Billy Graham put him off religion. Laurence Olivier taught him etiquette. And as for Princess Margaret? Don’t ask. Sir Derek Jacobi tells all

It would take a will stronger than mine to resist comparing Sir Derek Jacobi to the Staffordshire porcelain figurines which dominate the drawing room of his Victorian house in Primrose Hill, north London.
There are dozens of them, arranged on individually-lit shelves, as if displayed in a museum.
For he, too, seems to be on display in this room as he sits on a silk sofa, his legs crossed at the ankles, his hands cupped in his lap, his posture erect. The 73-year-old actor is wearing plum-coloured velvet trousers, a checked shirt and a gold ring on his wedding finger. He not only looks ornamental, he looks gathered, like a graduate from a finishing school. There is a lacquered Chinese screen to his right, a window looking out over a sunlit garden to his left. His hair and beard are white, his moon face pink, his eyebrow arched quizzically. All set.
“Well, we’ve done it before,” he says when I ask how he is finding the experience of being directed by his partner Richard Clifford in Shaw’s Heartbreak House, the highlight of this summer’s 50th anniversary of the Chichester Festival Theatre. “We did it at Chichester in fact. About 16 years ago. A play about Strindberg. We got on very well. There is great trust there. It’s like when I work with Michael Grandage; it’s that essential trust and belief and security. It’s the same with Richard. Their eyes are very keen. They don’t miss a thing. You don’t get away with anything unless they let you. It’s a benign dictatorship.”
Sir Derek is measured and deliberate in the way he talks, rarely expanding on a theme, unless pushed. When I ask him about gay marriage, for example, he says: “The word doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s a squabble over nothing.” Until recently he has avoided talking about his private life, declining even to acknowledge that he is in a relationship. But he always knew, pretty much, that he was gay, and he came out to his mother soon after graduating. And five years ago, when civil partnerships came into law, he entered into one. Is his a marriage to all intents and purposes, I ask?
“Richard and I have been together for 35 years,” he says. “We’ve been in a civil partnership for five years. It doesn’t matter what you call it. We don’t think of it as marriage, it’s a partnership. People are getting hot under the collar at the moment because of this word.” Liberal Tories are committed to pushing through gay marriage, but does he have any sympathy with Christians who object to it? “Well, I suppose their argument is that marriage is equated with having children, but what about couples who meet in their fifties? They can’t have children. Or what if you are biologically unable to have children? The word becomes meaningless.”
His view seems to be that, because there is little difference in law between a gay marriage and civil partnership, the latest controversies are a fuss about nothing. Is that about the strength of it? “Exactly, it’s just this word. The Church is the problem.” I take it he’s not religious then. “As a teenager I was taken to a Billy Graham rally at Haringey. At the end of it I went down to the arena to give myself to Jesus. But as soon as Graham stopped talking it was like the choir stopped singing and,” he snaps his fingers, “I felt totally conned and embarrassed. I don’t mind people having faith and finding strength in that. But it ain’t for me.”
I ask his opinion about another topical debate of which he has experience, the call by Michael Gove, the Education Secretary, for positive discrimination by Oxbridge colleges in favour of state-school children from underprivileged backgrounds. Jacobi came from a working-class background: his father was an East End tobacconist, his mother worked in a drapery, yet he didn’t need preferential treatment in order to win a scholarship to read history at Cambridge. He’s not sure that any conclusions can be drawn from his own circumstances, but he does think he benefited from having a lucky break.
“Well, I was lucky because I had been at a grammar school,” he says. “I wasn’t gifted academically but I was a swot and I adored school. I was an only child and my parents were very supportive.” His grammar school gave him a taste for acting. “I had an English master, Mr Brown, who encouraged me and put me in a production of Hamlet which was taken to Edinburgh. It got national recognition and, on the back of that, I won a scholarship to Cambridge. In my first week I got a knock on the door from John Bird, who was one of the big directors at Cambridge. He put me in a play in which I was miscast badly. I was so awful in it, everyone said I was overblown. It took me a year to get my reputation back.”
Trevor Nunn was another of the budding directors there. His peer group at Cambridge was impressive, to say the least. “My parents gave me a 21st party and there were Leyton friends at one end of the room and my Cambridge friends at the other. The cabaret was Eleanor Bron, David Frost, Ian McKellen.”
That must have been quite a clash of cultures, I say. Did his parents have cockney accents? “Yes, strong ones. Dad more than Mum. She was slightly better educated than Dad, who left school at 14.” Did they feel awkward about meeting all his well-spoken, theatrical Cambridge friends? “No, not at all. My mother was very demonstrative and loved everyone. No matter who they were, they got a hug and a kiss. They didn’t feel out of their depth at all.”
Did they worry about him becoming an actor? I mean, it’s not the most secure of professions, is it? “They did worry that I wouldn’t be able to earn a living, but they were reassured when I read history at university because they thought that I could become a history teacher if acting didn’t work out. I took the same view. I gave myself five years to try and make it.”
I suppose, unlike a lot of actors, he has never really had occasion to feel insecure about his career. “No. Mine is not a typical actor’s career. I’m very aware of that. I went straight from Cambridge to the Birmingham Rep then, after three years there, I spent eight years at the National. It was continuous employment.”
In 1963 he was talent spotted by Sir Laurence Olivier himself, who was forming the National Theatre, then based at the Old Vic. “He managed to persuade actors who were at the top of their profession to come and work for him on three-year contracts: Maggie Smith, Albert Finney, Robert Stephens – all of them had West End and film careers, and all were willing to give them up to be in an ensemble because it was Olivier asking them. They put their stardom to one side. I didn’t have anything to lose. I was only 24.”
As a young man, he was considered the greatest Hamlet of his generation but he has never been especially precious about his reputation. His attitude is that an actor has to work, and you never know when your agent might stop ringing. He gardens, reads and looks at the wall a lot, he says. And he worries about where his next job is coming from.
And it should be remembered that it was television that gave him his big break. Indeed, the role with which he is probably still most associated – the one that made him a household-name in 1976 – was the poignant, painfully stuttering emperor he played in the BBC series I, Claudius. It would be very hard for another actor to take on that role, I say, given the extent to which he made it his own.
“Well, they say there is going to be a movie with Leonardo DiCaprio so we shall see, and I’d better be in it somewhere! A walk on.” He describes the drawing room with a sweep of his arm. “Claudius was written in this very room. I bought the house 30 years ago from the widow of Jack Pulman, who wrote the screenplay, and this was his study.”
His best screen performance, for my money, was as Francis Bacon in Love is the Devil. “He lived around here, but I don’t think we would have got on. I didn’t go to the Colony Club where Bacon hung out because I wasn’t a great drinker.”
He portrayed Bacon as a tortured genius, but also a cold and callous gay predator. It was convincing, but not exactly sympathetic. “Yes, physically, Bacon was a masochist who liked being hurt, but spiritually he was a sadist. When John Maybury offered the role to me I said: ‘But I don’t look like him. He’s got such a distinct look.’ Then, after 10 minutes in the make up chair, I was looking like him.”
They weren’t allowed to use any of Bacon’s paintings in the film. “The family thought it was going to be a gay exposé, so they wouldn’t give us permission. We used paintings done in his style instead. The DVD still sells well, but I think that’s because there are some scenes in which Daniel Craig is stark-b—— naked.”
Another of his great roles was that of Alan Turing, the Bletchley Park codebreaker who was prosecuted for his homosexuality in 1952. Is it harder portraying a real person than a fictional one? “It was less so with Turing than Bacon, but there were still people around who knew him, and I’m not an impressionist. I try to get close to the emotional side of the person. You have to sound approximately right, but that is less important than getting the motivation right. That film was about breaking the moral code as well as    the Enigma code.
“Turing was charged with ‘gross indecency’ and given the choice of two years in prison or chemical castration, and he chose the latter. They inserted a capsule in his thigh which was supposed to lower oestrogen. He became depressed after that and may or may not have killed himself by eating an apple laced with cyanide. It could have been murder, because he knew too much.”
The attitude of the time was partly a reaction to the revelations then emerging about the Cambridge spies, a number of whom were gay. Being gay became associated with being unpatriotic. Well, society has come a long way since then, and there is no questioning Sir Derek’s patriotism. The night before we meet he was at a reception for the Queen. “When her face is relaxed she looks quite grumpy,” he says. “But the moment she smiles she is radiant. Beautiful skin.” He’s less flattering about her sister. “I once had dinner at Joe Allen’s with Princess Margaret. There were eight of us and I sat next to her. She smoked continuously, not even putting out her cigarette when soup arrived, but instead leaning it up against the ashtray. We got on terribly well, very chummy, talking about her mum and her sister, and she really made me feel like I was a friend, until,” he leans forward, “she got a cigarette out and I picked up a lighter and she snatched it out of my hand and gave it to a ballet dancer called David Wall.” Why? “Because I wasn’t a close friend, I hadn’t been let in yet and my goodness she let me know it.”
Well, Del-Boy’s pretty grand himself now, but I wouldn’t say he has airs and graces. There’s something surprisingly low key about him. He’s a little self-conscious, if anything. Describes himself as placid and non-confrontational. Suffers stage fright. Doesn’t like being photographed. “Yes, posing in front of a camera is a bit dental for me. Always has been. I’m fine when I’m working because then I’m in a world of pretend and imagination so I can be anything. But when I’m being myself in everyday life, that is different.”
He can’t stand seeing himself on the big screen. “I have seen myself in films but I don’t enjoy it because there is nothing you can do about it. In the theatre you can have another go. You can get it better the next night. You also have the excitement of doing three hours on stage when there are no safety nets. If they can’t hear you in a studio they move the microphone closer. If you forget your lines you can do a retake.”
I ask if there is a snobbery in the profession about stage acting being the real deal and film acting being a lesser form. “The two are different, totally different. From my point of view, the job satisfaction is greater with stage acting. It’s more exciting, more terrifying, more creative. In a film, someone else decides how much of you is shown. In the theatre all of you is being shown all of the time.”
Does that make reviews of theatrical productions seem more personal? “Reviews can be hurtful if you read them, but I haven’t read them for years. If they are good there is a danger of henceforth acting that review, if they are bad or indifferent you want to kill yourself.”
Most men retire at 65, why does he still want to do it? Is it the applause? “Not at all. If anything the applause breaks the spell and brings you back down to earth with a bump. For me it’s the journey you’ve been on, and the experience you tried to give the audience. I’m bad on curtain calls. Not comfortable with them. The evening belongs to everybody, especially if you are in a Hamlet, a King Lear, or a Macbeth, because you can’t play any of those parts on your own.”
But he has learnt to fight his self-effacing nature and accept applause. “I was told by Olivier himself that not to do a proper curtain call is disrespectful to the audience. You must be there to thank them. He said it because he’d seen me do a curtain call which was just a nod. He hauled me over the coals for it.”
Actually, that wasn’t the first time he was told off for it. He tells me that his mother also had a go at him, after the first time she saw him in a Shakespeare play. “She came back stage and said, ‘Oh it was lovely, but I’ve got one criticism. You should smile more in the curtain call, because you’ve got a lovely smile.’” And so he has, just like the Queen’s.


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.