judge ourselves.

Supported by a never intrusive soundscape by Joseff Harris that adds drama and pathos, lighting that apparently springs from the actress’s imagination as she moves from scene to scene, the deft direction of Jesse Jones helps to raise the piece out of mere monologue into a crafted theatrical experience.

This is political and social theatre at its very best.     ★★★★☆   Graham Wyles      27^th June 2021