Yes, yes and yes.
At the best of times, I make a subtle first impression.9 On the December day in 2004 when I walked on to the Doctor Who set in Cardiff for the first time, I was wired, bursting with energy and excitement, while Christopher Eccleston (playing the Doctor), Billie Piper (in the role of the Doctor’s assistant, Rose Tyler) and the crew, who had been filming for months, were exhausted and ready to break for the Christmas holiday.
Billie and I hit it off immediately. Her smile and laugh are contagious and, let’s face it, I don’t need any encouragement in those areas either. She and I derived a great deal of pleasure from the press at the time: they were speculating wildly that Rose and Captain Jack would do more than flirt with one another. I knew from the beginning that Russell T. Davies had grander plans for Jack’s character over the course of season one, but it was a kick, nonetheless, to read stories that completely underestimated the genius of Russell’s imagination.
Russell had made it clear to me that Jack’s character would be unlike any other in the classic Doctor Who series. As a result, the subtle sexual chemistry among all three characters – the Doctor, Rose and Jack – was always in play. Contrary to the tabloids’ fixation, though, the relationships were by no means driven by desire. When the Doctor and Jack kiss goodbye in ‘The Parting of the Ways’, the episode that concludes the first season, for example, the kiss is full of fondness and respect, and absolutely no tongue. In fact, when the director Joe Ahearne called ‘cut’ at the end of that take, the crew whistled and applauded because the moment was not only a significant one in the annals of the series, but it was also a moment full of melancholy and loss for the characters. We all felt it.
My first day on the set of Doctor Who turned out to be long and draining, a trial by barrage balloon, and when we were finally ready for the last shot on the day’s schedule, the adrenalin that had been fuelling my first few hours was seriously dissipating. The final scene to be filmed followed chronologically from the one I had performed for my audition. It’s the London Blitz, and Rose and Captain Jack are sipping champagne while dancing on a Chula warship that’s hovering in front of Big Ben.
In other words, the final scene of my first full day had to be performed while acting in what’s called ‘negative space’. This meant that for part of the take I had to act to nothing: no other actors, no other props, just John standing on a green platform in front of a large green screen. After the special effects had been added, the platform would become the Chula warship and the screen would transform into Big Ben and the surrounding London skyline. Achieving these dramatic images is a prolonged process under the best circumstances, demanding twice as many takes and set-ups, and with a special-effects team involved as well as the regular crew.
At this point in the day, everyone was so ready to go home.
Billie and I stepped up on to the small platform that would magically become the warship. The sparkling ginger ale that looks like (even if it doesn’t taste like) champagne was poured. The lighting, hair, make-up, wardrobe and sound were checked and double-checked. The shot with Rose and Captain Jack was good to go.
According to the script, I was expected to waltz with Billie while giving a few lines, and then finish with a spin that would bring us around to a particular spot on the platform, where I would face the camera and conclude my dialogue.
‘Do you want a choreographer, John?’ asked the director, James Hawes.
Silence. I mean absolute utter silence – a silence so big a Chula warship could have towed a fighter jet through it and there’d still have been room for the TARDIS. The crew was knackered. Their day was pushing twelve hours. The last cup of tea was cold and the biscuits were all gone. I was fried, and I needed to get to London within the next two hours if I was going to make my flight to Florida, where my partner of fourteen years, Scott Gill, and I were spending the holidays with my family. To ask for a choreographer would slow down the entire process, and we’d run into overtime, to say nothing of what message my response would send to the crew about me as a performer.
I looked at Billie.
She smiled and shrugged. ‘It’s your call, John. I’ll follow your lead.’
And so, on top of a Chula warship, I danced to my own tune, to my own steps, the way I’ve been dancing for most of my life.
‘Milly, Molly, Mandy’
The medieval artist Hieronymus Bosch’s triptych1 depicting the Fall of Man hangs in all its decadent glory in the Prado museum in Madrid. In 1993, on one of our first vacations together, Scott and I visited Madrid and Barcelona, and the Prado was a highlight of the trip. Bosch’s most famous work, The Garden of Earthly Delights, has inspired the devoted and the disturbed for centuries. At the bottom right-hand corner of his renowned depiction of tortured souls trapped in the underworld, a tiny bawling baby is swaddled in a white shawl next to a fish-like creature devouring a man’s leg. That baby is me. I was the baby from hell.
From the moment I was born on 11 March 1967, I cried constantly, screaming in a pitch my family claims has permanently damaged their ability to hear certain sounds. On the plus side, my parents never hear their doorbell when a salesman rings, and now, frankly, they miss most of what they say to each other.2
When my niece Clare was born in 1987, she too was burdened with the crying gene, yet somehow her screams solicited immediate kindly attention from my mum and dad, who had the gall to suggest that their response to her crying was because she was the first grandchild. But these were just excuses, excuses, excuses. Deep down, I believe they were able to tolerate her squalling because my loud infancy had prepared them for whatever cranky colicky baby would come their way.
My dad claims that if I’d been the first one born, I’d have been the last one born. It didn’t matter what my mum or dad did – the regular rocking on the chair next to the cot until tracks were etched deep into the floor, the soft music, the loud music, the lullabies, the threats and, eventually, in complete desperation and fear for their marriage and their sanity, a little whisky in the dummy – nothing calmed me.
Oh, get over yourself, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about slipping the little one a wee dram in the dummy in the middle of the night after four days without sleep and one-hundred-and-forty-two cups of tea, most of which you’ve ended up spilling on your pyjamas. Never having had any children of my own,3 I hesitate to give any parenting advice in these pages, but I must ask the question: really, could I have been that bad?
Barrowman family lore is that I was worse than bad, and so over the years I’ve become okay with blaming my brother and sister for my insufferable infancy. My brother Andrew was five when I was born and Carole, the eldest, was eight. When my mum brought me home from the hospital and I was first introduced to them, they seriously freaked out. I know you’re thinking that there’s no way I can really remember these details from my infancy and early childhood, but in my family these stories are legendary. If you don’t trust me, just ask my mum.
‘Eeeew!’ Andrew yelped, taking two steps back.
‘He looks like Sooty,’ Carole proclaimed with as much compassion.
Their reactions were based on the fact that my tongue, lips and most of the inside of my mouth were blue. I don’t mean a dull, grey-toned, oxygen-deprived blue, which would’ve been bad enough. I mean a full-out periwinkle, the kind of blue that looks fabulous in a bold stripe on an Etro shirt, but not so gorgeous on a baby’s face. My mouth was this odd hue because of an ointment used to kill an infection I’d contracted when I was born.
Blue mouth or not, I still think ‘demon child’ and ‘freak of nature’ were excessive responses from my own sibling flesh and blood. I don’t care how old they were. Most other five- and eight-year-olds would have been much more adult and mature in their reactions. Therefore, it’s my contention that I responded noisily to this initial tetchy sibling bonding and decided to punish them severely for it during the rest of my infancy. I believe I may have let out a loud wail at the exact moment
they cried ‘yuck’ and I never shut my mouth again until I was … okay, I’ve never shut my mouth again.
According to my family, things only got worse. My constant crying sent my mum into desperation mode. My dad fared better during these years because he was at work all day. Regular double overtime, I bet. My mum began to pay Carole to take me for long walks in my pram around Mount Vernon, the Glasgow suburb where we lived, so that my mum could get a break and pamper herself a little. You know, get to the bathroom, brush her hair, bathe. Somehow, the walking seemed to stimulate my vocal cords even more.
Carole then did what any smart Scottish lass of eight would do. She outsourced the labour, paying one of the other kids in our cul-de-sac to walk me. To Carole’s credit, this might have been successful, if not for Andrew, who did what any smart Scottish lad of five would do in similar circumstances, especially one who’d not been cut in on the deal. He went to the Big Man himself and told on her.
By this time, I’d been home for a couple of months. The blue mouth had faded, but I was still bawling. It was becoming painfully clear to my parents that at least as far as Andrew and Carole were concerned, the romance of having a baby brother had completely worn off. Drastic measures were called for.
After dinner one night, my mum told my brother and sister to go into the living room and sit down. A few minutes later, my dad carried me into the room concealed within a brown paper bag.
‘Why’s the baby wrapped up?’ asked Andrew, puzzled.
‘He’s going in the bin,’ my dad replied.
My mum stood stoically next to him and her performance was of Academy Award calibre, as good as Joan Crawford any day.4 Mum even had props, clutching my little booties in her hands.
‘But why are you putting him in the bin?’ asked Andrew.
‘Because you two don’t seem interested in having a wee brother, and your mum and I think we should just get rid of him before we all get too attached.’
Even at such a young age, Carole was used to my dad’s sense of humour. She’d survived his silly walks in public, his clownish falls in front of her friends, his dressing in drag at family parties,5 and his elaborate games of hide-and-seek, where he would risk life and limb to be the last one found. Once, soon after my parents were married – 1954 in Shettleston, if you’re interested – he left work early one night just so he could get home to plan a prank before my mum came in from her office job.
They’d recently moved into a flat in East Kilbride. When my dad got home that evening, he climbed into the coal bunker, which, in the 1950s, was often located in the hallway of a flat. He crouched inside that bunker for hours, until my mum finally came home, ate her tea, tidied up the flat and climbed into bed. All so he could scare her shitless by turning off the lights and throwing lumps of coal against the bedroom door.
He played jokes like this on her so many times that, one night, she sat in bed in the pitch dark for four hours, swearing at him for turning off the lights, yet refusing to get out of bed for fear he would drop zombie-like from the top of the wardrobe, which, in fact, he’d done once already to her (and has done since a number of times in my memory, too). As it turned out, that particular night East Kilbride had experienced a power failure and my dad wasn’t even home. My mum was shouting over and over to herself for hours: ‘John! Turn on the lights. I’m not getting out of bed. I know it’s you. John!’
My dad didn’t just contain his antics to his children and his wife. When my niece Clare was about seven and her brother Turner was four, they spent a weekend with my mum and dad. During the visit, Clare and Turner had to go to a neighbour for help to extricate my dad from a narrow basement cupboard, where he’d gotten stuck during a particularly competitive game.
So Carole knew better and she called my dad’s bluff.
‘You don’t mean it, Daddy.’
But my dad was at the ready and began taping the paper around me until I was neatly swaddled in the brown bag. My dad was good. He had perfected the set-up, but it was my mum who threw the hook and finally roped Carole and Andrew in for the sting. From her pocket she produced a label with ‘My name is John Scot Barrowman’ already printed on it.
During my childhood, my mum regularly participated in my dad’s elaborate cons and pranks, but she was always the one who, when it was clear the three of us were teetering close to a meltdown as a result of one of his jokes, would intervene with, ‘That’s enough, John,’ or ‘John, that’s not fair, they’re only wee.’
Like the time we were all on a caravan holiday in England. On our way south to the Isle of Wight, we stopped overnight at a campsite because it was raining so hard. As we were getting ready for bed, I noticed Dad was gone.
‘Where did Daddy go?’
‘I don’t know,’ my mum replied, innocently. ‘Carole, Andrew, did you see what happened to your dad?’
They hadn’t, of course, but now she’d amped the anxiety level because we knew some terrible, funny fright was coming. Suddenly, the lights went out, and then the clincher: footsteps on the roof of the caravan – yup, the roof – rapid, pounding and very scary.
‘It must be ghoulies,’ said my mum, eyes wide in mock distress.
The ghoulies were, in fact, our favourite Barrowman bogeymen. In our house they regularly loomed in dark corners, grabbed from under beds, fell from wardrobes, lurched from the back of dark closets, and howled at the moon.
In the caravan that night, I was the first to burst into tears. Andrew froze. Carole claimed it was ‘just Daddy’, but she still eased closer to my mum. By this time, the storm was blowing so hard that the caravan was shaking. The three of us started to scream.
‘John, that’s enough. John! They’ll never sleep tonight.’
Then there was a heavy thumping at the door, followed by scratching against the metal of the jamb.
‘You answer it, John,’ said Carole and Andrew to me, in unison.
They shoved me toward the door, as they always did in these situations. I slowly opened it, and sure enough my dad fell like Frankenstein’s monster on to the caravan floor. He was soaking wet, freezing cold, and his fingers were raw from climbing up on to the caravan’s roof. To this day, it takes a hell of a lot to scare the three of us because nothing will ever be as terrifying as my dad’s practical jokes.
When my mum began attaching the label with my full name to the brown paper bag, despite her bravado Carole broke first, followed quickly by Andrew. They promised to be better siblings and they agreed to stop trying to sell me to the highest bidder among their friends.
I’d like to say that this was the only time in my early childhood that my family tried to get rid of me, but, according to my dad, it wasn’t and I ‘just kept coming back’. My mum remembers one time when she and Murn, my gran on my mum’s side,6 were walking behind me in Argyle Street in Glasgow. I was driving a Matchbox car on the wall of C&A as I walked, lost in my own world, humming to myself. My mum grabbed Murn’s arm and they ducked inside the store, leaving me toddling on ahead. They had a great laugh at my expense when I turned around and couldn’t see them behind me.
In my humble opinion, they were damn lucky I always found them because, while I may have been a noisy wee so-and-so throughout most of my childhood, I was also the highlight of their parties.
My parents loved to entertain and among their circle of friends and neighbours in Scotland, and in Illinois after our move to the States, Marion and John Barrowman’s parties were renowned. My dad, who was a skilled draughtsman, designed and built an extension on to the back of our house on Dornford Avenue in Mount Vernon just for their parties. The Extension – with capital letters as it came to be known – was off-limits to Carole, Andrew and me except when our parents were entertaining, which they did (at least in my childhood memory) every night.
Kitted out with a bar, modern leather furniture – and when I say ‘modern’, I mean seventies’ ‘pleather’ chic – and room for dancing, The Extension was the gathering place in Mount Vernon. Before
the party would kick into full swing, Carole, Andrew and I were sent to bed, or Murn and her sister, our Auntie Jeannie, would take us to spend the night at the ‘high flats’ at Sandyhills, where Murn lived. We called them the ‘high flats’ because everything around them was, well, low: post-Second World War prefabricated houses surrounded the flats.
My mum knew better than to feed us dinner on those nights because we were going to get sick on the sweets Murn would give us anyway, so why waste a good meal? The three of us would sit in front of the huge picture window in our living room and stare down the street, watching for Murn and Jeannie to appear round the corner with their goodies. Murn would bring Andrew some Walnut Whips, which – and I have no idea why this was the case, I’m thinking it had something to do with the nut – were considered adult sweeties in our house. Crunchies and Milky Ways were for the weans,7 but Walnut Whips and Turkish Delights were for grownups. Murn would bring Carole packets of Maltesers or Cadbury’s Flakes, while I’d inhale bags of Jelly Babies and Wine Gums.
‘Ask Wee John8 to give us a song before he goes?’ someone at my parents’ party would inevitably request.
They never had to ask me twice. I even had my own ‘microphone’: a stainless-steel drinks measure that I kept tucked behind some bottles on the bar.
My favourite parties, though, were the ones they threw at New Year’s Eve, or for the Scots among ye, Hogmanay, which in Scotland is a night more revered and more publicly celebrated than Christmas. Until I was about six, I always thought Hogmanay sounded like ‘hug many’, which I still think fits the occasion and, in fact, ought to be a rule of life. I once read that for centuries the Scottish Presbyterian Church tried to ban excessive celebrating at Hogmanay, believing that it all smacked too much of paganism. Of course it did. Most good celebrations still do. Think Carnival in Rio, Mardi Gras in New Orleans, and a dinner party at Graham Norton’s house. Hogmanay was an event to relish, and even as young as I was, I still have vivid memories of those evenings.
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