John Barrowman: The Making of Me (BBC Two)

The great mystery for John Barrowman in The Making of Me was what had made him gay. For the rest of us, the real questions for genetics to answer were: What made his familiar American accent go so hilariously och-aye-the-noo when talking to his Scottish parents? Was he biologically driven to flirt with any passing hairy leg, entertaining as it was? What about his (faintly grating) energy of ten cannonballs? Or his extraordinary number of dazzling white teeth? There are five more pearlies than should be in there, right? Did anyone else have to watch this wearing Ray-Bans?

Any gay person will at some stage have had to face the question, “What made you gay?” whether it be from a friend, family member, curious straight or homophobe out to “cure” them or beat them up. My answer would be a shrug, and a “the same thing that made you straight”. This lack of curiosity might be deemed a cop out, but to me homosexuality is as natural and mystifying and innate as heterosexuality. So far the search for a gay gene has proved elusive. That’s just fine.

Barrowman felt differently. It seemed he really wanted science to prove or validate his existence (his Doctor Who character, Captain Jack, would be far less approval-seeking). He started by seeing if his “gaydar” was working. In these metrosexual days, it’s getting harder to spot a genuine homosexual: straight guys have discovered skincare and tight T-shirts and Barrowman mistakenly identified four out of ten.

He had a brain scan while being shown pictures of men and women. This demonstrated that he was more turned on by men than women, a result further borne out when the sexy skinhead doctor told him, twinkling, what a “gorgeous brain” he had. Barrowman preened. He had to strip for an examination and he closed the door, but only after we’d had a good chance to see his pert, great legs. He’s not insecure about being a showman.

With each bit of good news — for Barrowman, the morsels of science that seemed to prove his homosexuality was rooted in biology — he clenched his fists and allowed himself a “Hell yeah”. He met a guy who had endured horrible aversion therapy in the 1950s (and who later met the psychiatrist who “treated” him at a gay bar). With that absurd Scottish accent Barrowman confronted his parents about dressing him up in a bikini on a cruise — his wonderfully nonchalant father said they did it to win prize money. He unearthed a collection of Barbies in his childhood closet (hoho).

He encountered a pair of boy twins, one of whom was gay and cherished his limited edition dolls. Barrowman found he had the “verbal fluency” of women. But his DNA structure matched that of his straight brother: there was nothing genetic about his homosexuality, which was a disappointment. Another cute doctor — and the obvious flirtation was such you really wanted to know what happened off camera — told him that his homosexuality was most likely caused by a number of factors. That wasn’t enough. One theory went that gay men’s finger lengths differed from straight men’s but he had “straight fingers” (damn — still at least he got to measure some hot guys’ digits at a Pride parade).

Then, success: a theory that seemed to stick. Men are, apparently, more likely to be gay if they have elder brothers, because by the time they come along the mother produces less testosterone which has been used up the first couple of times with previous male babies. Is this real science? Do gay men have less testosterone than straight men? Barrowman had two elder brothers (although his mother miscarried one) and the answer he wanted. Hell yeah: Barrowman was biologically, scientifically, definitely gay.

It seemed a little desperate, because around homosexuality science can cut both ways: rely on it to give you an identity, though be prepared for it to be used against you. You know when you start photocopying hands to prove a thesis that the argument, if not lost, is at best a little pointless.

Travellers’ Century (BBC Four)

There were more wasted resources in Travellers’ Century, in which Benedict Allen followed the Afghan route of Eric Newby’s landmark travel book, A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush. Hopelessly muddled, slow and uninsightful, Allen managed to extinguish all the lyricism, and spirit of adventure and discovery, from Newby’s work.

But it was lovely to see Newby in archive footage cycle in the roiling morning commute, head high and defiantly and perilously weaving through the middle lane as beeping echoed all about him.

tim.teeman@thetimes.co.uk

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