Friendships only lasted two years in my childhood. My dad was an army helicopter pilot so we moved every two years: Hong Kong, Cyprus, Germany, Yorkshire, Hampshire. We’d arrive and my mother would push me out and tell me to knock on doors looking for other kids.
The recorder is a terrible instrument. My mother made me take it up when I could barely walk. Then at four she started me on the violin. I’d learn with other children, dancing round a hot cross bun. On reflection, it might well have been Satanic. It was the 1970s, I suppose.
I boarded at school from the age of seven. My parents dropped me off and walked away. On day three, I asked the matron: “When will I see Mum and Dad again?” I was told Christmas. This was September. I never really saw them again until I got famous.
At Harrow, boys ran the school. I worked for one senior pupil. I was called his special; I had to call him God. I took him tea and toast, made his bed, drew his curtains. I didn’t love it, so did my fair share of troublemaking. Importantly, I never got caught.
I eat far too quickly. On the first day of army training, you’re swept into the mess hall, get a plate, and are screamed at to get out the room before you’ve put the plate down. By day 2, you’re eating before sitting. By day three, you’ve polished it off before the screaming starts.
Being hands on with my kids when I can is important. I am away for long periods. With my second child, I left the day after the birth for nine months. Fatherhood changed my priorities. I was selfish. Now these little people are far more important than me.
In 1999, I served in Kosovo. It was a war zone: bullets, mortars, mines. I was moved by individuals on both sides who showed great compassion and kindness, but murderous and genocidal groups displayed none. I lost much of my faith in people – and have little hope for humankind.
Life is not a dress rehearsal. My father gave me that advice. Go out there, do everything. It’s why I got into music. I had the dream and didn’t want to grow old with regret.
Losing Carrie Fisher is my greatest sadness. I was with her the day before she died. Knowing how it happened [Fisher died with drugs in her system], I wish I’d been able to do something. Have an impact. It’s taken me a long time to write a song about her. It’s on this album. It’s about what I wish I could’ve said to her when she was alive. What I wish I could say to her now.
If you look at my Wikipedia page, it will say that I’m 47 – I’m actually 49. That’s because I changed the entry.
Crowdsurfing was meant to ramp up my rockstar credentials. The first time I fell flat on the floor. The second? On landing, the bouncer couldn’t work out who I was, smacked me to the floor and refused to let me go. At Glastonbury, I thought I’d mastered it. Unable to climb back on to the Pyramid stage, I repeatedly screamed “help me” at a man above. Turns out he was BBC camera crew. My pleading was broadcast live.
I hit big in 2005. I toured the world, moved to LA and partied hard. My greatest achievement is coming out of it unscathed with a family, and a smile on my face. Having a tight-knit team helps. My father does my books. My crew has been the same forever. To be honest, they’re getting pretty old.
The music I love is different to the music I make. My sound might be “man with suits shedding a tear”, but most nights you’ll find me raving away in a nightclub. It’s why I love living in Ibiza. I hope to die here. Hopefully not yet.
Who We Used To Be by James Blunt is released by Atlantic Records on 27 October