A Taste Of Honey Monologue New | Plus & Trusted

To break out of the old "Taste of Honey" tradition, try these exercises:

The most widely reviewed new staging in the last 18 months was the 2023 Liverpool Everyman & Playhouse production (directed by Rebecca Frecknall), which transferred or influenced several regional runs into 2024.

1. The Mundane Opening (Defense Mechanism) Old way: Sighing, sad. New way: Flat, practical, almost bored. Text: "I've just had a lie-down. I feel better." Jo is lying. She feels terrible. But she will never admit weakness. Say this line as if you are trying to convince yourself, not the audience. There should be a twitch of a smile—a brave lie.

2. The Mocking of Absence When Jo talks about the empty room, avoid pathos. Look at the objects in the imaginary room with contempt. The emptiness isn't sad; it's a relief. Her mother’s mess is gone. Her lover’s smell is gone. She should deliver lines like, "It's quiet, isn't it?" with a strange, unsettling calm, like a bomb disposal expert examining a ticking device.

3. The Radical Honesty (The Pivot) The most radical line in the monologue is often cut or rushed: "I don't think he [Jimmie] existed at all, really. He was just a lie." New way: Say this with a laugh. A short, sharp, bitter laugh. This is Jo trying to regain control. If he was never real, she was never abandoned. She is not a victim; she is the author of her own story. Play the intelligence here. She is rewriting her history in real-time to survive.

4. The Lullaby of Loneliness The monologue ends with Jo singing to her unborn baby, or speaking about the future. The text: "There's nobody, nobody else. Just you and me." Old way: A lullaby. Sweet. Tragic. New way: A military cadence. A vow. This is not a sad discovery. This is a war cry. Jo has realized that the only person she can rely on is herself and the child. Say the final lines with a clenched jaw. There should be light in the eyes—not hope, but grim determination. She is not weeping; she is steeling herself.

Forget the "sad girl" posture (slumped shoulders, hanging head). Jo’s body in this monologue should be contradictory.

To understand the power of this monologue, one must understand the claustrophobia of Jo’s life. The play opens with Helen and Jo moving into a grim, drafty flat. Helen is a boisterous, selfish "good-time girl" who drinks too much and moves from man to man. Jo, her teenage daughter, is the polar opposite: sharp, artistic, anxious, and deeply observant.

Because they are poor and nomadic, Jo has never had a room of her own. In Act One, Scene Two, Jo prepares to move out on her own for the first time. She is pregnant (though hiding it well) and facing an uncertain future. It is here that she addresses the audience, or perhaps a confidant, with a startling confession of how she wishes to present herself to the world.

Before you speak the words, you must inhabit the silence that precedes them.

Jo is a 17-year-old living in a dank, cramped flat in post-war Salford, England. Her mother, Helen—a boozy, superficial former prostitute—has just married a wealthy, older man named Peter. To secure her own comfort, Helen has decided to leave Jo behind. To make matters worse, Jo’s lover, a Black sailor named Jimmie who got her pregnant, has sailed away and is presumed lost. Jo is now alone, heavily pregnant, abandoned by her mother and her lover. The only person who stands by her is her gay, art-school friend, Geoffrey.

The monologue occurs after Geoffrey has left in frustration, and Jo is finally, utterly alone. The stage direction is crucial: "She looks round the room. She is alone."

To make this monologue new, you must find the anger and the dark comedy in the text. a taste of honey monologue new

Jo is a child who was forced to grow up too fast. She has developed a shell of sarcasm. When she speaks about her loneliness, she doesn’t cry—she jokes. She intellectualizes her pain. She is a sixth-form student who has read too many romantic novels and is now watching her life fall apart with a cold, analytical eye.

The key phrase for the modern actor is: "I don't mind."

Let’s break down the opening lines of the monologue (the speech beginning with "I've just had a lie-down..." or the famous "Hello, Mum..." depending on your cutting).

(Setting: A modest, sunlit kitchen in a small apartment. A young woman, JO, sits at a table with a cup of tea. She speaks directly, at first to herself, then to an imagined listener.)

You ever notice how something small can change everything? A scrap of laughter, the wrong song on the radio, the light through a window—like the day I found the jar under the sink. The label was gone, sticky fingerprints up the side, but the smell hit me first—warm, floral, the kind of sweetness that makes you think of pills of sunlight. I sat there, spoon trembling, and tasted it. Not much—just a slip of sweetness on my tongue—and in that second my chest opened like a door.

It wasn’t just sugar. It was memory, thick and slow, sliding back over me: my mother humming while she cracked eggs, the buzz of flies in an August doorway, the old man down the street who used to wink and hand me a penny. All of them folded into one small, impossible thing. I wanted to bottle it up—this weightless ache—and carry it like proof that I’d lived through something soft.

But of course things are never only sweet. That jar had been hidden for a reason. When I turned the spoon, there was grit at the bottom; it clung to the metal like a truth you don’t want to see. The sweetness was honest, but the grit was there—reminder that nothing you taste is pure. You swallow anyway. You learn to separate the good from the sticky bits, or you choke on both.

I thought about giving it away. Offering someone else that first bright lick, watching them close their eyes and float for a moment—sharing the small salvation. But you can’t hand other people your whole history and expect it to mean the same thing to them. They'd taste it and say, “Sweet—nice.” End of story. They wouldn’t know the bruise behind the taste, the way it opened something that wasn’t always ready to be opened.

So I kept the jar. I clean the rim, I tuck a napkin under it when the light is harsh. Sometimes I take the lid off and breathe, like it’s a secret garden I can visit without anyone seeing. Other nights I smear it on toast and watch the way the butter melts and think about how small rituals anchor you. How one tiny habit can stitch the ordinary into something holy.

People ask why I bother with small things when big things are falling apart. I tell them: small things are all we can trust to stay the same. The honey doesn’t solve the rent, doesn’t fix the nights I don’t sleep, but it reminds me there are textures worth remembering. It reminds me I can still feel—fully, foolishly—without apology.

One day, maybe, I’ll crack the jar open and let it run free—pour it over pancakes at some table with somebody whose hands don’t shake when they reach for the sugar. Maybe I’ll pass it along, watching their face when they taste that first sweet shock. Maybe they’ll find grit, too, and learn the lesson the hard way. Maybe they won’t.

For now, though, I keep a spoon at the ready. I let myself live in the possibility that a little sweetness can make a day less sharp. That’s all. A small, stubborn faith in taste. To break out of the old "Taste of

(Beat. She smiles, a private, slow thing, and dips the spoon again.)

Title: A Different Sort of Sweetness Character: JO (Late teens. Dressed in a school uniform that looks slightly disheveled, or paint-stained work clothes. She stands in the center of a sparse, cold room.) Setting: A drab flat in Manchester. It is raining outside. The room is half-unpacked.

(JO stands by a window, looking out at the grey street. She doesn't look at the audience. She is drawing a shape in the condensation on the glass with her finger.)

JO It’s funny, isn’t it? How the light hits the gasworks differently in November. It’s not golden, exactly. More like a bruised orange. The colour of a healing black eye.

(She turns abruptly, leaning back against the windowsill.)

She’s gone again. My mother. Helen. Off with that fancy man, Peter. He smells of Old Spice and lies, the expensive kind. She thinks she’s found a ticket out of the rain, but she’s just traded one damp room for another, hasn't she? She thinks she’s a sophisticated woman of the world, but really, she’s just a girl who’s frightened of the quiet. She can’t sit still. If the room stops spinning, she thinks she’s dying.

(JO walks over to a cheap, scarred dressing table. She picks up a tube of lipstick, twists it, looks at the bright red tip, then wipes it off with her thumb.)

I’m not like her. I don't need the noise. I don't need the fella with the flashy car or the drinks in the posh hotels where the carpet makes you dizzy. I just want... this. Space. Just enough space to hear my own thoughts echo. Is that morbid? Sometimes I think I prefer the dark. When the fog comes down off the river and you can’t see the other side of the street, it feels like the world has shrunk down to just this room. And if the world is this small, maybe I can control it. Maybe I can paint it the colours I want.

(She smiles suddenly, a sharp, sad smile.)

There was a boy. A sailor. He said I had a face like a tragic painting. I think he meant it as a compliment. He gave me a taste of something different. Honey, maybe. Thick and sweet and sticking to the roof of my mouth. But that’s gone now. Sweet things don’t keep, do they? Not

For a report on A Taste of Honey monologues, focus on the raw, working-class realism that defines Shelagh Delaney's 1958 masterpiece. The play is a cornerstone of the "kitchen sink" drama movement, offering gritty, witty, and unsentimental explorations of race, class, and single motherhood in postwar Britain. Notable Monologues for Auditions

While many scenes are fast-paced dialogue, several segments function as powerful monologues or "soliloquies in disguise": Helen’s Cinema Rant (Act 1, Scene 1) Title: A Different Sort of Sweetness Character: JO

: Helen critiquing the theatre and cinema, ending with her dismissive but sharp observation of Jo's appearance. It showcases her "acid wit" and narcissism. Jo’s River Reflection (Act 2, Scene 1)

: A brief, atmospheric piece where Jo describes the "colour of lead" river and the "filthy children" in the street, capturing her internal sense of entrapment and the bleakness of her environment. Helen’s "Work or Want" Advice

: A stern, grounded lecture to Jo about the reality of their future, stripping away any romantic notions of "Arabian Knights" and emphasizing the harsh economic necessity of their lives. Jo’s Final Nursery Rhyme (Act 2, Scene 2)

: After being abandoned again by Helen, Jo recites a nursery rhyme Geof taught her ("If I had half a crown a day..."). This functions as a poignant closing monologue, highlighting her enduring innocence and resilience. Core Themes & Performance Style Kitchen Sink Realism

: Use a northern sense of humor and a lack of sentimentality. Radical Social Issues

: The monologues touch on then-taboo subjects like mixed-race relationships, homosexuality (via Geof), and systemic poverty. Vibrant Banter

: Even the solo moments should retain the "quick, sharp, witty banter" characteristic of Delaney’s writing. Where to Find Scripts & Clips

Helen in A Taste of Honey (play) - Characters - Eduqas - BBC

Evidence. helen. [To Jo.] … Listen Jo, don't bother your head about Arabian mystics. There's two w's in your future. Work or want,

Act 2: Scene 2 Summary & Analysis - A Taste of Honey - LitCharts

It sounds like you’re looking for a review of a recent or new production of the famous monologue from A Taste of Honey by Shelagh Delaney, likely referring to the character Jo (or sometimes Helen).

Since I don’t know which specific production you’ve seen or are considering (e.g., a 2024/2025 stage revival, a digital theatre release, or a fresh adaptation), here’s a general review framework for evaluating a new performance of Jo’s monologue, followed by what critics have been saying about recent revivals.