Dark as they look, Stephen Merchant’s spectacle frames glint red when caught in winter sunlight.

As he talks, sprawled on a sofa in a studio in west London, he stares over the top of them with pink-rimmed, pale-lashed eyes, his head resting on his hand.

In the fingers of the other hand he holds a fat Bolivar cigar which he draws on repeatedly until he disappears behind a wreath of smoke. When he reappears, he looks at the cigar and nods to himself.

It’s all true, apart from the bit about the cigar. I borrowed that from a history essay Merchant wrote as a student. He had been asked to discuss the Balfour Declaration and began with a vivid, imaginary account of Churchill chewing on a cigar as he prepared a White Paper on it. The essay came back with ‘Daily Mail?’ written in the margin.

Merchant mentions this story because he says it’s what journalists always do. ‘Journalistic speculation,’ he calls it. ‘You will go away and come up with some psychological insights about me, and people will assume that because they appeared in print they must be accurate.’

Let us start with some facts, then. Merchant was born in 1974 and grew up in Bristol. His father was a plumber. He got three As at A-level and a place to read film and literature at Warwick University.

A year after graduating, he went to work for the radio station Xfm. That was in 1997. His boss was Ricky Gervais. Together they went on to write The Office and Extras and, in so doing, invented a new genre – the comedy of embarrassment.

They also won armfuls of awards – between them an Emmy, two Golden Globes, three Baftas and five British Comedy Awards. They also became rich, especially when an American version of The Office was made (they are its executive producers). Their DVD sales have been record-breaking, as have their podcasts – banter between Gervais, Merchant and their friend Karl Pilkington. They entered The Guinness Book of Records for the most downloads: five million in a month.

So, before I start with the speculation, how would he describe himself? ‘Lanky funnyman [he’s 6ft 7in]. That’s what I’d push for.’

And psychologically? ‘A bit cautious, maybe. Probably not as gregarious as Ricky … I wish I had more angst and torment.’ Because? ‘It would make me much more interesting.’

He thinks he’s shallow? Long pause. ‘Not shallow, no. It’s more I have a fear of not having anything new to say.’

I feel a psychological insight coming on. Although he is warm and friendly, I think the business of being interviewed makes Merchant feel uncomfortable because he can’t control it. He is happiest when experiencing life second-hand, you see. ‘I always feel myself stepping out of myself,’ he tells me. ‘I always feel I am watching things from a removed point. I’m standing back thinking: What’s happening here? What are the dynamics? I always float above things, looking at the drama.’

He’s emotionally detached, then.

‘Yes, and I don’t think it’s healthy. I think it can translate as an emotional coldness. It’s like spending your entire holiday worrying about the photos you’re going to take. You become so obsessed with capturing the beauty of the Taj Mahal you forget to actually look at it and enjoy it. I suppose I have always wanted to live in a film. Take actual experience and make it artificial. Have a beginning, middle and end. And a cool soundtrack.’

Which leads us to his new BBC 6 radio show, in which he plays music that interests him and chats about the tracks, sometimes with guests. He is obsessed with music, he says – an eclectic mix, from Stevie Wonder to the Pixies and Guillemots. ‘I’m one of these perverts who like playing music at people. When I drive people in my car, they have to listen to my CD compilations. Don’t be bringing your own CDs when you drive with me.’

He locks the doors? ‘Lock the doors. Ride the volume. Drive for miles.’

He grins his wide, Creature Comforts grin. I ask him if his passengers are allowed to talk. ‘They’re allowed to ask me questions about each track, at the end. But no talking over the top of them. I’m fairly ruthless about that. No conversation. Just calmly listen to the music. That’s what it’s there for.’

He speaks, by the way, with rolling West Country vowels. It’s an attractive voice but he doesn’t seem to like it. He and Gervais gave the least sympathetic character in The Office, Gareth, the same accent. ‘It came about because, while we were improvising, I would take the part of Gareth and because I have a Bristol accent we started to have that feel in our heads. Also there is an association with dimness. My accent has a yokelish quality to it. So we asked Mackenzie Crook [Gareth] to emulate it.’

And here, ladies and gentlemen, we arrive at the second psychological insight. Merchant tells me The Office is not a reflection of his character, but the podcasts are. ‘I’ve got pretensions, I think. I have to display consciously what little learning I might have had. I think Ricky has fewer urges to display his natural intelligence. He has an incredible memory and studied philosophy at London University but is happy for people to think he is an oik from Reading. I quite like the idea of people knowing I come from a working-class background but went to university.’

He’s insecure? ‘I don’t know whether it is insecurity, but when I was younger, my heroes were the Cambridge Footlights types, like John Cleese and Stephen Fry. Clever men who made clever plays on words. I aspired to that.’

Merchant is 32, 14 years younger than Gervais. ‘I don’t think Ricky was a mentor in the traditional sense. He is much younger in his outlook than most people his age. He always seemed very savvy to me, thinking three steps ahead. He was quite stable in terms of his opinions and his relationship with Jane [his partner].’

Gervais taught him how to be less mannered as a radio performer. ‘He encouraged me to drop some of the façade I had learned on student radio, all those DJ mannerisms – “and now at the top of the hour”. Me trying to sound more slick than I naturally was.’

What did Gervais get out of the partnership? ‘I think he liked my deadpan reactions to things. I just used to tell him stories of the pitiful episodes in my life and he would find them amusing. They usually involved failed romantic encounters. It taps into the basic human fear that you will end up alone, embarrassed and humiliated.’

Gervais and Merchant have been dubbed the Lennon and McCartney of comedy writing, but that celebrated partnership imploded. I ask Merchant whether he consciously avoids arguments with Gervais. ‘I think we’ve been lucky in that he has done other stuff and I, through sheer laziness, haven’t. So we are not competitive in that sense. And we don’t socialise together as much as we used to.’

There hasn’t been a Yoko factor yet … Is he courting at the moment? ‘Blimey you slipped that question in! I don’t like talking about these things … There is a girl, but I’m very protective of that aspect of my life, for her sake. Besides, the Yoko factor was to do with Yoko wanting to contribute artistically and I don’t think that applies with our girlfriends.’

Although Karl Pilkington is a former radio producer, and a bestselling author, he is usually described in the press as an idiot savant. When I met him last summer, he told me that Gervais could be quite possessive of him, not wanting to miss out on any strangely wise – or stupid – observations he might have made to his girlfriend, Suzanne. Does the same apply to Merchant? ‘I don’t think Ricky feels that way about me. Not in quite the same way. I think I would feel jealous, though, if he wanted to work with someone else, because it is a very enjoyable process. Ricky has great enthusiasm. He bounces in most days riffing on some idea or other, making me laugh. It’s exhilarating to be around someone that creative.’

We discuss their working method. ‘Ricky and I always sit together. Sit in a room and stare at each other. I won’t let him play music, which he often wants to, because I find it distracting. We have a barren office. Few distractions. We throw ideas and anecdotes back and forth until something bubbles to the surface. Initially, we will talk about the mood of the project, trying to find a common language. With The Office, it started with realising we had met similar types of people. We had both had a little experience of offices and understood the dynamics of them.’

I ask about his childhood in Bristol, specifically whether it was true that his mother was, to use a catchphrase of his, a crack-whore. ‘Yes, my mother was a crack-whore and my father was a fighter pilot. A lot of people thought they would never end up together but they did. Very pleased for them.’

Actually, his mother was a nursery nurse. It was the comedian Richard Pryor whose mother was a prostitute, a biographical detail Merchant has said he envies because his own childhood was boringly pleasant.

Did his parents have aspirations for him to break into the middle classes? ‘Yes. I think my father would have liked to have gone to university but circumstances prevented him. He did not go to a school where they primed you for it. Ricky and I have discussed a new project called The Men from the Pru, which would look at the small-time lives of men working for Prudential Insurance, men with aspirations to move out of their class. I always feel moved by the idea of frustrated dreams and lives of quiet desperation.’

His father, Ron, had a cameo in The Office as a handyman who becomes transfixed by the documentary cameras whenever he walks into shot. Did if feel strange giving his father a job?

‘There wasn’t any great significance to it. He just put on this funny, deadpan face one day and it really tickled Ricky and me. He’s a naturally funny man. A guy to break the ice at parties.’

It was his father who first made him laugh. ‘He’d do silly things. Always mucking around. You know, he’d pull his underpants too tight and walk funny.’ Are they similar in character? ‘In some instances yes, though I don’t feel like I am a show-off naturally. If I go to a party I will happily listen to someone else be entertaining. I used to be quite shy.’ Was that to do with his height? ‘Not so much now. When I was younger, yes, I would feel self-conscious about it. I would get stared at.’

He had a cameo himself in The Office, playing nerdy Gareth’s even nerdier friend, Oggy. David Brent (Gervais) made fun of his height and called him a ‘goggle-eyed freak’, at which point he ran from the room. In Extras, Merchant plays a more robust character, Darren Lamb, the incompetent agent of Andy Millman (Gervais), a role for which he won a British Comedy Award for Best TV Actor, beating Gervais to the title. Gervais was present at the event via satellite from New York. ‘A British Comedy Award, quite a prize,’ he enthused. ‘Not to me: I’ve won American ones.’

Merchant plans to do less comedy in future and more drama. He appeared briefly in an episode of 24, and a part in the Brideshead Revisited remake has also been lined up. He doesn’t like learning lines, though. He has to write them down and hide them around the set, which is why he is often sitting down in Extras.

Performing on stage terrifies him. ‘Yet I have a weird compulsion to do it. I suppose it is a challenge. I don’t like what it means to be labelled a comedian. I find it a bit distasteful. The sort of person who says: do you know what? I am so entertaining I am going to walk on that stage on my own and amuse you for an hour. What does that say about someone’s ego?’

But his greatest fear is not of forgetting lines or being on stage – it is of being bored. ‘I can’t bear a bore, someone who dominates a party. It exhausts me. When I talk to a bore I feel the life draining out of me. I don’t want to have to compete.’

That’s why he doesn’t really enjoy hanging out with fellow comedians. ‘They are the worst audience because they consider it a sign of weakness if they laugh.’ An exception is Gervais. ‘The great thing about Ricky is that he loves being entertained. He is a great audience.’

Gervais likes to boast about his wealth, as a joke. In his new stand-up show, Fame, he recalls how annoyed he felt when the Sun revealed that his new house in Hampstead cost £2.5 million, because in fact it had cost £3.5 million. Merchant, too, lives in Hampstead. Just how rich is he? ‘It’s never as much as you think. I’m not fabulously rich but I’m not on the breadline either. I’m in the sort of comfortable position where I can do things that entertain me, like this music show on radio.’

On the contrast with his impecunious childhood, he has this to say: ‘I’m very cautious with money because I never had any growing up. I’m sort of wary of it. I’m not a gambler. I’m careful. I’m always half expecting people to turn round and say: “Right, you’ve had your moment, Merchant. That was it. You blew it all? Well I’m sorry, no more.” Money doesn’t govern me. I’m not lavish. I don’t buy jewellery or fast cars. I do think: would my father buy this? I will go out of my way to find a bargain. If I buy a DVD and then find a cheaper one a few shops down, I’m furious. I’m angry.’

Does money embarrass him? ‘Yes, because there is a presumption that I have a great deal of it. I don’t know how I am supposed to react to it and behave with it. I don’t know what the etiquette is. Am I supposed to buy everyone a drink when I walk into a bar? That would be crazy.’

Like Gervais, Merchant is a canny observer of human nature, especially of people who lead ordinary lives.

Presumably now that they lead extraordinary lives – living in big houses in Hampstead and hanging out with Hollywood stars – they will have to rely on their imaginations more. ‘True, it’s not as easy as it was for us to observe people in pubs or on buses. But I do consciously try to remain in touch with that. I listen to builders who come to do work on the house. And cab drivers. And there’s a guy who works in the supermarket where I buy my stuff and he is an extraordinarily eccentric character. He sings and tells stories and I always make a beeline for him.’

Expect to see a supermarket character in a future sitcom. Meanwhile, Merchant has to get back to editing the DVD of Extras, the extra bits.

He grins, shakes hands and rises from the sofa like a giraffe with sideburns. As he strides off I recall his self-description. He is lanky and funny. But he is also interesting, even if he doesn’t see it himself.


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.