I Am What I Am (18 page)

‘See that Stormtrooper over there?’ Gareth would taunt. ‘I can hit him in three darts.’

‘I can hit him in two.’

And so it would go. One of the workers from the booth then dashed out into the crowd, quickly gathered up our missiles and rushed back with them. If people noticed who had nailed them, then we’d call them over and chat with them, but most of the time, they had no clue that they’d just been tagged.

After a couple of hours of this, I noticed that a distinct pattern had begun to emerge as to the nature of our respective targets. I was picking fans dressed as recognizable characters that I found to be intriguing or really impressively created, like a Lando Calrissian or a stunningly detailed Boba Fett, whereas Gareth was hitting on
³
scantily clad women in sexy leather costumes, like Batgirl or Elektra, or young women dressed in erotic chain mail – like an amazing Barbarella who strutted past.

The entire spectrum of sci-fi characters from TV, movies and games crossed my path in those couple of days. And I thought I was a geek. I couldn’t have named half of them for you. I did, though, love the
Star Wars
characters I saw, including a few I’d completely forgotten about and a handful of droids I’d never even heard of. There were also lots of elaborately costumed superheroes, villains and aliens, some already real in the world of a particular television show or movie, and others imagined by the fan him or herself,
⁴
from planets even the Doctor has never visited.

Whenever I took a break from the booth, I needed an escort in order to make my way through the throngs to get to the bathroom. The same applied when I did a little retail therapy at the collector booths, where I bought a few figures for my ever-evolving collections:
a ‘Captain Jack Sparrow’ doll that was brilliant in its execution, and a Superman figure that was equally remarkable. At the T-shirt stalls, I bought up all my favourite vintage Ts, from Spider-Man to Aquaman to the Green Hornet. On these buying trips, I had to have a posse with me because this crowd knew their Captain Jack from their Captain America.

I enjoyed and appreciated everything about Comic-Con, including the intensity and the imagination of the fans. So did Carole, who disappeared for a long time one afternoon. Just as I was thinking that I might need to send a security detail to find her – she was meant to be signing
Anything Goes
part of the time with me – she came dashing back to the booth, as excited as a twelve-year-old, clutching a bag full of Emily the Strange paraphernalia. Emily the Strange is a comic character I introduced her to many years ago, because Carole – middle name Emily –
is
Emily the Strange.
⁵
She had also waited in line to have her photo taken standing in front of a full-scale model of a ‘stargate’ from
Stargate Atlantis
. She’s almost as geeky as I am.
⁶

Scott, on the other hand … hmm, not loving the whole Comic-Con vibe nearly as much. After he and Clare walked the entire circuit of the main floor of the convention centre and made it back to the booth safely, they both looked more than a bit stunned. Scott had the look he sometimes has when I’m about five minutes into telling him something that involves a chore he really doesn’t want to do. He looked as if his brain had completely shut down. I had to send him out into the streets of San Diego with a map of the museums and historic sites just so he could get back his equilibrium.

Clare, meanwhile, recovered more quickly, especially after she managed to work in a little shoe shopping. My parents – the troupers that they are
⁷
– sat behind me in the booth all day and took everything in their stride, loving the craziness and the exuberant theatre of it all. In fact, my dad even did a spot of modelling. Mary Lee was selling
T-shirts with my name and image on them, and my dad happily volunteered to wear samples of them. Of course, it helped everyone’s energy level that Mary Lee had a steady stream of chocolate and sweets in supply for all of us, including Gareth.

After a long, exciting day, Team Barrowman finally piled into the large limo. I gave the driver our hotel information, but as we began to pull out into the road that ran behind the convention centre, I looked to my left and saw someone who, in a flash, flooded my head with television memories from my high-school years.

‘Stop the car!’ I yelled, leaping out of the door without closing it – and leaving everyone inside convinced that this time I’d
really
lost the few marbles I had left. I darted between the limousines loading and unloading other celebrities for events later in the evening, and I charged across the street towards the vision from my past.

‘Where the hell are you going?’ someone inside the car yelled.

‘It’s the Bionic Woman!’

To understand the full impact of this encounter, I have to explain here that once I’d been safely ensconced in my private car with Team Barrowman, my security guards had immediately moved over to the loading dock and gathered around the very person I was now charging excitedly towards. This meant that the security detail knew I was not a threat, but poor Lindsay Wagner had no clue.

She looked up and spotted this man charging through traffic, yelling, ‘I’m a huge fan! Hello! Lindsay!’ and, naturally, she turned to her security detail for some help – but they were all acting completely nonchalantly and ignoring this clearly demented man in a Captain America T-shirt who was about to pounce on her. By the time I got to Lindsay Wagner, the poor woman was attempting to move behind one of the security guys and she was looking more than a bit terrified.

Did I care? Are you kidding? Well, maybe a little. But come on, it was the Bionic Woman. Alongside
Space 1999
and
Thunderbirds, The Bionic Woman
was one of my three favourite sci-fi shows in my youth.

When I reached her, she was finally figuring out that while this fan might be a nutcase, he wasn’t a threat. I introduced myself. I’ve no idea
what I said to her after that; I’m sure I sounded completely incoherent.

Then I strolled back across the street to the waiting limo.

‘It was the Bionic Woman!’ I exclaimed.

‘That’s a first,’ Scott said.

‘What do you mean?

‘I don’t think you’ve ever cut through traffic that fast for a woman in all the years I’ve known you.’
⁸

When I was at university, I lived in a condo that my parents owned in La Jolla, a city close to San Diego. In recent years, when I’ve returned to the area, the district known as the Gaslight has been completely reborn. It’s now full of good restaurants, clubs, saloons, ice-cream parlours and lots of shops – yet in a style that’s preserved the area’s nineteenth-century traditions, including the gas lamps (thus its name). Getting around is done mostly on foot or by hiring a young man or woman in a bicycle rickshaw to use pedal power to get from A to B. Vehicle traffic is heavy, and pretty slow moving because of lots of one-way streets and pedestrian zones.

That evening, we went to dinner at a restaurant in the Gaslight District. It was one that a friend who was a regular at Comic-Con had recommended to me. After a wonderful meal and, admittedly, a couple or three bottles of wine,
⁹
I let my dad savour the last morsel of his cream-laden dessert, paid the bill and then stood up. As is usually the case at a Barrowman family dinner, there’d been lots of terrific table talk, so we’d been having a good laugh throughout most of the evening. I had the perfect way to close out our night, but I wasn’t going to tell anyone until I had a head start.

We were nearing the front door of the restaurant when I suddenly grabbed my mum and dad and shoved them out the door in front of me. I whistled for a rickshaw, pushed them on and jumped up next to them, just as Carole, Clare and Scott were emerging from the restaurant.
¹⁰
They figured out quickly what I
was going to do because I could see their eyes darting around looking for another rickshaw.

‘I’ll race you,’ I yelled. ‘Round the block. Winner gets twenty bucks!’

Carole and Clare were now clambering on a second rickshaw and screaming at Scott to hurry up. The drivers soon realized what was up, and that there was extra money involved in this for them, too.

‘Go!’

Our driver took off like his rickshaw had wings. I’ve never seen anyone pedal so fast in my entire life. He could have generated electricity. Both bikes took the turn faster than was probably legal and suddenly we were in slow-moving traffic, trickling through the main streets of the Gaslight District. Think of it like duelling rickshaws along Old Compton Street in central London on a Saturday night. Our driver cut in front of two cabs and almost took out a group of Japanese tourists. My mum called back to them, ‘Sorry, sorry,’ as the rickshaw darted in and out of traffic like a pinball.

I hope, readers, you can appreciate how hard this was for the poor driver: hauling three adults, one of them me, at rubber-burning speed, while another rickshaw was chasing his tail – and gaining on him all the time.

At the second turn, before heading into the home stretch, the rickshaw carrying Carole, Scott and Clare got caught at a pedestrian crossing. They had to stop. I could hear the words ‘no fair’ echoing behind me when my rickshaw driver risked life and limb and jumped us onto the pavement, avoiding the next crowded intersection.

From the beginning, Carole, Scott and Clare’s rickshaw driver was at a bit of a disadvantage because they’d been slower off the mark,
¹¹
but I could see their driver had calf muscles that suggested he did more than pedal rickshaws during the tourist season. By the time we were all headed down the home stretch, weaving in and out of traffic, they’d almost caught up with us.

Something had to be done.

Up ahead and to my right, I could see a public parking lot. I told my driver to cut through the lot, missing the next block of traffic and, I hoped, bringing us back out in front of the restaurant where this Grand Prix had begun. Luckily for me, he was willing to take the risk. Once again, he shot the bike up on the pavement, and pedalled madly through the lot.

Carole’s driver saw what had happened, but he figured he had strength on his side. He stayed on the street. My dad, meanwhile, was bobbing forward and back next to me in the rickshaw, as if his momentum would somehow help our pace.

Readers, my tactic paid off. Amid a cacophony of partying pedestrians, honking cars really annoyed with us, and blaring music from nearby clubs, I let out a cheer that rose above all of this when my rickshaw got to the restaurant inches before the other one.

I paid for the rides, tipped both drivers really well, and gave the prize money to the driver of my rickshaw. While we were all laughing and catching our breath, a group of Comic-Con fans came running up to us.

‘I knew it! I knew that was Captain Jack I saw in a rickshaw.’

Needless to say, when Team Barrowman returned to the hotel, we all needed some refreshments. And then, after I’d made sure my parents were safely in their room, Carole, Clare, Scott and I ended up playing an unintentional game of ‘Ding Dong Ditch’.

For those of you who may not know what this is, it’s essentially the game that every child – no matter where he or she grew up – has played at some point in his or her childhood. You chase around your neighbourhood, ringing doorbells and running away.
¹²

Gav, who had accompanied me on this trip, hadn’t joined us for dinner that night because he had an early flight back to the UK the next morning. So, I decided to play the game on him. In my version of the prank, I didn’t plan to ‘ditch’ after he answered; I planned to moon him when he opened his door.

By this time, Scott had given up on the three of us and he’d headed to our room. With Carole and Clare watching the hallway behind me for other guests or, God forbid, security, I loosened my belt and my jeans, ready to drop them when Gav came to his door.

I banged on room 316.
¹³
Nothing happened. I banged again. This time, in the spirit of the evening’s events, I began singing Gav’s name to the tune of ‘A Bicycle Built for Two’.

‘Gavin, Gavin, give me your answer do.’

Suddenly, Clare hissed,
¹⁴
‘Security!’

I started to run, forgetting that I’d loosened my belt. While I was at full sprint, my jeans locked around my knees and down I went, sliding face first across the carpet at maximum speed.

Clare and Carole leapt over me, laughing hysterically and calling out, ‘Payback!’ as they ran down the hallway towards their room.

I later learned from Gavin that he was in room 416.

★

‘How do you solve a problem like a judge in jail?’

John Barrowman

1 You can take a ferry to an island and sunbathe nude (Canadians will sunbathe in snow flurries).

2 It’s not like America or the UK (it’s Canadaland!).

3 Safeguards and trust are important (especially when someone escapes via a hotel balcony).

4 When in Toronto, eat! (Food! Glorious food!)

5 I’ve looked at Falls from both sides now (the Canadian side is better).

I
n June and July 2008, I travelled back and forth between Canada, the US and the UK to be a judge on the Canadian Broadcasting Company (CBC) version of
How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?
(I was working concurrently on a number of other commitments in Britain and the States.) Sometimes I flew weekly to Toronto and stayed – Thursday to Monday – in a condo in Yorkville.

On every trip across the Atlantic that summer, the plane hit some of the most violent thunderstorms I’ve ever experienced. I fly frequently. I know the signs. When the flight attendants buckle up, hold hands and begin to sing ‘Kumbaya’, the turbulence is going to be bad.

I loved everything about Toronto: the CN Tower, the great restaurants and, of course, the shopping.
¹
However, I found that very little of my previous work on the BBC talent-search shows prepared me for the high drama and outrageous behaviour
²
that came with judging the Canadian
Maria
– especially when a Toronto jail ended up being alive with ‘The Sound of Music’.