Every year, hundreds of British students head to the developing world to take part in a variety of activities popularly termed as ‘volunteer work’.

Oxford University alone has TravelAid, Oxford Development Abroad (ODA) and a branch of Student Partnerships Worldwide (SPW) organising such projects across Asia, Africa and Latin America, with the two main activities usually being teaching or building.

Yet how useful actually are such projects? Are those who volunteer making a valuable contribution to underprivileged societies, or are they simply taking an opportunity to feel good about themselves whilst travelling?

I must admit that I have my own bias when it comes to this issue. Last summer I spent a month in Niger teaching English as part of a TravelAid project, and this July I’ll be heading to Bethlehem with the organisation Unipal to teach in a Palestinian refugee camp.

Prior to visiting Niger, I firmly believed that the project would be making a valuable contribution to the lives of school children in a desperately poor country with a literacy rate of just 19.9% amongst adults.

Yet while there, I found this conviction continually called into question. We were there for a month: how much difference could we realistically make?

None of us was a qualified teacher and we’d had very little training prior to the trip. Faced with the dire reality of the shortcomings of the Nigerien education system, my previous belief that we were making a difference seemed laughable.

We’d raised £2000 for the schools where we were teaching, and maybe we should just leave our contribution at that.

Yet by the end of the trip my original conviction that we were contributing something valuable was making something of a comeback.

In the long-term, of course, we weren’t making any real difference, except perhaps in terms of what the money we’d raised could provide for the schools.

But while we were there, we gave teachers and students who’d been learning English for years their first opportunity to practise it on native-speakers, and, perhaps much more importantly, our presence reassured them that the whole world had not forgotten their plight (Niger was ranked last in the UN Human Development Index of 2006).

Since returning, several of our team have organised independent fundraising projects for Niger. Sure, we can’t make a major difference, but surely we’re doing something good?

As for it just being an excuse for a nice holiday – life in Niger involved some seriously dodgy bathrooms, dodging our way through faeces on the way to school in the morning, and trying to avoid malarial mosquitos. Hardly my idea of a relaxing sojourn.

If I merely wanted to travel, I wouldn’t have opted to stay in the same place teaching for 4 weeks – an argument which I’ve heard many others volunteers make as well.

There are some who claim that such summer volunteer projects are not just futile, but actually harmful. In working as teachers or on building projects, volunteers are taking jobs away from local people, therefore damaging the economy and individual lives.

Surely we in the West should be encouraging the development of suffering economies, not fuelling their decline?

In fact, the situation is often not as simple as this. In the case of volunteers who teach, students who visit developing countries in the summer are generally working outside of the academic year and running free ‘summer schools’.

Without them, these would not exist; the students are not replacing teachers, but rather supplementing their work by offering the children the opportunity for consolidating their learning without having to pay.

In Niger, this seemed to be important to many of the students, whose education during the academic year had often been interrupted by frequent teacher strikes (one boy told us he had theoretically been learning English for seven years, but had had about the same number of hours’ tuition).

Volunteers on building projects generally suffer from such criticism even more, as they are perceived to be doing an unskilled job that any local could be doing instead.

This is undoubtedly a concern, and one that should not be forgotten when such projects are being established and planned. However, an important point to remember is the very fact that volunteers are just that – volunteers.

They are providing a service without being a drain on the limited resources of, say, a remote community in rural Morocco who want to build a village school.

In its building projects, ODA employs local engineers to provide the expertise and sources local materials to use, thus contributing to the economy.

Volunteers have argued that they are simply proving the labour for the menial tasks (such as brick making) which would otherwise take the locals away from their farming or even schooling in the case of young people.

Teresa King, a second year geographer who will be visiting Uganda with ODA this summer, makes an additional more subtle defence of the projects, arguing that, “in being humble and serving people in this way you allow for a positive cultural exchange, showing that Westerners are not just faceless capitalists who turn their back on the developing world, but who actually care about their plight, and are willing to help.”

Student volunteer projects are not going to save the world or end global poverty. But their material contributions can make a genuine difference to the everyday lives of local people, and on a socio-cultural level they can create new friendships and greater understanding.

Students who choose to take part are opting for several weeks or even months in some pretty tough and sometimes outright unpleasant conditions, with the chance for traveling around only coming after the project has been completed.

They may want to feel good about themselves, but in most cases they also genuinely want to help. Surely there is value in that?

John Barrowman, entertainer extraordinaire, screen and stage star, is a fairly fine forty-something.

Classically handsome, he does occasionally suffer at the hands of the make-up department who have a penchant for orange foundation, and certain cruel friends of mine accuse him of looking slightly ‘plastic.’

When I meet him in the flesh (and fabulous flesh it is), Barrowman is radiantly beautiful. His skin glows, his eyes are luminous, and he is palpably alive; he looks little older than thirty.

How does he stay looking so good? ‘I drink two litres of water a day. I do drink alcohol, but not to get drunk, I don’t binge drink. If I’m sitting down to dinner, I won’t drink soda, I might have the odd glass of wine, but I’ll drink water.’

I’m sceptical; surely there must be more to it. ‘Well, if you ever need a little bit of help’- he tweaks the corners of his gorgeous eyes, and winks – ‘I’m all for it.’

He exudes vitality – and he certainly needs plenty of energy to keep up with his hectic schedule. But Barrowman doesn’t resent marketing his work. ‘I think of myself as a business – a product.’

After all, he points out, ‘If you become an actor, it’s always at the back of your mind: you could become famous. You shouldn’t pretend to be surprised or angry if it happens.’

This is a man who is booked until 2011 and is thinking even further ahead, planning a return to his first love, musical theatre – a genre he staunchly defends against detractors.

‘I’ve done “serious” theatre, I’ve done Shakespeare… I don’t see anything different about performing in musicals; to me they’re just as serious.’

Musicals are what Barrowman does best; he has appeared in numerous productions in the West End and on Broadway, including the National Theatre’s Anything Goes: ‘That was absolutely one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had.’

Currently in talks with Andrew Lloyd-Webber about a sequel to Phantom of the Opera, Barrowman’s also being wooed by Cameron Mackintosh, who wants him to play the title role in Barnum.

‘I’m inclining towards Barnum,’ he says. ‘It’ll mean getting back into serious shape, better than ever before. I haven’t been to the gym in seven months, I haven’t had time, I’ve been so busy with work.

But I’d have to do two months’ intensive circus training to do Barnum.’

Circus training brings to mind spangly, tight-fitting clothes, which would show off that rather fine physique to even greater advantage.

‘God, no, I won’t be wearing lycra,’ he exclaims in horror. And then, with a lingering touch on my shoulder and a glint in his eye, ‘Well, I’d be learning all the trapeze stuff and everything…I suppose maybe a pair of cycling shorts…Or they might even give me a leotard…’

Barrowman is the world’s most outrageous flirt, and delights in being provocative. Even his acting smacks of promiscuity: ‘Whenever I’m playing opposite a leading lady, or leading man, I have to fall in love with them a little bit, for it to be truthful, even if it’s not a romantic relationship.

I have to be in love with them.’ Women as well as men? ‘Yes, I never define myself – it’s unfair. Being gay, it doesn’t mean I don’t fancy women and think they’re beautiful.’

Yet this is all for show. He’s been with his partner, Scott, for nearly 15 years; they celebrated their civil partnership in 2007. ‘A civil partnership is not a marriage,’ Barrowman explains.

‘It’s about being recognisable to society and government, being equal to married people, it’s not actually being married.’ He objects to the terminology; for him, marriage has inescapable religious connotations.

‘Marriage means being part of an organisation that thinks I’m evil.’ He doesn’t just mean the Church. ‘It’s any religion really – they all want to get rid of me because I’m a gay man.’

The issues surrounding the societal acceptance of homosexuality are so important to him that Barrowman is currently filming a BBC documentary, The Truth About You, which aims to discover whether sexuality is determined by nature or nurture.
‘I’m undergoing loads of tests… I believe you’re born gay, but I think environment also has something to do with it. It’ll rock my world if we find out you’re not born gay, so I’m taking a big risk.’

Barrowman is happier about his big break, playing Captain Jack Harkness in the BBC’s Doctor Who and the susequent spin-off, Torchwood.

‘It was a little boy’s dream come true. If I only had to play Jack for the rest of my life, or for the next 15, 20 years, I’d be totally content,’ he says with a grin.

‘I don’t think of him as a character. He’s part of me. It was the easiest casting decision the team ever made; as soon as they saw me on the tapes they said, “That’s him!”’

John and Jack share many traits; they’re expansive and exuberant, and compellingly attractive. I ask how John feels about David Tennant; Jack certainly fancies the Doctor… ‘Jack sees that, I don’t. David’s not my type, he knows that.

We joke about it. People ask if we’d sleep with each other for a million pounds. We look at each other and go, “Ten grand, I would!”’

But if Jack’s a part of John, does that mean Barrowman never stops acting? ‘Oh my GOD!’ leaning forward for another firm but feeling touch on my arm, ‘of COURSE I stop acting!’

This seems rather dramatic, in every sense; I suggest he might be acting all the time. ‘God, no, I’m not acting now,’ with another caress.

‘This is the real me! Scott does say to me sometimes when I get home, ‘Come on, sit down, slow down, you need to relax,’and I do need to switch off. But you can always tell when I’m acting and when I’m being me. There’s a definite distinction. I’m a very real person.’

He may seem too good to be true, but Barrowman is real – I know, I saw him, I touched him, and will be dining out on the story for some considerable time to come.

I nearly ran him over on my bicycle on my way home, as he walked back to his car in the late-night drizzle.

I wonder if he would have come back to life? I like to think so.

The greatest email I’ve ever read was about my penis. The first line asked if I was sick of girls saying ‘Oh! What a tiny penis!’

To me, this seemed odd as, depending on the viewer, this would either be serious professional misconduct or just needlessly tactless.

Apparently if I took some pills, women would then say, ‘Gosh, what a large penis!’ and then they’d want to sleep with me.

Which would again be odd; if a woman is to see my penis at all, she’s generally quite far through the decision-making process. I’m not just going to whip it out on the offchance, am I? Think it through, spammers.

My cock aside, the greatest email I’ve ever read was from the Proctors. Their latest one tells us that they’re not keen on trashings involving food.

So not keen, in fact, that they’re even willing to explain to us what ‘food’ is (apparently it includes flour, eggs and beans), just in case any of us had in fact spent the last two decades being nurtured in a sealed dungeon, fed intravenously.

Just in case we’d been in Oxford for at least six months, but still felt the need to ask, ‘Food? What’s that? I’m confused. Give me some examples. Do eggs count?’

Instead of buying this food, they say, we could all give ten quid to an Oxford charity, thus doing our bit to turn the city into a grins-and-candyfloss nirvana.

Traditions like trashing smack of privilege, you see, and in a city where hundreds ‘know you don’t want the Big Issue, but…’, we might as well all be pelting them with gold nuggets tied to bits of string, before pulling the gold back from their grasping, huddled masses like the dickheads we are.

Now, I love charity; I’ll get drunk to protest against even a mediocre genocide, and if a Big Issue does look good, I’ll download it.
My problem’s this: if there’s a list of people who can legitimately ask for cash to avoid looking privileged, officials of Oxford University will only be on it when we’re all surfing icebergs in hell.

In less than a month, the University is to ask donors for over a billion pounds. I’ll stick my neck out, and guess it’s not going on a soup kitchen.

The trashing rules generally make sense – but asking for our money? Who the blithering heck do they think they are?

Talking of wasteful traditions: if 3,000 of us gave the cash spent on subfusc to charity, we’d have ninety grand right there, minimum, and a better image to boot.

If they actually cared about inequality beyond as a tool to guilt-trip students, maybe they’d ask.

Let’s give some money, but not because they say so. Do it because we say so.

Because we do care, see?