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never outgrew their mischievous natures or their willingness to take chances. With the exception of a mysterious fire in a Tollcross warehouse – that may still be an open case, so I’ll write no more about it because I’d like to keep my dad out of Barlinnie Prison – the Barrowman boys’ antics were generally harmless, but nonetheless legendary. Years later, during Barrowman family dinners, usually when we all gathered at Gran Barrowman’s house in Springboig for New Year’s Day dinner, my poor gran would often get a taste of her boys’ adventures with her steak pie. She had never known the half of it.
    I think as a result of this strand of my heritage, I have an addiction to adrenalin-fuelled activities. Over the years I’ve skied in the Alps, snowboarded in the Rockies, driven fast cars in Monte Carlo, sailed the Aegean, dived in the Caribbean, flown on Concorde multiple times and kite-surfed across the Straits of Gibraltar. I’ve gone scuba diving during a solar eclipse in Turkey, canoed inside a volcanic crater near Santorini, and I’ve even chanced a few Friday nights with Jonathan Ross, which can be a terrifying experience.
    I’ve been in great shows, good shows and a few so-so shows, and even in the failed endeavours, I’ve never regretted my decision to accept the role because I’ve always gained something from chancing the experience. Once, during the short-lived London production of the musical Matador, in which I starred with Stefanie Powers and which ran for only three months in 1991, I learned a valuable lesson about what it meant to close a company with dignity.
    One afternoon, Stefanie and I were called to a meeting with the producers to hear officially that we were closing and the financial implications of that decision. I was an emotional wreck, close to tears and feeling very sorry for myself. On our way into the room, Stefanie pulled me aside.
    ‘Don’t you say a word,’ she said, her face so close to mine I could feel her breath on my cheek. ‘Stop being so pathetic, John. This is not about you. Do you understand? It’s about the show. Let me do the talking.’
    I did as I was told and the meeting’s outcome was far better than it might have been if I’d charged in with crumpled tissues in my hands. Our contracts were honoured, and she and I made it clear we were not happy with the way things were winding down.
    I also took some professional grief for agreeing to participate in Dancing on Ice – the ITV programme on which celebrities learn to ice dance – for choosing to put myself out there in the public eye in such a physical manner and in a reality show, no less. In the acting profession, reality shows can be seen as the gigs you do only if your career is in a slump and your visibility needs a boost; it’s generally thought you would never choose to do them when your career is ascending, which mine was at the time, as I was fresh from appearing in the first series of Doctor Who. While that perception may be true for some, I chose to be involved with Dancing on Ice, and later How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria? and Any Dream Will Do, 2     because they had high entertainment values and I’m an entertainer. These shows were far removed from the kind of ‘car crash’ voyeurism that can be the attraction of too many programmes; programmes that I’ll admit I’m not above watching.
    Agreeing to be a judge on Maria and Joseph also appealed to one of my professional values: those of us who’ve made it up the ladder of success should reach down when we can and offer a hand to others. Dancing on Ice, meanwhile, had broad audience appeal – and I wanted to show that audience, some of whom had probably not seen me in anything else I’d done, that I could entertain them.
    As it turned out, poor Papa Barrowman would have lost his pound if he’d bet on me, because although the bookies had me as the favourite after the first round, I was voted off mid contest. I was crushed.