The solo performance Jobsworth at the Park Theatre makes a crackling entry and leaves you both laughing and uneasy. Written and performed by the immensely talented Libby Rodliffe (co-written with Isley Lynn), it stands as a dark-comic portrait of everyday survival in the cost-of-living era.
Rodliffe plays Bea, a manic, red-suited woman juggling three full-time jobs: she is a personal assistant, concierge at luxury flats and a data-entry operative. Simultaneously she house- and dog-sits for a travelling friend, living rent-free in return. Early in Act I she sits behind a white desk, announcing “Why get paid to sit on my arse at home being a PA when I can get paid to sit on my arse in a lobby and get paid again?” and launches into a frantic monologue that barely pauses for breath. Later, she dashes between Zoom calls and lobby greetings, then crouches beside a dog crate, whispering instructions while checking her phone: the monster routine of Bea’s life made visible. When she discovers one boss’s affair with another boss while doing concierge cover, the plates around her begin to wobble.
Rodliffe’s comic timing is wildly effective. Her impression of a lap‐dog licking its own mouth in the lobby sequence yields uproarious laughter, and her face toggles from manic to fatigued with electric speed. When asked by one of her bosses if she’s read her employment contract she mutters to herself, “Oh my God. He’s printed it out. What a f**ing boomer.” That moment, delivered with a side-glance at the audience, sums up Bea’s world of absurd workplace speak. Her performance sustains the mercurial pace, yet that pace sometimes works against the emotional payoff because you scarcely have time to breathe between jokes.
The writing turns these jokes into critique. The play satirises nonsense in offices: lines like “We check in every day to make us a family rather than a workforce” land with a sting. The absurdity of a life lived across digital calls, lobby shifts and dog crates becomes a metaphor for a generation’s overloaded workload. The reveal late in the piece – that Bea is juggling multiple roles not for lifestyle but in fact to pay off a debt incurred for someone else – is timed well and deepens the piece. Where it falls short is that the relentless monologue at times becomes a felt hammer, and you wonder if some trimming – 20 minutes maybe – would sharpen rather than dilute the blow.
On design the show is lean and functional. Matthew Cassar’s white desk and swivel chair perform multiple settings. Lighting by Han Sayles snaps from cool office white to the gloom of a home shift, with a backdrop of quick transition moments. Sound by Matteo Depares supplies pinging emails, phone alerts, mobile timers and dog-crate squeaks to underline Bea’s constant alert-mode. These design choices reinforce the theme: Bea’s life is lived on a treadmill and the audience hears and sees the whir of the machine.
Thematically this ties into our current cultural moment: in an era of multiple side-hustles, gig work, rental pressure and workplace oligarchy, Bea feels both hyper-specific and universal. Her generation’s anxiety about belonging, self-worth and financial survival plays out in a world of family-friendly workforce culture slogans. The tone’s dry humour masks real stakes: in one job she meets the “fit intern”, Niall (suitably named, she says, because he makes her gush like the… you get the joke). At home her father – owner of a reptile shop who buys a snake every time he’s sad – symbolises a broken older generation. The father’s favourite snake, Monty the Python, becomes a metaphor for entanglement.
Compared with its Edinburgh Fringe origins the London staging is slicker and more spacious. The earlier version felt tighter but rawer; this one trades some of that rawness for polish, and an 80 rather than 60 minute running time. That extra length gives room to breathe but also demands more stamina of the audience; hence the case for cutting a scene or two stands. If you saw the fringe version, you’ll likely find this one smoother; if not, it stands strongly alone.
If you’ve ever clocked out of one job, logged-in for another, answered a call on your day off, or felt invisible while bosses declared “We’re one big work-family”, then you’ll find recognition here. You’ll enjoy it if you appreciate solo performance, rapid pace, workplace satire and like your laughs laced with resignation. You might not enjoy it if you prefer slower unfolding stories, ensemble casts sharing the load, or resolution that feels clean. Jobsworth is a strong show. It pulls no punch and makes you laugh on the way down.
