James Barr: ‘Love isn’t love if it hurts’
Attitude columnist James Barr on the comedy show he will debut at Edinburgh Festival — about domestic violence
By James Barr
I’m not saying that a comedy show about experiencing domestic violence should make me immune from criticism or protect me from bad reviews. Far from it. I want to be judged as a comedian, for my comedy, for my art, and for how I tell my story. Yet since announcing my new show at Edinburgh Festival Fringe and ‘coming out’ as a victim (or survivor), I’ve had messages suggesting that I deserved to be beaten.
People have told me not to use the word ‘victim’ or ‘survivor’ unless my experience was so extreme that I ended up in hospital. I even had a message saying my poster is rubbish because I have my hand touching my hair like it’s the 90s. Can you just buy a ticket and shut the fuck up? Even more hilariously, I’ve been accused of making the whole thing up so that Piers Morgan’s fans will stop trolling me. I wish. But if that was my strategy, it definitely has not worked.
Let’s start with language. I feel deeply uncomfortable with the words ‘victim’ or ‘survivor’. I realise these terms are a trigger for many people who are not ready to face their experiences, and I completely understand this. Initially, I just told friends small details or said my partner had a “weird moment” or “got angry, again”. I didn’t want to be a victim. I just didn’t realise I already was.
“Admitting you’ve been abused feels like defeat” – James Barr
I didn’t want to look weak or let people question why I would allow someone to continuously do this to me. “What a weak person,” they’d say. “You should’ve fought back; you’re both men. Maybe you should man up.”
The world makes it difficult to be queer, I don’t need to explain that to you here, but let me be clear: I think the world we live in makes it even more difficult to come out as a ‘victim’ or ‘survivor’ of domestic abuse. People do not want to face it. And when I say people, I also mean ourselves. Admitting that something so horrendous has happened to us is to admit something deeply painful, confusing and way darker than our sexuality.
The shame and struggle I have experienced around what happened to me with an ex-boyfriend is greater than any concerns I ever had about coming out, and I had it far from easy, but hear me out.
Being LGBTQIA+, we are in a constant state of alert to homophobia, queerphobia, transphobia. It could happen anywhere at any time and, as a result, we protect ourselves. We build a wall, emotional or otherwise. We surround ourselves with strong women or shield ourselves by acting camp or putting on a ‘straight-acting’ facade. We have community, Pride, Kylie Minogue, poppers. When you are gay-bashed in your own home, by your boyfriend, you have silence. I’ve been so ready for homophobia on the streets that I failed to imagine I could ever face violence at the hands of someone I loved.
Domestic violence and abuse are more prevalent in same-sex relationships than in heterosexual relationships, with reported domestic abuse rates in relationships at nearly double for lesbian and gay individuals: 7.6 per cent compared to 4.3 per cent for heterosexuals for the 12 months ending in March 2023 alone, (Office for National Statistics 2023). This stark statistic was in my blind spot.
When someone that you love does this to you, you are defenceless, and admitting you’ve been abused somehow feels like admitting defeat. It’s a betrayal of the whole ‘love is love’ narrative our community prides itself on. Love is love, yes — but abuse is abuse. And love is not love if it hurts. There’s no room for qualifiers when someone is manipulating, controlling, or hurting you, physically or emotionally.
Now, I understand comedy might not be the first thing that pops into your head when you think of domestic violence, but comedy is a game of tension and release — the tension builds, the anticipation grows and the punchline hits. This mirrors some of the emotional manipulation present in abusive relationships, and once I realised that, I had to explore it.
Laughter can also be a powerful weapon. It can disarm shame, break down walls and remind us that even in the darkest moments, there’s room for light. My show doesn’t make light of abuse — far from it. It’s about confronting it head-on, shining a spotlight on it and making you laugh so hard you release the societal conditioning that keeps victims silent. I’ve had to rebuild myself from the ground up to tell this story, and I will not allow the world to put my experience in a cage or criticise me over a poster.
I’ve had to reckon with my experience for a long time, but now, I’m ready. My new show is for anyone who’s ever felt trapped, unheard, or like they deserved the pain. I can’t wait to share it with you.