I was an army brat who lived on army patches – in Cyprus, Hong Kong, Germany and as far afield and exotic as Yorkshire. Every two years we’d move with my father’s helicopter pilot’s job and I’d knock on doors and ask, “Do you have any children of a similar age?”. If so, you’d make a best friend for two years; then never see them again. In Cyprus my best friends were Canadians. In Germany there was lots of bratwurst and chips, but in Cyprus the simple Greek food was fantastic – Mediterranean, delicious and very healthy.
My overwhelming childhood food memories are of my mother cooking liver with fried onions. She was brilliant with liver. If she could cook other things, she kept those up her sleeve.
I was taught the violin when I was four and my big memory of it is having to play Hot Cross Buns while going anti-clockwise around a small table with some hot cross buns on it. And I genuinely think we might have been involved in some kind of satanic ritual, judging by the violin’s noise as well as whatever we were made to do during it.
I ended up at boarding schools (Elstree and Harrow) but flew to see my parents between terms, which is why I ended up joining the army to pay them back. I remember so vividly being very excited by plane food as an unaccompanied minor on Lufthansa or British Airways. It is probably why I fitted well into life in the army – choosing ration packs containing menus A, B, C or D. Baked beans and sausages were in A and – always exciting – corned beef hash was in B. But the boxes are just thrown out and then you have to trade with people standing next to you.
Before I was at Sandhurst, I began studying aerospace mechanical engineering at Bristol, which had 38 hours of lectures a week. But then I changed to sociology, which had four. It made a great deal of sense. And good beer was a pound a pint. At the Coronation Tap pub you had half pints of cider because it was so strong. It was a pound for a triple shot in the local student club. I slept in an L-shaped shared room, with a mirror in the corner, off campus, and ate things like jars of Chicken Tonight with chicken chucked in.
The Italian soldiers I worked with had much better ration packs, even containing shots of grappa. They’d have fantastic coffee and we’d stop beside them in the armed vehicle as they brewed it and they’d offer us some, but wouldn’t have dreamt of trying ours – they’d just politely laugh.
As a recon officer in a unit trying to keep peace in the Balkan war, the idea was to meet as many Kosovan-Albanian and Serbian people as possible to learn of their angers and fears. I’d be invited into homes, and sit bootless and cross-legged having tea at first – quite bitter – and then we’d eat. That way you find comfort and trust in each other.
I think it’s still part of training at Sandhurst that the first day you walk into the food hall, the mess hall, as you sit down to eat, they’re screaming at you, “Left right, left right”, and out you go. On the second day you’re moving a bit faster. But on the third day you just shovel food down. On a mission in a war zone you realise you’re going to have to eat, sleep, clean a weapon and generally tend to yourself along the way, over an extended period of time, so you get into the routine of stealing moments when you eat.
A ration pack is such a simple thing; boil in the bag that you don’t leave in so it’s too hot, because if an enemy comes over the hill you can’t eat it fast enough. You want it just warm enough to enjoy. If you need to warm it by putting it under your arm, that’s what you do. If you’re lucky enough to be in even a small tank there’s a metal container, a hit box, you can plug in.
In 1999, the Russians had beaten us to Pristina airport in Kosovo – a place of logistical importance – mainly because they were allowed in unhindered by the Serbs. US General Wesley Clark gave an order to attack the Russians, but I wasn’t prepared to start world war III. We pulled back and surrounded the airport. Two days later the Russians went to the Nato commander and said they hadn’t brought food and water, and so the commander said: “We’re prepared to share ours if you’ll share the airport.” Rations swung the deal.
As a touring musician, at pretty much every show there’s an after-party (Corona and vodka) and then, when we wander on to the tour bus, my guitar technician Brian is there with the Breville, offering ham and cheese toasties. A tour bus is more comfortable than a tank, but there’s a great similarity on tour in how I have another team of experts around and supporting me.
I’ve always thought Beirut my favourite place to play, although we didn’t go there last time because of security issues. Lebanon is such an incredibly vibrant, welcoming mixing pot of special people, Muslim, Christian and Jew, really aware of their own mortality and therefore very much alive and appreciative every day, with wonderful food. Lebanese food is the cousin of Greek food, is how I see it.
Owning a pub is, I think, a good, healthy thing to do during the three-year cycle of writing, recording, releasing, promoting and touring albums. I own the Fox & Pheasant in London. It used to be my local, round the corner from a house I stored clothes in and which I passed through. It was dirty, unloved and we called it the Fox & Unpleasant, but then one night I was sitting next to an estate agent who said it was on his books. It’s my local, I’m a minor pop star and one’s entire job surely is to preserve one’s local. So I found myself choosing, rubbing down and varnishing wood, and making sure the lavatories became really smart. I got the look from Soho House in Berlin, where a man walked into the loo and saw me taking photos of the urinal and exclaimed: “You’re James Blunt!” I imagine he could be relaying to someone, at this very moment: “I met James Blunt and he’s a urinal fetishist.”
I have, with Lawrence Dallaglio [the former rugby player] and Carl Fogarty [the former motorcycle racer], a restaurant at the top of the most-ridden ski lift in Verbier, Switzerland. My pizza topping out-sells both Dallaglio’s, which is like an American hot, and Fogarty’s which, if you ask me, is more like a salad up on top.
I was going up in the chairlift once, with my goggles on, with a boy and girl beside me. He said, “This is James Blunt’s ski-lift,” and she said, “And next year he’s apparently installing a sound-system to play only his music – so that’ll keep the queues down.” So I pulled off my goggles and said: “Hey mate, that’s my fucking joke.”
My wife eats gluten-free. That’s a huge bonus, in that she can’t drink my beer or eat my pizza.
My body has not been a temple. I’ve put it through any number of painful experiences. But I’m lucky in that my wife is the best cook I know now – of course – and that I no longer need to always go several times a week from home to eat at my favourite local in Ibiza, or rely on Domino’s on speed dial.
My favourite things
Food
Junk food. I once took a return flight from LA to Albuquerque, just to sample the spicy wings at a place by the side of the freeway called Chicken Basket.
Drink
Good old plain Coca-Cola. I’m a purist. It’s known as “the black doctor” for a reason. It fixes so many issues, is full of minerals and keeps you awake. I’m still looking for a vintage Coca Cola fridge, which is an amazing bit of kit.
Dish to make
A bowl of cereals. Or I’ve got baked beans in the cupboard and can serve it on some toast. Or flash it up with a tomato, or pour out sweetcorn. Otherwise I can make a tuna sandwich. Or scrambled eggs – that’s pretty adventurous.
How To Be A Complete and Utter Blunt: Diary of a Reluctant Social Media Sensation (Little Brown £12.99) is out now