How did an academic child of privilege and would-be Buddhist monk become Britain’s ‘artist of the people’? Antony Gormley talks to Nigel Farndale

Because of their human scale, the half-dozen sculptures waiting to be shipped out of Antony Gormley’s cavernous studio in north London seem as mortal as the half-dozen technicians welding, grinding and winching around them.

Some of the sculptures are bubble wrapped, others crouch on the floor or defy gravity by leaning out from the wall, others still are standing in the middle of the room, passive observers of the industrial scene around them: the flying sparks; the echoey screech of metal cutting through metal; the rattle of chains.

Part of the appeal of Gormley’s sculpture, from the vast Angel of the North on a hill in Gateshead to the army of tiny clay figures with which he won the Turner Prize in 1994, is the way we, the viewers, project on to them. And here, as I sit in his studio watching our photographer finish her portrait of him, I do find myself thinking of them as alive.

It would be as well to begin by describing what Gormley looks like, given that since his first major work, Bed, made in 1981 – a double mattress made from slices of bread, out of which he had eaten his own body shape and weight – his work has nearly always involved casts of his own body. So: Gormley is a tall, trim man in a white T-shirt and white jeans. His hair is cropped short and he wears rimless glasses. He looks about 42, but is actually 20 years older than that.

His manner is that of a slightly distracted academic, which is sort of what he is (an honorary fellow of Trinity, his old college at Cambridge). Though he is articulate when discussing his work, his speech is ponderous. He stands close to you when he talks, an invader of personal space.

He shows me one of the models that have been cast from his body, a figure sitting with its legs tightly drawn in. “I had to be strapped in for an hour for that,” he says. Shrugging off my inevitable question about pins and needles, he adds: “It was worth it.” The comment seems all the more remarkable when you consider he suffers from claustrophobia, a condition he has willed himself to overcome.

Though he claims he is fine today, he ought to be jet-lagged, having just flown in from Tokyo. Before that he was in Hong Kong, New York, Washington and Brasilia, 20 days of installations, exhibits and talks. But I imagine he’s quite like this all the time. A little lost in his thoughts.

He shows me a model of his latest work, called Model, which went on display at White Cube Bermondsey this week, but which isn’t finished on the day I meet him. To say this project is ambitious doesn’t begin to cover it.

It is a reclining body composed of cubes and is so big – 100 tons of sheet steel, 105ft long and 18ft high – people can walk through it. You enter through the foot and journey through its interconnected internal chambers. It is, in other words, both a sculpture and a building. “You and I might be able to see that that is a lying body, described in the language of architecture,” he says. “But I think coming into the space, you’re never really going to be able to tell what the hell it is. It’s going to be a dark, labyrinthine, cave-like experience.” It’s not obvious that it is a human figure, then. “An early idea was that we would not allow people to see the outside at all, but then we decided there should be a room in which you can see dozens of scale models of it. So the idea is that, in a sense, we are modelling the body, but we’re also mining it.” He’s not sure yet whether viewers will need to go through it one at a time, but will there be warnings for claustrophobia sufferers? “I think there probably should be warnings. And for people with heart conditions, because the thing is, it will be quite acoustically alive. I will have to dip slightly to get in.” (In the end, visitors are asked to sign a warning notice before entering.)

So, a big question for a big work of art, what does it, um, mean? “I suppose, the concept of the show is really just to say, ‘How can we rethink the model?’ Because it has so many contradictory meanings, doesn’t it? It’s either the perfect model, the aspired to perfection, or it’s just something that you have to copy, the scale model of something. Or is it a real body that you’re using as your reference?” And did this start, as usual, with his own body? “Yeah, yeah, but this was actually not started the way that most of the work starts, in other words, with a cast.”

He says he doesn’t know how people are going to interact with Model until they start using it, and that is a consistent feature of his work. He didn’t mind the appearance of bikinis and hard hats on his life-size figures on Crosby beach, and he loved it when Newcastle United fans fitted out the Angel of the North with an Alan Shearer shirt. “People had interpreted it in their own way, and taken ownership of it. That was a baptism, in the manner of the tribes of the North – they were unified in their love of football but pretty uncertain about a namby-pamby thing like art. So it was a really important moment.” What was the initial reaction to it? Did the good folk of Gateshead, er, reserve judgment? “When they heard that there was going to be a 200-ton, 65ft-high rusting angel on their hill, they weren’t very thrilled about it. But once it was there, they got very enthusiastic, from the moment it arrived, actually.” Does he enjoy watching people’s reactions as they first encounter his “public art”? “Yeah, and I’ve now asked for catalogues not to simply show the isolated object in beautiful whiteness, but instead show how people interact with the work.” He shows me a picture of one, Horizon Field Hamburg, a large platform suspended 24ft above the ground. “So this is just a plane, 50m by 25m, but it invites action. In the end, this became a catalogue of how people chose to interact with the strange, uncanny feeling of being in the air. This was an instrument for people to propriocept.” Blimey. Propriocept. No, I didn’t know either. It means observe themselves perceiving their own bodies. It’s obvious from these photographs that the spectators are having fun rather than being earnest and contemplative, which is how people often think they have to behave in galleries. There’s something about the formality of the gallery, I say, that prompts a certain awkwardness in people, they go into character slightly – become the “gallery goer”.

“Yes, I suppose as a viewer you are on show, in the same way that the works are, because everybody can look at you. But with this work,” he holds up the picture again, “eve rybody learnt from everybody else. I did get everybody to take their shoes and socks off, prior to being allowed into the space at all, so there was a sense in which there was a loosening of the normal rules of gallery behaviour, but it was the kids that really loosened everybody up.” I suppose before art became elevated as an intellectual endeavour it wasn’t on a pedestal at all, just part of our everyday life. “Yes, I like playing with that idea. I think it’s probably the Dutch who are to blame for starting the whole ‘art business’, because before they came along art was attached to relatively stable structures, and it was everybody’s. It was like going to the movies.” Making art accessible to everyone, and engaging members of the public in the making of it, has been a recurring theme of his work, most obviously realised in One & Other (2009), a project in which 2,400 people took it in turns to spend an hour on top of the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square.

But that plinth idea divided the critics, as they say, and it drew its share of exhibitionists, as did another of his works involving members of the public, Clay and the Collective Body. For that installation, which involved giving up to 100 people at a time a 100-ton mass of clay to play with, they had two psychiatrists on standby in case things got out of hand (they were worried people might start copulating, for example, or urinating). In the end the only incident involved what Gormley described as a “bunch of crazy French people” who took all their clothes off and started behaving in “a slightly destructive way”.

This populist instinct, if that is what it is, might seem at odds with Gormley’s rather elitist and pious background. His father, who died in 1979, was a pharmaceuticals magnate. He was also a devout Catholic and disciplinarian who used to beat his seven children. The family home was a grand house in Hampstead, with a chauffeur and maids. School was Ampleforth, the equally grand public school in Yorkshire. After Cambridge, Gormley set off for India on the hippie trail. He was gone for nearly three years, contracted typhoid, studied meditation and thought about becoming a Buddhist monk. He then returned to the fold and trained at the Slade, where he met his wife (and the mother of his three children), the painter Vicken Parsons.

There was a bit of grit in his upbringing as well as privilege, then. His father, as he puts it, was “very controlling and very ambitious. There was a sense that whatever one did one wasn’t quite good enough, whether that was declining Latin verbs or excelling at sport.” It is poignant to think that his father didn’t live long enough to witness his youngest son’s achievements, and popularity.

Perhaps his most popular work was the one he exhibited in 2007, Event Horizon. Gormley figures began appearing on the rooftops around Waterloo Bridge. Pedestrians stopped and pointed at them, intrigued. Did he go and watch their reactions? “I did watch, from the balcony at the Hayward, but then very quickly they were assimilated, like a new lamp-post or a bit of street furniture would be assimilated.” When the show appeared in other capitals, however, the response was more alarming. In New York police were called after reports that the figures were “jumpers” about to throw themselves off the buildings. The same happened in Brazil earlier this year.

Gormley seems pleased that many of his sculptures will be around much longer than him. “Our time is provisional,” he says. “They are facts that are not going to go away, and that are… well, the ones in the tide-line at Crosby are changing the whole time, because they’re rusting, and getting covered in barnacles and all that, but on the whole they’re kind of enduring, in a way that we are not.” Since it’s his body that they’re modelled on, is it a form of immortality? He shakes his head. “I’m not interested in that at all. I’m simply trying to be practical. There’s no point in making another body when you have one already. The only way of doing that is to use the material that you’re closest to, the material that you live inside.” Tellingly, Gormley often talks about his sculptures as if they are real people. I know I find them strangely moving, but what about him? “I feel uncomfortable talking about this because all I know is it’s important to me that they have an authenticity that comes from a lived moment, and then, beyond that, I am aware that they are empty and nameless. They’re being, not doing, and they are waiting. They have time, we have consciousness, and they are waiting for the viewer’s thoughts and feelings.” He thinks the figures’ vulnerability and “uselessness” gives them a certain pathos. “This is the absolute antithesis of heroic sculpture,” he says.

Members of the public seemed to find Field for the British Isles, the 40,000 tiny terracotta models, affecting in a slightly different way, one which they couldn’t necessarily articulate. How would he describe that effect? “I’m not quite sure what the feeling is… yearning? Accusation? But those tiny figures are definitely looking for something, those eyes, those little becoming things. And I think there is a sense in which the work, because of the way it’s been made, is a reservoir for the unspoken thoughts and feelings of all of the makers.” Gormley is referring to the teams of volunteers who helped make the figures. He describes the end of their first day making these “little surrogate beings”; when the lights were turned off, they felt like they were abandoning them. “It was sort of magical, really,” he says. “They hadn’t been there in the morning, and then they were there in the evening. It felt odd to leave them there in the dark.”

As well as having an OBE, Gormley is both a Royal Academician and a trustee of the British Museum. Indeed he has to head off there now for a trustees’ dinner, he says. Will he change out of his T-shirt, or is he expected to look the bohemian artist part? He gives a rare laugh. “I think I might put a dark suit on, just so I blend in.” Does he consider himself part of the art establishment nowadays? “I’m not living in a Scottish croft.” Good answer. Does he ever feel misunderstood? He’s very articulate about his art, but he also clearly feels he has to explain it all the time, and perhaps justify it. “I feel terribly misunderstood, I feel terribly misunderstood.” (This is a speech quirk of his, by the way, the repeated phrases.)

I ask about his critics, most prominent among them being Brian Sewell, who has dismissed Gormley’s work as having “absolutely no artistic merit”. He has also said: “I find it rather ludicrous that a man approaching later middle age can think of nothing more than his own body as symbolising this, that and the other.” And one early review of Model called Gormley “A model of hype”. ‘Do such comments make him want to convert his critics, or does he think: “I’ll never change their attitude”?

“Well, I think critics are very useful. But I think that they, in a way, betray their position when they stop people looking for themselves. Judgment is very easy, but I think, on the whole, professional critics maybe see too much, and compare too much, and forget the joy of actually looking and contemplating for its own sake.” He begins rubbing his scalp, kneading it with his long fingers. “When criticism becomes an exercise of judgment over curiosity, and it blocks other people’s ability to exercise their own curiosity, I think that’s a real shame.” Maybe it is simply that the critics can’t quite forgive him for being popular. “I think there’s a big difference between popular and populist. I have no interest in being popular for its own sake. I am, however, interested in the idea that art should be everybody’s. Sadly, most modern art is about other art. And I think that’s a tragedy because it requires its own priesthood to interpret it.”

There is also the resentment caused by his commercial success to consider. Along with his rival Anish Kapoor, to whom he lost out in a bid to make “Boris’s Folly”, the artistic centrepiece for the Olympic Park, Gormley is this country’s most successful sculptor and it has clearly made him rich. This summer he paid £3 million for High House, a late-Georgian mansion set in 129 acres of parkland near Swaffham, Norfolk. He plans to spend a further £1.5 million restoring it. His creations sell for sizeable sums: a man-sized model used in the making of Angel of the North went for £2 million in 2008.

Does he ever have people taking stuff out of his bins, and thinking this must be worth something because it’s “an Antony Gormley”? “I don’t know. I wouldn’t know whether people have nicked things out of my bins or not.” Has he ever signed a napkin to pay for a meal, then? “No, I haven’t. I don’t, erm… I’m very happy to do the odd drawing for anybody, but I feel slightly uncomfortable about artists behaving like that, turning a scribble into a meal.” He seems a likeable if earnest man, a deep thinker who is pleasingly uncynical about his art. As a parting gift he presents me with a rather handsomely illustrated book about his work, and, on the principle that you never know what a well-placed signature might one day be worth, I ask him to sign it for me, which he does, with best wishes.


James Blunt

It could be the homes around the world; his military bearing; or that he’s our biggest musical export since Elton. For whatever reason, being called annoying, a philanderer or – worse – middle class doesn’t exactly keep James Hillier Blount awake at night. Nigel Farndale met him

It’s not the sight of the groupies that haunts me, but the sound, or rather the absence of sound, as they ghost past us on their way up the stairs to the dressing-room. It takes me a moment to figure out that the reason they aren’t talking to each other is that they don’t know each other. One of the band members, the keyboard player, I think, has picked them from the audience on the basis of their looks. Half-a-dozen of them, all in their late teens and early twenties, and all, surprisingly, in pretty frocks, as if they were going to a Sunday school meeting. They have been separated from their friends like lambs weaned from their mothers. The silence of the lambs.

The ‘us’ they are filing past is James Blunt and me. He has a bottle of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and not a hair in place – tousled just so, like a Renaissance painting of John the Baptist – but they don’t realise it’s him because he has changed out of the suit he was wearing on stage and is now in jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket, as well as a pink feather boa and star-shaped novelty sunglasses. But I’m getting ahead of myself. This is the end of the day; we need to go back to the start, well, to the middle, when the seats are empty and the Texan sun is at its most unforgiving.

A barefoot and unshaven Blunt is wearing normal sunglasses and shorts as he plays his piano, strums his guitar and sings his plaintive songs into the microphone for the sound check, all the while looking out with his soulful eyes over an empty, open-air arena in Houston. At 5ft 7in, he’s not a tall man, but he has presence and an unaffected manner – a certain maturity, too, one that you wouldn’t normally associate with a pop star in the ascendant.

But then he is 34 and this is his second career, his first being as an officer in the Household Cavalry. He joined after graduating from Bristol University with a degree in sociology. He became a champion skier for the Army and not only saw active service in Kosovo, but also guarded the Queen Mother’s coffin when she was lying in state.

Tonight he will be supporting Sheryl Crow, though, since his second album ‘All the Lost Souls’ and the single from it, ‘1973’, went straight to number one in America, he is arguably the bigger act these days. Indeed, not since Elton John has there been a more successful British singer-songwriter in the States.

His first album, ‘Back to Bedlam’, also went to number one over here, as it did in 18 other countries, making it the biggest-selling album of the millennium. It even entered the Guinness Book of Records as the fastest-selling album in one year. But it was his first single that really put him on the map. You’re Beautiful became the sound of that summer. It was everywhere, and still is – having become a favourite at weddings, funerals and bar mitzvahs. I even heard a brass band playing it at an agricultural show in the Yorkshire Dales this summer.

As well as millions of sales, James Blunt has won Brit awards, Ivor Novello awards, MTV awards and various Grammy nominations. In terms of credibility, he’s headlined at Glastonbury and won the respect of the world-weary music press. Yet not everyone loves him, as he points out when we get something to eat in the canteen area back stage.

‘After Back to Bedlam really started selling,’ he says, ‘there was this sudden aggression towards me in the UK, for whatever reason, and that focused my mind, made it clear to me what I was doing and why I wanted to do it. I write songs for myself. I don’t write them for you, or for anyone else, I write them because I have experiences that I need to process. I don’t have the answers all the time, but I do have lots of questions, and I express them in the songs I write.’

He is, I think, alluding to a poll last year of ‘the most annoying things in life’, which put him at number four, just behind cold-callers and queue-jumpers. ‘I haven’t met anyone who voted in the poll, have you?’ he says when I mention this. ‘That poll probably came from a website that was after some publicity. You and I could do the same poll very quickly right now and it would count as a poll. We could do one about annoying newspapers, for example. I promise the Sunday Telegraph wouldn’t be in my list. My parents take it.’

His father, a retired colonel in the Army Air Corps, manages his son’s finances. His mother arranged the purchase of his six-bedroom villa in Ibiza (he also has a chalet in Verbier and recently bought a place in Chelsea). ‘I’m not married,’ he says, ‘and so the support structure in my life is my parents. I’m closer to them now than I have ever been.’

He certainly isn’t married, as the photographs of him emerging from nightclubs with various high-profile women on his arm attest. Tara Palmer-Tomkinson was probably the best known socialite, Jessica Sutta, of the Pussycat Dolls, the most glamorous. He also seems to be photographed regularly cavorting on beaches with bikini-clad models such as Petra Nemcova, whom he dated and then dumped – unceremonious dumping being his way of ending relationships, according to the tabloids. He once said he found himself in a swimming pool in LA with nine naked women. ‘I was the only bloke. It was the only time I wished my mates were there, purely to spectate. I had arrived. It was a moment.’

Now he says of the tabloid interest in his peripatetic love life: ‘Last week I went to my home in Ibiza and was photographed by the paparazzi in my swimming trunks with girls. What is the point of that? I’m not that bothered, but maybe the media should be concentrating more on global warming or the Russian invasion of Georgia.

‘Looking at me in my swimming trunks is not a great sight. It’s a waste of time. There generally is a long lens pointing at me wherever I go, these days. I’m comfortable with it. I appreciate how things work. But my record label said something about my always being photographed coming out of nightclubs and I thought, “But this is what I do. I was doing it before the second album came out, so what is different now? You didn’t tell me to stop then.” I’m not going to change my life because of these people. I don’t see why I should.’

His label also gets him to dye his grey hairs and be enigmatic about his love life, which is an old tactic dating back to the Beatles – they had to pretend they didn’t have wives and girlfriends so that fans could fantasise they were in with a chance.

Actually, at the time of going to press, Blunt seems to be going out again with one of his old flames, Verity Evetts, an Oxford-educated barrister. He has also stayed friendly with some of his other exes, the socialites at least. He told one – an ex who got married not long ago – that he doesn’t feel ‘centred’ at the moment and would like to get married as well. Then again, he also said that he never tires of singing You’re Beautiful night after night because it gets him laid night after night.

Either way, he tells me he has grown used to the idea that his mother will probably find out from the papers what he has been up to, and with whom, before he has had a chance to tell her. ‘And my [two] sisters are quick to email me about things in the papers, laughing their heads off. I get healthy, ritual abuse from them, and give it back myself.’

As we are talking, I can’t decide whether the way Blunt smiles all the time is disarming or disturbing. He’s like a victim of a religious cult, smiling at the beginning of the sentence and at the end. I guess he has a lot to smile about, but also I sense a great deal of insecurity to disguise.

Then, I’m distracted by the sight of Sheryl Crow playing table tennis across the room. She has been holding her adopted son in one arm as she bats with the other, and now, even more distractingly, she is heading straight for us. ‘Are we going to have one of our little conversations on stage again tonight, James?’ she says. ‘That flirting thing. I think it worked well last night.’

They discuss the duet they will sing – a cover of Cat Stevens’s The First Cut is the Deepest – then we both watch her shimmy away, her blonde curls bobbing. ‘She’s very down to earth,’ he says. ‘I’d met her a couple of times, which was why she asked me on this tour. We do end up playing a lot of table tennis on the road. We’ve done 117 shows so far this year, in 117 cities, and there are a lot of hours to fill in the day.’

As he sleeps on his tour bus with his band, one city tends to blur into another. When I joke that he is in Cincinnati now, he looks genuinely confused. ‘No, this is?… Oh, right. Actually, I always get the tour manager to say where we are just as I’m going on stage. I still managed to get it wrong the other night, saying “Hello Dallas” when I meant Austin. I’m surprised I got out alive.’

He is funny on the subjects of things that go wrong. ‘People are normally surprised by my show, which is more energetic than you might think. Jumping on the piano. Jumping out into the audience and running up and down the aisle high-fiving them. But going off the stage can be quite dangerous. I broke my finger once. My legs carried on when I jumped off, and I smacked down on the ground. The spotlight was on me, and when I got back to the piano I hit the wrong note and thought, “Why did I do that?” And I looked down and saw it was because my finger was broken, sticking out an angle. Look,’ he says holding it up. ‘It’s still crooked.’

On another occasion, in Chicago, he jumped 8ft off the stage. ‘When I began running to the audience, a security guard stuck his arm out and I thought, “Does he want a hug?” Then next thing I know he’s rugby-tackled me. He wouldn’t release me and I was screaming in his ear, “I’m the f—ing singer.” I had to wait for the other guards to pull him off.’

I would have thought Blunt’s training in unarmed combat would have helped. I presume he still works out. ‘No, never. Couldn’t handle it. Too boring. I am a hyperactive person though.’ He likes an adrenaline rush, as well, having recently bought an 1100cc Moto Guzzi V11 Sport motorbike. There’s also the skiing, which he still does, and the riding. Actually, he tells me, he never really liked horses before joining the Life Guards. So why did he join that particular regiment?

‘Well, it is a reconnaissance regiment.’ But they are all so tall in the Life Guards, did that not make him self-conscious? ‘Some are. The Foot Guards tend to be taller regiments, though. The Life Guards take a few shrimps, as well. Besides, they are on horses, so height isn’t so important. Also being in that regiment had the benefit of being in Knightsbridge. I got a chance to be in London and meet people in the music scene.’ And groupies, as it happens.

As he paraded up and down the Mall in plumed helmet and shiny breastplate, girls would stick their phone numbers down his knee-length boots. But it was his time in Kosovo that really made girls swoon. He used to strap his guitar to the outside of his tank, because there wasn’t room for it inside. He had learnt to play the violin at five, the piano at seven and the guitar at 14, while a pupil at Harrow.

He writes his songs on piano and guitar. ‘But mainly guitar because it is easier to carry around. It’s like a child messing around with a toy. If a tune comes to me I don’t record it instantly. I think if I remember it, then it must be worth remembering, and if I forget it, then it was forgettable.’

Does he have any anxiety dreams about forgetting lines or chords? ‘Not yet. Perhaps I will tonight. Perhaps you’ve jinxed me. But audiences aren’t judgmental, and if things go wrong and you can look them in the eye, that is fine. The only people who are judgmental are the journalists. I will be conscious of you being there in the audience judging me.’

Blimey. Sorry about that. Is it true he signs breasts? ‘Not that I remember. Not that I’m fussy what I sign. A lot of men started coming to the shows after I appeared on Top Gear last year. That was such fun. I spun the car five times. I thought I might as well make the most of it. I am competitive.’

He recorded one of the fastest laps, but I’m surprised blokes didn’t think him manly before that, given his tour of duty in Kosovo. ‘It’s because I sing songs that are heart-on-your-sleeve and therefore I must be overly emotional. Nothing I can do about it. I could pose more, but I am comfortable with my masculinity.’

He has said that his lyrics are autobiographical, in which case, are we to assume that the lyric on his new album, ‘I killed a man in a far away land’, means he killed a man in a far away land? I only ask because in the past he has said that he would never try to exploit what he went through, what he saw. ‘You should ask any soldier how many lives he has saved. How they do it is no one else’s business. What I took from my experience in Kosovo is that you are told from one day to the next who your enemy is and it keeps changing. That’s what is happening in Iraq, too. I believe in looking people in the eye, looking for the common humanity.’

He is a great believer in looking people in the eye. He will use the phrase again later and it seems to reveal a Christ complex, or a John the Baptist one. That direct and challenging stare of his. It would also explain the hair.

It is time for him do some photographs before he goes on stage and, endearingly, he says he is ‘not fussed’ about the grooming he is offered before they are taken.

On stage his features contort with passion when he sings. The big video screen goes in tight on his face. His voice is by turns soft and tremulous and forceful, but always high. Having seen him in concert once before, a couple of years ago, I notice the tone of his banter has changed.

‘Wow it’s hot tonight,’ he says now. ‘I’m surprised any of you are wearing any clothes. We could all take them off and get friendly.’ It is suggestive, designed to get the teenage girls in the audience screaming. Before he used to joke about his ‘girlie voice’ and taking helium to get it that way, and being ‘a bit wet’ and the ‘housewives’ favourite’. I think now he has realised that, actually, he is a proper musician, a popular one, too, and that he doesn’t need to apologise for it.

Afterwards, back in the dressing-room, he strips to the waist as he talks because he wants to take a shower before going back on to do his duet with Sheryl Crow. ‘Things got a bit hairy out there when I jumped into the crowd,’ he says. ‘Did you see that? Some thought it was some kind of sport to grab me.’

I watch his duet from the side of the stage and notice he whispers something in Sheryl Crow’s ear and then she starts running her hands over his trousers suggestively, patting them. Afterwards, I ask what he said. ‘”Is now a good time to ask for your phone number?” She was checking my pockets, pretending to look for a pen.’

He shows me round the gold-coloured tour bus where he will be sleeping tonight as they drive to their next gig in Dallas. It is full of hi-tech equipment and is nicely air-conditioned but there isn’t much space in the bunks. ‘We do live in close proximity,’ he says. ‘Some of us stay up late. This is the crew end, they have to get up early.’

Where do the groupies go? ‘Never have groupies on here. Never. They’d only get in if we invited them in. But we’d only ever invite friends in.’

Does he sleep OK? I heard he has to take sleeping pills. ‘It is a bit of a rough sleep, but better than a hotel and taking planes all the time because you have to get to the airport two hours early, which is miserable. Then your flight gets delayed.’

He is drinking champagne from a plastic cup. ‘This is for your benefit,’ he says. ‘The tour management went out and bought a bottle of champagne because he thought I should be seen drinking it. Better for my image. Isn’t that sweet? Normally, we drink vodka and beer. In fact, I think I’d rather have a beer, now. Want one?’ He opens a well-stocked fridge then takes me to the back of the bus where there is some seating space. He has one small case which he pulls out from a cupboard. It continues a few pairs of socks, T-shirts and a spare pair of jeans. No photographs or mementos. ‘This is all I have for 14 months on the road,’ he says. ‘I’m not known for style.’

Does he know how much he is worth? ‘No I don’t, not very interested in it to be honest. I travel with hand luggage only. That is why I always seem to be wearing the same clothes in photographs. If a tabloid says my clothes aren’t fashionable or my hair looks stupid, I really don’t worry about it. Don’t have any hair gel.’

In London, he takes the Tube or the bus. He prefers pubs to restaurants. When he goes to Ibiza, he flies easyJet. Still, that’s at home. Presumably on the road he can afford to be more self-indulgent.

Another lyric that we can only assume is autobiographical is ‘I’ve taken a s—load of drugs’. It is. Though his only comment on the subject is that he has ‘a comfortable relationship with drugs’. His relationship with fame is less comfortable. Oscar Wilde said there were two forms of tragedy: not getting what you want, and getting it. Is that how it felt for him when he went to number one? ‘Actually, I don’t think I had been dreaming about it. Certainly, I hadn’t anticipated being so recognisable so quickly.

‘I do remember getting a phone call from the record company, who said both the single and the album have gone to number one, and thinking, “S—, this is not what I expected.” I hadn’t prepared myself for it. Number two is great. Number two is nice. I sensed then it would mean having to change from being a musician to being a celebrity and that that would be a change for the worse. Fame doesn’t affect me, but it does affect everyone else around me. As for celebrity, it is the worst invention of the modern world. Gossip columns treat your life as if it were a cartoon. Relationships reduced to cartoons.’

Although there are other public-school bands around at the moment – Radiohead, Coldplay – Blunt seems to have suffered more than most from a perception that he is too posh to be credible. His family name is Blount (and his middle name Hillier), but he changed it to Blunt to sound, well, blunter and more proletarian.

When he tells me he would nevertheless still send a son of his to Harrow – ‘I think I would. I think I would. Public schools make individuals rather than sheep’ – I ask what he makes of the mood change now that the old Etonian David Cameron has made it OK to be posh. ‘Is it? I must come back to Britain immediately. Is it really safe to come back?

‘It’s not a dirty word to be posh, people come up to me and no one gives a damn if I’m posh. It’s about having a normal conversation and looking people in the eye.’

We head back to the dressing-room where he puts on his feather boa and novelty sunglasses then we wander back downstairs to have a word with Sheryl Crow, who is signing autographs. This is the moment at which the keyboard player says: ‘This way to the good-time room girls’ and the silent groupies dutifully appear.