“Real Love Doesn’t Hurt”: Comedian James Barr on Queer Abuse, Laughter and the Power of Speaking Out

James Barr brings his one-man show Sorry I Hurt Your Son (Said My Ex To My Mum) back to the Edinburgh Fringe this summer. Blending stand-up and storytelling, the show traces a relationship with an ex-boyfriend marked by domestic abuse, using humour as both shield and spotlight. In this interview, James speaks to Hinton about personal healing, reshaping the show through international touring, and why laughter has become his most powerful way of speaking out.

Hi James. Your show ‘Sorry I Hurt Your Son (Said My Ex To My Mum)’ tackles a deeply personal experience with humour - how did you find the courage to turn pain into performance?

Honestly? I didn’t feel brave. I felt completely lost. I didn’t sit down and think, “Time to write a show about abuse.” I just started telling the truth. Quietly at first, reading notes off crumpled bits of paper in dingy pub basements. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes the audience did. Sometimes no one laughed and I wanted to quit. But gradually, I realised something: making jokes was the only way I could get close to what had actually happened. If I could make people laugh at it, I could survive it. And if someone in the audience recognised themselves in my story even better. That’s where the courage came from. Not from wanting to perform, but from needing to connect.

How has the show evolved since its first debut at the Fringe?

It’s changed completely mostly because I have. When I first came to Edinburgh, I was a mess. I wasn’t ready. Now I feel completely different. I’ve replaced my ex-boyfriend’s violence with punchlines. I’ve torn the show apart and rebuilt it more times than my self-esteem in that relationship. I’ve worked with brilliant directors who challenged me, cried with me, and ultimately gave me permission to make jokes about domestic abuse. I’ve toured it across the UK and Australia, and every audience has taught me something new  about how the story lands, how to control the room, and how to twist people into laughing at the darkest, most unexpected moments. Honestly, I feel like Derren Brown sometimes.

What role has personal healing played in reshaping this year’s version?

A huge part.  I’d realised that domestic abuse mirrored comedy. Escalation. Tension. Release. Comfort. Discomfort. And after performing different versions of the show across 50 dates, I’m finally in a place where the trauma has softened. I’m heightening it for laughs. I’m no longer processing feelings when I perform, I’m hitting material and giving the audience a ride. Healing has made me a way better comic. If I hadn’t told this story, I would’ve quit - I’m so proud of myself for working through it. If I’m laughing, I’m surviving.

How difficult is it balance the line between humour and trauma without diminishing either?

It’s been a total nightmare, actually. I used to just do dick jokes and punchlines. No theme. No trauma. No “narrative arc.” Just vibes. But this show forced me to become a completely different kind of comic. I had to find a way to stay funny and truthful to make sure the jokes didn’t undercut the story, but moved it forward. You can’t just say something horrific and then hit them with a Grindr gag and hope for the best. So I figured out early on that I had to tell the audience who I am. I had to show them how I minimise pain, how I deflect with humour so they could laugh with me when I did it again later in the show. That’s the tightrope. Not between humour and trauma but between being in control of both.

You’ve performed this show globally - how do international audiences respond differently compared to a British crowd?

I mean, how can you stay sad when you're surrounded by hot, happy Australian men calling you “legend” for just existing? Performing the show there completely reset me. I had to let go of a lot of local references, my Jesy Nelson material didn’t make it past customs. It forced me to get sharper, more honest. It also healed me in ways I didn’t expect. I became grateful for all of it, even the worst bits. Which I know isn’t very funny… but realising that made me funnier.

In what ways has the LGBTQ+ community responded to your portrayal of queer domestic abuse?

People have come up to me after shows or DM’d me to say things like, “I didn’t know that was abuse until I saw you talk about it.” Or, “That happened to me too, but I thought it was just a messy breakup.” As queer people we’re so used to fighting for our relationships to be seen as valid, that we don’t always feel allowed to say when they’re also harmful. But queerness isn’t just about pride. It’s also about truth. And I think this show gave people a little space to sit in that truth and laugh through it. Together. 

What do you hope a young queer person experiencing abuse might feel after seeing your show?

I just hope they realise that they themselves are enough and that real love doesn’t hurt. I hope they find the strength to talk honestly and openly about their experience without shame. We don’t need to pathologise perpetrators, not all of them are inherently evil… but if you’re ever in a place that feels unhealthy and dims your light. 

James Barr is taking his show Sorry I Hurt Your Son (Said My Ex To My Mum) to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival from 30th July – 24th August

For tickets and more information, visit: https://www.underbellyedinburgh.co.uk/events/event/james-barr-sorry-i-hurt-your-son-