There can be few sights as poignant as that of an Irish poet struggling to find the right word on a slate-grey afternoon in London. And not any old Irish poet, the Irish poet: Seamus Heaney, ‘Seamus Famous’ as he is known in his native County Derry. From the top-floor boardroom of his publisher, Faber & Faber, the 61-year-old Nobel Laureate, former professor of poetry at both Oxford and Harvard, and three times winner of the Whitbread prize, looks out through narrow, puffy eyes over the rooftops of Queen Square. He runs thick, long-nailed fingers through his white, scarecrow hair. He purses his corrugated lips. ‘No,’ he says softly. ‘No, I can’t think of the word, but “embarrassment” is not it…’
We have been talking about his relationship with his father, Patrick, who with his wife, Margaret, raised nine children in a three-room thatched farmstead in Mossbawn, County Derry, Northern Ireland. Over the years, Patrick Heaney, who died in 1986, has been the subject of many of his son’s poems. In ‘Follower’, from his first collection in 1966, Heaney wrote: ‘I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,/Fell sometimes on the polished sod;/ Sometimes he rode me on his back/Dipping and rising to his plod./I wanted to grow up and plough,/ To close one eye, stiffen my arm./All I ever did was follow/In his broad shadow round the farm.’ And in one of his best known poems, ‘Digging’, Heaney describes how naturally and expertly his father and grandfather handled a spade. The final stanzas read: ‘The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap/Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge/Through living roots awaken in my head./But I’ve no spade to follow men like them./Between my finger and my thumb/The squat pen rests./I’ll dig with it.’
One of Seamus Heaney’s earliest memories is of his father returning home without his hat and going to bed. He had nearly drowned after his horse reared up and his cart overturned on a riverbank. ‘The strangest thing was seeing my father without his hat,’ Heaney says with a heavy Irish lilt. ‘There was a sense of awe about it and about him going to bed – a farmer going to bed in the afternoon! A world-shaking event! That’s an eternal image, for me. Some of those things are ready-made poetry. You don’t touch them. As far as possible you don’t touch them. Let them happen. Don’t interfere.’ Heaney’s father left school at 14; what did he make of his precocious and gifted son winning a scholarship to a boarding-school at 11, followed in 1961 by a first-class degree in English from Queen’s University of Belfast? ‘I don’t know, I think he regarded it as a mystery. I suspect it would not have been his thing. I mean, he didn’t devalue it, he wasn’t afraid of it, or against it, he watched it happen – as he did the oddity of me publishing a book and himself being in it. That must have been a curiosity. We didn’t quite deal with that, we didn’t even discuss it. No way of discussing it.’
Was his father embarrassed by it? ‘No,’ he says softly. ‘No, I can’t think of the word, but “embarrassment” is not it… “Embarrass” would be too laxative a word. Not embarrassed. What would be the word?’ Long pause. ‘I think he ended up pleased. Pleased that I had defined something for myself. He knew everything about cattle, that was what he had defined for himself. I went with him to markets, fairs and so on and saw he had an area of expertise. He could know the weight of a beast to within a few pounds. So… Pleased.’ And proud? ‘I guess at the end, yeah. But he wouldn’t have gone so far as to proclaim it!’ Seamus Heaney has a compact smile that he deploys with such regularity – it’s there at the end of nearly every sentence – it is more like a facial tic. But here it blooms into a laugh, and when Seamus Heaney – a big, friendly bear of a man – laughs, you find yourself laughing with him. ‘No, he wouldn’t go that far now!’
He never tried to teach his father about poetry, so he could share his son’s pleasure in it. ‘The other way around, if anything. I would enjoy the masquerade that he had never read a line.’ He laughs again. ‘We are creatures of many capacities and you can live on a thousand levels without dishonesty.’ So what did they talk about, father and son? ‘The way he indicated equality, at easeness, was to talk about my mother. To worry about her. It was a way of treating you as a grown-up, as somebody that he confided in. There wasn’t that much substantial exchange but there was a good bit of silent assignation between us.’ In one Heaney poem, the hands of his dead father reappear as ‘two ferrets,/Playing all by themselves in a moonlit field’. Did he feel haunted by his father? Was there unfinished business between them, something left unsaid when he died? ‘Plenty left unsaid, but nothing left un-understood, I don’t think. I’m never sure what place content has in poetry, you know, personal information, but there’s actually a poem at the end of the book [his new collection, Electric Light] called “Seeing the Sick”. I was glad to see him at the end. I suppose everybody has their persona, and his parents had died when he was young and he had been brought up by uncles, in a kind of gruff, male, unyielding household without women in it. But in the end, the last three or four weeks, he wasn’t wary any more. That iron mask of his, as it were, came off. And there was something of his own shyness and bewilderment of the world that came off, too.’
Seamus Heaney has a public persona that is distinct from his private one, too. He has spoken of himself as being Seamus Heaney and ‘Seamus Heaney’. ‘The person in inverted commas is a composite identity that begins to stalk you. It has to be, I suppose. I mean, I have to be myself somewhere other than in interviews! And while I think you should be as truthful as possible, obviously that shouldn’t be to the point of gormlessness.’
The need to have a public persona is unusual for a post-War poet, as most have lived lives of impecunious obscurity. A few, such as Ted Hughes, Philip Larkin and John Betjeman, became literary superstars, but not many have become bestsellers, as Seamus Heaney did with his translation of Beowulf. Beowulf even made him poet of choice for Jerry Hall, one of the judges who awarded him the Whitbread Book of the Year prize in 1999. ‘If there has been an element of self-invention, I don’t think it is a necessarily exploitative thing,’ he says. ‘Every spontaneous response is an act of invention, isn’t it? And I think the longer you’re around, the more you’re aware of the layering of these things. I think a cut-out develops, you know? The figure called SH, or whatever. And you’re a moving plasma somewhere in the middle of that outline.’
I wonder whether this duel identity has evolved because even he finds his childhood in rural Derry a little too rich, romantically speaking, a little too twee and perfect for a poet. Has he almost stopped believing it himself? ‘Well, there is that factor, yes. I mean, “He was born on a farm in County Derry, one of nine children,” you know. Instead of, “He was actually the only son of a stockbroker from north Belfast and his parents were secret supporters of the Unionist party.”‘ He laughs. ‘But the fact remains, I am the eldest of what were nine, there are now eight. And I have brothers who are schoolteachers and sisters married to solicitors. But then I also have a brother who drives a lorry, and a brother who’s a farmer. And to the extent that I always had that, I was in two worlds, really. And I was lucky in having that background. It sounds so corny and pious, but it has to be said, it’s true.’
There were few books in the Heaney household, but the poetic sensibilities of the young Seamus were nourished by the sprung rhythms of the BBC Shipping Forecast and the poetry of the Roman Catholic litany. Heaney describes his childhood as a ‘den-life’ more or less emotionally and intellectually proofed against the outside world. ‘I think that if you grew up on your own ground, even if it’s a small farm, and you can see where your neighbours are and where the horizon is, it feels like the world is settled. It was actually medieval almost, with the beasts and the smells. You felt you were born, culturally speaking, 400 or 500 years ago, you know? The world that I grew up in was romantic – lamplight, fires, horses, wells. It was an intimate, physical, creaturely existence in which the night sounds of the horse in the stable beyond one bedroom wall mingled with the sounds of adult conversation from the kitchen beyond the other.’
And yet, in a poem called ‘Whatever You Say Say Nothing’ – political advice his mother gave him as a child – Heaney describes the ‘famous/Northern reticence, the tight gag of place/And times.’ His family was ‘watchful, sly and preoccupied with not speaking’, or rather with being unable to speak out. Words are dangerous in a riven community, Heaney explains, just saying your name opens the door to a wave of ancient hatreds and allegiances. Though he was born in Northern Ireland, Seamus Heaney doesn’t consider himself to be British. Indeed when he was included in The Penguin Book of Contemporary British Poetry (1982), he dropped a peevish line to its editors, Andrew Motion and Blake Morrison: ‘Be advised, my passport’s green/No glass of ours was ever raised/To toast the Queen.’
Early in his career, Heaney dabbled in barricade versification, writing a mocking ballad about the policing of the civil rights demonstrations and a song about Bloody Sunday. Though he was involved in some of the marches, he recoiled from the notion of any simple enlistment. As a public figure, he was criticised by both sides for being too detached from the Troubles, neither overtly condemning violence, nor condoning it. In 1972 he and his wife and three children left Northern Ireland for the Republic. In addition to a house in Dublin he bought a cottage in Wicklow, 45 minutes’ drive from the capital, and it is here that he does his writing. The place had, and still has, no telephone lines. ‘When I go there I feel gathered and safe and under cover.’ It was here, in 1975, that he wrote the critically acclaimed and (unusually for a collection of poetry) best-selling North. In his autobiography Gerry Adams describes how he once avoided being arrested by British troops by hiding his face behind a copy of North. The book was attacked by Unionists for going too far – in comparing ancient Irish tribalism with contemporary sectarianism – and by Republicans for not going far enough. But both criticisms failed to see that the book had subtly turned a public debate into a private one.
The poet and critic James Fenton remarked, ‘With North, Heaney found a way of being an honest man with a troubled conscience. He didn’t take sides in the external confrontation but reported an internal one.’ In 1994, after the first ceasefire was announced, Heaney said he felt 25 years younger, but also angry at the 25 years of loss. ‘I can see that the Loyalist thing, the bitterness, the danger of that backlash is always possible,’ he now says of the 1998 Good Friday Agreement. ‘But I refuse to let myself believe that anything like the IRA campaign can ever start again. It’s risky, though, because the problem with the IRA is that you’re dealing with theology rather than politics. It’s a metaphysical republic to which they are dedicated. And they are entrapped in vows.’ Pause. ‘So they have to lose… to put it another way, they have to lose their faith before it’s…’ He checks himself and smiles. ‘But that’s a Catholic problem.’
Heaney once said that his language and sensibility are yearning to admit of a religious or a transcendent dimension. ‘But then there’s the reality: there’s no heaven, no afterlife of the sort we were promised and no personal God.’ Does he still think of himself as a Roman Catholic, though? ‘I think so. But you reconsider it all the time, I guess. I think that our capacity to dwell in two or three minds in religious matters is immense. And right into my early twenties I went to Mass. But, of course, I was also a student of literature at the time, seeking coherence in not practising religion – there was an imperative to secularise myself and put the test on all this stuff. Then, in my fifties, I attended my first death beds – my mother’s and my father’s – and I found it an utterly simple and utterly mysterious thing to watch. Life goes, spirit goes, whatever, and abstract words that had previously had an ephemeral flimsiness to them were no longer abstractions.’
So he found the rigid structure that Roman Catholicism offers a comfort? ‘Catholicism gives you a set of precision instruments. If you were to look at it, as it were, as a novelist, you could see it as a very bad thing, you know – authoritarian, repressive. But for a young lyric poet it is good to see the whole cosmos ashimmer with God and to know you, a pinpoint of plasma, are part of It, He, whatever. There is a sense every volition that passes through you is registered. That you are accountable. That every action and secret thought is known out there on the rim of eternity. It’s a wonderful thing. It’s good for a young poet to have that sense of owning the whole space, the whole time, and being owned by it.’
As his confidence in religion ebbed, Heaney’s belief in the value of work flowed. As a young man, he considered being a poet as much a vocation as being a priest. He still refers to his job as a calling and tells me, ‘My life has been made meaningful by the visitation of poetry.’ But given what his father and grandfather did for a living – hard, sweaty labour – does he feel poetry is a proper job for a man? ‘Gradually, over the past 40 years, I’ve been justifying it to myself as a proper job, yes. I mean, obviously, in the place where I grew up the word “work”, whether noun or verb, entailed physical labour, usually. And the thought that the able-bodied, eldest son of the house could sit, on a sunny day, in a room upstairs with a book and a pen, while the rest were in the hayfield, turning the hay, seemed like I was absconding from work. But, you know, I didn’t sit, I worked there. I also like to think that in the Irish tradition there is always the sense of writing as labour. It’s actually called “scribal bother” in Ireland. But maybe you’re right, maybe that is why I always kept teaching, to have a proper job and a steady income. I didn’t travel on the creative writing ticket, so to speak. I got energy from working hard at the job and a kind of perverse pride in saying I marked 600 scripts every summer.’
Heaney was first inspired to try writing poetry by reading Gerard Manley Hopkins at school, and tried it again later when he came under the spell of TS Eliot and Emily Dickinson at university. But it was only when he read a poem by Ted Hughes called ‘View of a Pig’ that he realised material from his own life was a relevant subject. In 1966 he was commissioned by Faber & Faber to write a whole collection, after a couple of his poems were spotted in the New Statesman. Heaney was thrilled, not only because it was – and is – almost unheard of for a publisher to approach a poet, but because he knew that in joining the Faber list he would be part of a line of succession which included Eliot, Auden and Ted Hughes. ‘When I began to write poems I felt a great excitement,’ he says. ‘Certainly when I wrote “Digging” I felt that, whatever it means to call something a poem, that must be it, because I felt it touched base, I hit the bottom of myself, something had moved. I still retain a certain awe of the word “poet”, yes. I mean, it still has an archaic force to it. I don’t want to be coy but, as a word, for me, it hasn’t been robbed of its faintly sacred aura.’
When Heaney first began to publish poetry in university magazines he did so under a Latin pseudonym, Incertus – ‘not sure’. He later wrote a poem about his pen name. ‘I went disguised in it, pronouncing it with a soft church-Latin c, tagging it under my efforts like a damp fuse. Uncertain. A shy soul fretting and all that. Expert obeisance.’ It wasn’t until North was published that he felt he had earned the right to call himself a poet – as well as the money to give up teaching for a while. ‘I finally thought, “OK that’s fine, you’ve paid your way, now proceed.”‘ So as a young man he never introduced himself as a poet at parties? Never used it as a chat-up line? ‘No. I don’t know, I don’t know, err…’ Laughter. He met his wife, Marie Devlin, at a university undergraduate dinner. ‘Somebody thought we should meet, she was with somebody else. We got on very well and I walked her home, in the days of demure activity, and I arranged to meet her again – that week.’ So it was love at first sight? ‘Well, excited – the words “in love” panic me but I guess I must have been, yeah. Then we were on the conveyor belt of the engagement ring, the marriage, the children.’
The couple have two sons and a daughter. Did he write Marie any slushy love poems then that he would prefer the literary world not to see now? ‘There are poems like that in university magazines, yes.’ He chuckles at the memory. ‘But it was a heady, risky moment and, as they say, falling in love and starting to write poetry go together quite often. There’s an element of desperation at that stage of your life, a need for focus, a sense that you have flared into yourself. Poetry is an orgasmic fulfilment that lasts for a second or two and then you have to do it again. Yes, there was a sense of refreshment and love there but I’m kind of shy of talking about it. Things that are too close like that should almost be kept.’ Heaney has much to say on the subject of not saying much. ‘Once again, to go back to my family life, silence was valued, speech was almost a devaluing of the thing; if you could speak too accurately, it became suspect.’ Long pause. ‘It was to do with my father who was either archaic or aristocratic, whatever you want to call it, but there was a code, and you knew the code or you didn’t. If you knew how to conduct yourself properly, you didn’t talk too much about yourself and your feelings.’
This seems an odd sentiment coming from a poet whose stock in trade is emotion. But I suspect that Heaney’s reluctance to analyse himself, other than in his often autobiographical poetry, is the same as that of the novelist Martin Amis, who fears that self-analysis – and for that matter psychoanalysis – will make the spell of creativity evaporate. Heaney is a self-effacing man. He was on holiday in Greece when it was announced that he had won the 1995 Nobel Prize for Literature, and, when he flew back to Dublin to be met off the plane by a cheering crowd and the Irish prime minister, he looked bewildered. The citation declared that Heaney’s work had ‘a lyrical beauty and an ethical depth, which exalts everyday miracles and the living past’.
I first began to read and enjoy Seamus Heaney’s work when I was 17, an age when, as he puts it, ‘there’s an element of desperation’ when you fall in love every five minutes and are especially susceptible to the intoxicating power of poetry. North was one of my A-level set texts. When I found my yellowing, dog-eared copy on my bookshelf, I discovered that I had annotated it with the words ‘dense syllabic lines, gnarled textures, hallucinatory audibility of images’. I don’t think those observations were mine, but they do seem to get to the nub of his genius. People who have never seen a tool handle grown satiny from it own natural polish, heard a spade slicing through peat, or a leather football skittering musically across frozen ground, feel as if they have after reading Heaney. Regressing to my gauche, sixth-form self, and mildly disconcerted by meeting a living writer I had studied alongside so many dead ones – Shakespeare, Eliot and Hardy – I ask him to sign my antique copy of North. ‘Ah, now this is the genuine article,’ he says holding it up to the light. ‘This, I think, has been read.’


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.