Ableism: Jokes that aren't Funny

I’ve been a full‑time wheelchair user for six years. Before that, I walked with a stick, stubbornly and painfully, until the ground became a threat rather than a surface. It was a difficult decision. I reached a point where I couldn't avoid it any longer. I’ve written about that journey before: the grief of slowly losing mobility, the reluctant acceptance of using a chair, the fall that forced me to swallow my pride, and the reality of living with FSHD. Those posts explore the physical decline, emotional adjustments, and journey of independence that looks different than I imagined. Many in my position are forced to make that change. It’s not easy, but at some point it’s needed.

I’ve adjusted well. My powerchair is freedom. I travel everywhere. I love the independence, going by trains, and not worrying about falling. My chair is my body; my stability, safety, and autonomy.

However, there’s a part of being a wheelchair user that I never expected, and it’s worn me down: the jokes, especially the ones that aren't funny.

Not jokes I make. Everyone who knows me, knows my dark and inappropriate humour. It's also not jokes from close friends who, after years, know the boundaries and difference between laughing with me or at me. They don’t flatten my lived experience into a novelty punchline.

I mean the endless, recycled, unoriginal comments from strangers who think they’re being funny, friendly, or inclusive.

Such as:

“I’ll race you.”  

“Don’t go too fast, you’ll get a ticket.”  

“Oh, taking the easy way?”  

“Oh, you brought your own chair.”  

“Can I borrow it? My legs are tired.”  

“Can I rest my legs too?”  

“Beep beep, Martyn reversing!”  

“You’re like Lewis Hamilton in that thing.”  

“Do you need a licence for that?”  

“At least you get to sit all day.”  

“Can I sit on your lap and hitch a lift?”  

“Don’t run me over!”  

“You’re basically a Transformer.”  

“Do you have your own wifi?”  

“I hope you’re not drinking and driving?”

Initially, it didn’t bother me. After six years? Hundreds of times? It’s exhausting and not funny. I genuinely don’t understand the impulse behind it. Is it meant to be inclusive? An attempt to normalise disability? Is it discomfort? Ignorance? Or simply that people don’t think?

Here’s the truth: if I walked up to someone with a larger body and said, “You’re lucky you’re fat — I wish I was that insulated,” people would be horrified. If it was someone with thick glasses and I joked about their eyesight, I’d be called rude and insensitive. Yet, when it comes to mobility aids, everyone becomes a comedian.

These jokes show that people see my chair as a quirky object, novelty, or prop. Something to comment on or use as a social icebreaker, reducing me to the equipment I use.

My chair isn’t a toy, personality trait, or conversation starter. It’s the only reason I can move through the world.

When people joke about “having a go,” what they’re really saying, without realising it, is:

“I want the fun part of your chair without the pain, muscle deterioration, loss of independence, falls, fatigue, discomfort, uneven pavements, stares, assumptions, barriers, grief, loss, years of adjustment that made it necessary, and terrible insults and jokes.”

When people lean on or joke about  stacking items on my chair, it becomes a shelf, trolley, or piece of furniture.

When I’m “lucky” to have disabled parking, they’re ignoring that reasonable adjustments are not perks; they’re the bare minimum required for access. Even then, they’re rarely equal. A special ramp into a building isn’t equal. A “step‑free route” that takes three times as long isn’t equal. A toilet you can’t turn around in isn’t equal. These aren’t privileges; they’re reminders that the world was not built with us in mind.

I’m so tired that I started wearing headphones, partly for entertainment, partly as a shield against insults and these jokes. I thought people would ignore me. Instead, they stop me, wait for me to remove an ear, and deliver the joke anyway. The effort is almost impressive.

The problem isn’t malice. It’s culture. These jokes come from assumptions, not intent, but impact matters more than intent; the impact is cumulative. It’s the feeling of being a punchline, not a person. Disabled people carry the burden to manage the awkwardness that others create.

Don’t:  

- comment on someone’s mobility aid unless they do.  

- treat the chair as a novelty.  

- assume your joke is original — it isn’t.  

- use humour to ease your discomfort.  

- reduce a person to the thing that helps them move.

Talk to me about me. Comment on my hat, the weather, the queue, the train delay — anything human. If you slip up, apologise. Sincerity goes a long way.

It's not just on us. Able ‑bodied people need to correct other able‑bodied people. Challenge the jokes. Step in when someone makes disability the punchline. Don’t leave it to us to educate, absorb, or smooth over the awkwardness. Culture changes when the people who benefit from it take responsibility for shifting it.

Teach kids that mobility aids are normal. Treat wheelchairs like glasses or hearing aids, unremarkable, everyday tools. Let us set the tone.

The goal isn’t to police humour. It’s to deepen awareness, move from laughing at disability to laughing with people — real people, with real lives, bodies, and boundaries.

My chair gives me freedom. What I need from the world is the space to use it without becoming a punchline to a joke that isn’t funny.