I Am What I Am by John Barrowman (white hot kiss .TXT) 📕

Despite having lots of good fun on those early caravanning vacations, I would no sooner pitch a tent or hitch a caravan for my holiday now than I would hunt for my own food. My idea of roughing it on a trip is not having Grey Goose available in the minibar.

In my family, I’m not alone in this sentiment. Neither of my siblings has ended up being a very happy camper. And one year, when Scott and I took Clare and Turner on a trip out to California, Turner was so paranoid about staying in a motel that was ‘close to the ground’ that he made Scott and me shove the chest of drawers up against the door at night – so that no wild animals could break in.9

When I was young, I did love to sleep outside, as did Carole and Andrew. My dad, whom I’ve always thought secretly wanted to be Bob the Builder, came home one Saturday with enough plywood for an ark, and, in a single long weekend, proceeded to build a hut onto the back of our garage in Mount Vernon for the three of us to use as a playhouse. He didn’t only make a sturdy wooden structure with a roof, windows and a door that would lock, but he also built two sets of bunk beds inside the hut, for us to use when we wanted to have sleepovers with our pals. Since I shared a bedroom with Andrew, whenever he and his friends were using our room, I would transform the playhouse into my theatre, where I would practise my Jimmy Osmond and Lena Zavaroni impressions.10

In January 2009, when Scott and I were organizing our vacation for the year, I knew I wanted sunshine, soft sand, tropical drinks, scuba diving and a place that would force me to disconnect from the world of stage and television. Although Scott has travelled a lot and is more than capable of arranging all the planning involved in our holidays, I take a lot of pleasure in this part of the process.11 We decided we’d take our proper vacation in Barbados, one of the coral islands that make up the string of islands in the West Indies. Given the emotional and physical demands of the months before this trip – with the whole ‘Ballgate’ debacle, a month-plus of panto in Birmingham, and all the preparations and planning for Tonight’s the Night – I was ready for a break.

The plane banked and swooped over the tiny island airport, and my first vision of my holiday was stretched out in front of me in a long strip of white sand and sea the colour of cobalt. When we arrived at the Crystal Cove Hotel, I was so excited to be there I’m sure I skipped to the check-in desk.

‘Good evening, sir, and welcome to Barbados. Your name?’

‘Mr Barrowman and –’

‘Ah, yes, sir,’ he interrupted. ‘The honeymoon suite for Mr Barrowman and Miss Gill.’

And then he looked up – and he slowly registered two men standing in front of him. He said nothing for a beat. Then lots of furtive glances passed back and forth between him and the staff, and then some throat clearing, and then came the clerk’s profound apology.

Scott and I thought it was really funny and for most of the rest of the vacation, I’d call him Miss Gill or even Mrs Barrowman every now and then, although the latter reminded me too much of my mum when I said it, so that didn’t stick.

An embarrassed bellhop led Scott and I to our room: the honeymoon suite, where the bed was beautifully strewn with red rose petals, and towels had been decoratively shaped into two kissing swans and placed in the middle of the bed. The effect was very lovely, but not as lovely as the chilled bottle of champagne and the chocolates on the bedside table.

Later, I called down to the restaurant to make arrangements for dinner. I gave the maître d’ my name, and he said, ‘Oh dear, Mr Barrowman and, um, Mr Gill. Oh yes, we’ve all heard about what happened. We’re so very sorry.’ Word about Miss Gill had travelled fast.

We laughed when we saw the room, and, after taking a few pics of Miss Gill posing among the swans, we stepped outside and took in the beach views. I was glad we’d made the decision to head to the West Indies for this holiday. The tranquillity and the beauty of the setting was in stark contrast to our last holiday together in South Africa, where, at times, I’d felt like a prisoner inside the resort compound; we’d had to engage so many locks and alarms when we stepped outside that it had felt like Prison Break. And, during the night, those alarms kept going off because bands of youths would regularly try to break into the compound.

I loved a lot of things about South Africa – its intriguing geography, the fabulous wineries, and the local people I met at markets and out in the countryside – but I found the hypocrisy that came across from a number of white South Africans we had dinner with, and who talked about their society as if apartheid no longer existed, to be very disturbing. I know we were tourists and operating in a limited social milieu, but still.

In our entire two weeks there, neither Scott, Gav, Stu, or our friend, Ian ‘Shirley’ Temple, who joined us, ever saw a black South African in any service or retail position of power, and certainly not one that would put him or her in direct contact with a white customer or client. In every restaurant we ate in, the only black South Africans we saw were serving in the kitchen or cleaning up tables, and no one of any colour was eating with us or shopping with us as customers. Legal apartheid may be gone, but, in my opinion, financial and social apartheid