The Jokes On Him
Looking back at the humiliation disguised as humour and recognising the pattern behind the performance. A reflection on boundaries, dignity, and trusting the discomfort I once struggled to explain.
When the Joke Was Always on Someone Else
I’ve been remembering things lately. Little moments that come back while I’m doing something else, and suddenly I find myself thinking, Oh. There it is again.
The same behaviour, in a different setting. Something I remember finding uncomfortable at the time, but couldn’t quite explain beyond feeling embarrassed or wishing he would stop.
One of those memories is of us preparing to get married.
We went to see the vicar, and he was cracking jokes and playing the joker. The vicar wasn’t particularly impressed. At the meetings with other couples getting married around the same time, it happened again. He became the class clown, and I remember cringing.
I wanted us to be able to sit through something meaningful together without it becoming another opportunity for him to perform.
Then came the conversation about our vows.
The word “obey” was mentioned. The vicar explained that we didn’t have to include it. I was clear: absolutely not. I wasn’t going to stand in a church and promise to obey my husband.
But he wanted it included. He was adamant, and he wasn't happy when I refused.
At the time, I remember thinking how outdated it was. Looking back, after experiencing the expectations within our marriage, his insistence feels much more significant.
I cannot tell you exactly what he was thinking, but I can tell you that my refusal should have been enough.
Then there was our honeymoon.
He chose the five days. I wasn't allowed any say in it. It sounded incredible: first-class flights, luxury accommodation, and somewhere exciting to explore. What appeared like a dream honeymoon became another place to be abused. There were occasions when staff attended to him while I was left to manage for myself. What hurt was how he responded: he seemed to enjoy the difference, drawing attention to it and joking about me being treated as second best. I wanted to feel cherished beside my new husband. Instead, my discomfort became part of his entertainment.
At the airport, I remember him being helped with luggage and having the car door opened for him while I managed my own, enjoying the fuss, joking about me being treated as less important.
This isn’t a judgement about an entire country or culture. It is a memory of how my husband responded when I felt that difference in treatment.
In restaurants, when staff addressed him first, he would sometimes turn the attention back to me in a way that seemed designed to put them on the spot. Even asking what I wanted could become a performance, with somebody else’s awkwardness providing the entertainment.
And as I thought about it, I realised how familiar that felt.
It happened at home, abroad, in restaurants and with friends. Young waitresses being put on the spot by smarmy remarks. My boys being embarrassed by the explanation that he was flirting for "them" or being their “wingman”. Friends receiving deliberately embarrassing gifts and then being expected to respond politely.
He called it “pushing their boundaries”.
I remember it being bloody uncomfortable.
Because what were people supposed to do? A waitress was at work. A friend had just been handed a present. My boys were caught in a situation they hadn’t asked for. There was an expectation that people would smile, laugh or go along with it, however awkward they felt.
And I would be sitting there cringing, wanting the moment to end.
I’m not suggesting that every awkward joke reveals something sinister. People misjudge things. Humour doesn’t always land. But what I’m recognising in my own experience is the repetition: different people, different occasions, the same discomfort, and his willingness to keep creating it.
That is what makes these memories feel connected now.
The attention was on him. Other people were left managing the embarrassment.
I don’t need to know his private intentions to acknowledge how often I felt that way beside him. Drained. Uncomfortable. Unable to relax fully because I was waiting for the next remark, the next performance, the next person to be put on the spot.
For a long time, I held these as separate incidents. The uncomfortable church meeting. The argument about a wedding vow. The honeymoon experience. The restaurant embarrassment. The gift nobody quite knew how to receive.
Now I can see what kept repeating, and repeating, and repeating.
My memories haven’t changed. My understanding of them has.
And one thing feels very clear to me now: other people’s boundaries were never his to push for entertainment.
I wanted to enjoy those moments too. I wanted to laugh freely, without watching somebody else struggle to smile.
I deserved to feel comfortable beside the person I loved and was supposed to love me back. We all deserve that. No one deserves to be humiliated for another person's entertainment.
Taking my power back means trusting myself when something doesn’t feel right. I can enjoy banter, laugh at myself and share a joke. I can also recognise when someone’s dignity is being sacrificed for a laugh, and say, “That’s enough.”
I won’t make myself—or anyone else—the price of keeping the mood light. My voice matters more to me now than protecting someone’s performance.
Love Molly x