Like so many major towns across the UK in the 1990s, Doncaster was awash with pubs, clubs and young people determined to have a good time. The music scene was vibrant, pulsing with the aftershocks of rave culture, dominated by the drum and bass beat that shaped not only the decade and dancefloors but the drinking, drugtaking and general hedonism that went with it. It was a time when sex was casual, often anonymous, and woven into the fabric of nights that blurred into mornings. Doncaster, for better or worse, was very much part of that world.
It was also the decade when Doncaster gained the grim moniker of the “HIV Capital of the North”, after a significant heterosexual HIV/AIDS cluster sent shockwaves through the town. The media descended, sensationalising the outbreak and painting Donny as a place where danger lurked behind every nightclub door. For those who lived there, it was a frightening, confusing time—one that forms the backdrop to Children of the Night.
The play opens with Lin (Lindsey) and Jen celebrating their GCSE results in 1997—a year that feels like yesterday to many of us yet is somehow creeping towards thirty years ago. Doncaster, like so many northern towns, was still reeling from the collapse of coal mining and the closure of major industries. Jobs were scarce, communities were struggling, and morale was low. Educational ambition was limited for many young people, and racism was depressingly commonplace. Against this backdrop, any small success felt worth celebrating. Lindsey and Jen, like countless teenagers of the era, headed straight for the familiar party streets of Silver Street and Duke Street armed with fake IDs, cheap fluorescent alcopops and the kind of reckless confidence only sixteen year olds possess. A snog and a fumble were fair exchange for anyone willing to buy them a drink. For Lindsey, this particular night becomes significant for reasons I won’t spoil here—you’ll have to see the show to discover why—but it marks the beginning of a two year spiral into the nightlife that becomes her entire world.
The girls make it home, but the party scene quickly becomes a way of life. Jen soon finds herself a boyfriend and a chance to study A levels at a good local college. Lindsey, meanwhile, goes straight into work, earning money that she promptly spends on club nights, and the outfits required to look the part. The contrast between their paths is subtle at first, then increasingly stark, until eventually there is a shift and Lindsey sees the value in education and a more sober lifestyle.
At home, Lindsey is being raised by her dad, who is struggling with his own health issues and the pressures of single parenthood. His frustration with Lindsey’s lifestyle grows, especially as the HIV outbreak looms over Doncaster like a warning siren. Their relationship becomes strained, tender, and at times painfully raw. Something, inevitably, has to give. This is, at its heart, a tale of woe—but also a love letter to a town that writer Danielle Phillips clearly holds close. She captures Doncaster with honesty, affection and a refusal to shy away from its rough edges. Her writing is full of lived experience, and it shows.
Phillips herself, plays Lindsey with a loud, brash exterior that masks a deeply wounded core. She allows us glimpses of the girl beneath the bravado, and those moments land with real emotional weight. Charlotte Brown’s Jen matches her energy beat for beat; the two of them clamber up and down the set, leap from platforms and tear around the stage with the chaotic abandon of alcohol fuelled teenagers. It’s remarkably easy to believe they are sixteen.
Gareth Radcliffe, as Lindsey’s dad, brings a weary, fragile presence—a man barely holding himself together, fond of a drink, a gamble and a fag, yet still trying to do right by his daughter.
A special mention must go to lighting designer Jessie Addinall, who transforms a simple stage into a convincing nightclub using little more than LED rope lights and clever colour work. It’s inventive, effective and adds a huge amount to the atmosphere.
My only real gripe was the sound quality during the DJ microphone moments, which came across muffled and unclear. Hopefully this can be adjusted for future performances, though it may simply have been my position in the auditorium.
Children of the Night speaks directly to anyone who partied through the 90s, but also to those who grew up in overlooked towns where life is tough and opportunities feel limited. It’s a story about youth, risk, survival and the places that shape us—for better and worse.
Running time: 95 minutes. Not suitable for under 16s.
Reviewer: Penny Curran
On: 13th March 2026
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