Her liberal attitude to sex, says Joan Bakewell, was formed when she was 17 and her mother burned a picture of her kissing a boy. ‘If I’m told something can’t be done, it makes me determined to prove it can.’ Nigel Farndale meets her

For 40 years, a tall Victorian house in the corner of a square in north west London has been Joan Bakewell’s home. It is painted olive green. The high-ceilinged, book-lined room we are sitting in is olive green.

The velvet party dress she made for herself from curtain material in 1960 was, I remind her, also olive green. “What?” She removes her glasses and leans forward on the sofa; a 70-year-old gamine with hennaed hair as glossy as a new conker.

“Oh, right, yes. The dress I wore for that party. Yes, yes. I’ve always liked olive green.”

As she relates in her memoirs, The Centre of the Bed, published next month, that was the party at which she first met Harold Pinter. A seven-year affair with the playwright followed. So did fame as the sultry, cerebral presenter of the nightly BBC2 show Late Night Line Up.

Then a second child with her husband, Michael. And a divorce. And a second marriage. And, in 2000, a second divorce. All good material for an autobiography, I would say.

Is the title self-explanatory?

“I wrote it at a rather cataclysmic time in my life. My second marriage had ended and I was on my own in this house. Having shared most of my adult life – been married for most of my life – here I was sleeping alone in the middle of the bed.” She smiles and widens her soft brown eyes.

“Although, as my doctor pointed out when I told him the title, there is a lot of action that goes on in the middle of a bed, too.”

Indeed. And the divorce was an opportunity for stocktaking?

“It was a space, an opportunity to populate the empty house with memories.”

Her crisp, polished vowels take on an earnest tone.

“Divorce is a very heavy enterprise, you know. You ask yourself what went wrong.”

One imagines she had to be selfish to succeed as she did in her career.

“When I was doing Line Up my social life and my marriage suffered, although I would always put my children to bed before I went on air. My second husband, Jack, had a hard time because when I was doing Heart of the Matter – 18 documentaries a year – it meant I was often abroad. He saw me and I was gone again.”

Presumably he also found it hard being labelled Mr Bakewell?

“Yes, it was hard. I minded that, too. It was tricky.”

Joan Dawson Rowlands was born and raised in Stockport near Manchester, the elder daughter of abstemious, lower middle-class parents. Her father was a foundry worker who made his way up to become chairman of the company, her mother was a “formidable smacker”, who cleaned the house obsessively every day, suffered from depression and felt frustrated about not realising her ambition to be an engineer, even though she believed a woman’s place was in the home.

Bakewell’s liberal attitude to sex was formed when she was 17. Her mother found a snapshot of her kissing a boy in a school bus. She lit a fire in front of Joan and ceremoniously burned the photograph saying: “That’s the last I want to see of such behaviour. Ever.”

Bakewell squares her shoulders. “That was about control and repressing your sexual nature,” she says. “My mother probably thought it was the way to shock me into behaving. At the time there was no birth control available and no information about birth control.

“She did tell me that the way to raise a child was to break its will. But I have an enormously strong will. If I’m told something can’t be done it makes me determined to prove it can. I’m implacable. I think I’m governed more by will than intelligence.”

She felt very angry with her mother, she says. “I felt hurt, and resolved to get away. I didn’t want to understand her. I just wanted to reject what she stood for. My mother died [from leukaemia] when I was 28 and I didn’t really begin to forgive her until I was 35.”

As part of her rejection of her mother, Joan Rowlands resolutely set out to improve – reinvent – herself when she went up to Cambridge. The apocryphal story is that one day she went into the Ladies with a broad Lancashire accent and came out sounding like a Roedean-educated debutante.

“I had a bogus identity because I changed the way I spoke. I had elocution lessons. Do they still have elocution lessons? I doubt it.”

How did her mother speak? “She had a Stockport accent. Flat ‘a’s.” She impersonates. “Down’t do thut, Jooan!”

She seems to have been a true bluestocking at Cambridge, a bit of a swot from the North Country. She also seems to have been something of a magnet for lecherous men. She found herself constantly squeezed, pinched and leered at. The same happened when she joined the BBC soon after graduating. What was it about men in those days, I ask her.

“I think it was down to separate educations. The men I met at Cambridge had been to prep school and public school and had then done two years National Service, so they simply didn’t know about women. They didn’t know where the bits were. Women were shaped differently and they were giggly. That was all they knew.

“I presume some men had sexual experience in the Forces, but it was strictly whores. There was a whole generation of men who were confused about women, so they tended to just jump on you, grab you suddenly, and you would go, ‘Oh! No! Get off!’ There was a great deal of ignorance about sexual social manners.”

Surely it was just as confusing for women?

“Yes, you would be flattered. You would think, ‘Gosh, I’m the centre of attention. This is rather nice.’ And then you would think: ‘But I don’t like it from him! He’s got clammy hands and he’s horrible!”

The Joan Bakewell of Late Night Line Up – cool, clever, televisual Viagra – gave the impression of being a reluctant sex symbol, but she did wear those short skirts.

“True,” she says with a laugh. “I’m quite vain and I like being with the swim. I like fashion a lot. Also I was quite flirty. And quite pleased with myself, I think. I felt in my element. I was happy, healthy, fulfilled. I stepped with a light tread. And when I did this on the programme people went ‘Oo!’ ”

Because the show went out nightly she became an almost omnipotent figure, at a time when television was starting to be taken seriously as a form.

“There is an illusion of intimacy when people are watching you in their homes, every night, late at night. I got some extremely nasty letters from men. It’s funny, since then it has gone from people coming up to me and saying, ‘My brother is a great fan of yours’ to ‘My father is a fan’ to ‘My grandfather was a fan.’ ”

Didn’t her sisters in the feminist movement disapprove of her using flirtation to get her way?

“Yes, but they all did it as well. Fay Weldon did not lack for flirtation skills. Germaine was enormously sexy. Beautiful. Got up to all sorts of things. What’s wrong with flirtation? Women are not the same as men. I enjoyed being a woman.”

Then the late Frank Muir called her “the thinking man’s crumpet”, a line that became so famous it now has a place in the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. Of course it was patronising, I say, but didn’t she protest too much?

“I didn’t like it. I think the feminists were hard on me because of it. They ruled me out as frivolous and trivial. I’m not saying I was a crusader. I just had a high profile, which I enjoyed. Well, you would!”

Did she worry that she might have been given this high-profile job because of the way she looked, as much as for her journalistic skills? Long pause.

“I didn’t give it much thought. I just considered it was my luck. I didn’t notice it much. I don’t think it would have mattered that much if a woman had been plain.

“I think women can always make themselves attractive, unless they are positively, unusually unattractive. Most women are attractive if their personalities are attractive.”

I wonder if she really believes that. On the one hand, Joan Bakewell seems to take herself very seriously: there is little self-deprecation. On the other, she has an airy manner and a certain tranquillity, tinged with melancholy.

She is an odd mixture of forbearance and indignation, perhaps the result of having had to be tough and thick-skinned in order to get on. In her long affair with Pinter she must have been pretty calculating, too.

Given her high profile, I ask her, wasn’t it risky having an affair – more risky for her than for most people, I mean?

“No, the affair started before I was on television, when I was just Michael’s wife and Harold was just a promising playwright with one play under his belt. It wasn’t a risk then but, over the years – and we always argue about whether it was seven years – it became riskier.”

Why the uncertainty over timing?

“Harold dates the affair from the party; I date it from the park bench.”

Ah yes, the bench. There is a tender description in her autobiography of how, on a cold clear day, on a flaking bench, she felt elated, panicky and then peaceful. “Harold reached for my hand and held it within his. It was the first time we had touched.”

He wasn’t a pouncer then?

“No, Harold was the opposite of the groping man. It was a very powerful moment. Very intense. It’s etched on my memory. But we weren’t anybody then, so there was no problem and we fetched up at this borrowed house in Kentish Town.”

She had had two homes, two “husbands”; she had wanted her cake and eaten it, too?

“I was married at 22 and pleased to be married, and pleased to have children, but I also feel now that when you share your life with the one person designated to be your partner, through marriage, you close down the experience of relationships with the rest of the world.

“If it is going to be exclusive, there has to be something it excludes – namely, the possibility of close friendships with other people. It is sad that it has to be that way.

“I’m not talking about sex here, necessarily, but close friendship, which is enormously challenging and invigorating. My dilemma was this: Michael is wonderful, yet here I am fascinated by Harold, so do I from now on have to say, ‘No, no, no?’ ”

Well, yes. Technically speaking. Marriage vows and all that. Besides, people get hurt.

“Yes, but we kept our affair secret. It’s cheap psychology to speculate, but I think I kept my affair secret when my mother was alive because she would have found that intolerable. I was quite used to emotional secrets.”

Yet it proved impossible to keep her affair totally secret; her whole circle knew by the time Betrayal was written.

“It was generous of our friends to show such tolerance. They didn’t ring the papers.”

Presumably Vivien Merchant, Pinter’s wife, also heard – but Bakewell insists that she didn’t. After Pinter divorced her and married Antonia Fraser, Vivien’s spirit was broken and, in 1982, she drank herself to death.

“I attended her funeral,” Bakewell writes in her memoirs. “I wondered, sorrowfully, what part I had played in bringing her to such a sad end.”

The cuckolded Michael Bakewell certainly knew about the affair, virtually from the beginning. He decided to keep quiet about it and when, years later, Pinter found out that he had known all along, he was angry, accusing Michael of betrayal.

Wasn’t that, I ask, rather conceited of Harold? She purses her lips.

“Well that’s not for me to say, really.”

The scene is recreated in the play, which is to return to the West End this autumn. I say that when I first saw the film of the play, before I knew it was based on real-life characters and events, I thought the plot improbable. “The point is, Harold knew it was possible,” Bakewell says drily.

And the account in her memoirs of how she and her husband found out about each other’s affairs through a mix-up of letters; I mean, you couldn’t get away with that in a novel.

“Yes, people would think it a flaw in your structure. How do people have affairs these days, I wonder? How on earth do they manage it? You know, with itemised phone bills, and call back, and email and CCTV everywhere recording everything. I suppose people find a way.”

A ghost of a smile. “It certainly won’t die out, infidelity.”


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.