2000 hours, location unknown: I've just managed to execute a tough escape from the frivolous hands of a Miss Fearne Cotton, who was probing me, PROBING ME GODDAMMIT, on live television, as to my intentions with the new single. As if an army captain...ok, ex-army captain...would reveal his plans. She should know that my intentions are ENTIRELY honourable, and not open for deliberation.
I'm proud to say that I maintained my composure (but it's getting hard; there are times I fear I might crack under the pressure, now that I no longer have Sgt. Major Herbert's shoulder to cry on), and once again withheld all information that could be deemed useful to my arch enemies in this pop world. As if I'd reveal my tactics to those lower specimens of so called 'entertainers', which brings me to another point - what's the ruddy pecking order in this place? There's no uniforms, no comprehension of self control! How are these pop ruffians meant to know that they answer to ME, Cpt James Blounte- I mean James Blunt - without the adequate uniforms?
2254 hours, the base: Finally, I'm back home with my dogs, Perkin, Warbeck and Richard, my suits of armour, and my cherished security system. Having checked the property for intruders (you never know what lengths these unscrupulous hack types will go to to catch one off guard), and read a little of my favourite bedtime story, 'Poems and Rhyme Schemes for Key Stage 1', I'm feeling somewhat inspired. Another song is in order methinks.
'It was love at first sight,
That night,
Your eyes,
Were blue like skies.'
I can't think of any more lines. Never mind, some repetition will suffice. People say it's unsophisticated, but it works damn well in the army - there's no question about the meaning of 'left, right, left, right, left'. Now for bed, but first a quick march to the kitchen to procure a receptacle of Bovril, then an about turn to retrieve my stuffed cat, namely Sergeant Tiddles. 
0530 hours, an English country lane: Oh joyous morn, how pulchrinuditous you are in this casting of diluted sunbeams! This bodily exertion induces such raptures in me, and... ABANDON PHYSICAL ACTIVITY IMMEDIATELY!
0531 hours, a hedge: Code red, there is an unidentified creature in the lane. Damn, why must they confiscate all army equipment on leaving the army? Those binoculars and camouflage trousers would prove most useful right now, as would the wildlife guide. And why did I lose my composure in public? I think however, that I can make it out on my own...golly, I think...it's a fox! Thank goodness, I needn't abandon the mission. After all, there's still 6K to run.
0719 hours: That was a wonderful plate of kedgeree, chef truly outdid himself! Such a delightful reward following my hard work this morning. I ran 11 miles! I can hardly believe it. It's as if I'm still back in the 14th infantry, commanding the chaps...sigh... None of these pop scallies would be able to run this far in the morning; no self discipline, the lot of them. Look at that James Bourne, for example. You can tell he just sits at home on the Playstation, eating brightly coloured confections, and not listening to any instruction, like a petulant soldier. And Lee Ryan, has he NO control over what he says? Of course, most of his views are superb, so similar to my mottoes in the army, but he should learn to keep mum - how will he know if a less worthy popstar is eavesdropping, trying to steal his tactics? I could teach them a thing or two...in fact, maybe I will...
I could start my own army! A pop army! Who would I recruit? Obviously, they'd have to have at least one of my own personal qualities and beliefs...superior social standing, the art of being able to communicate a complex emotion in one phrase (like 'you're beautiful' - I still can't believe how I came up with that one! It almost brings a tear to my eye when I think just how...well, how BEAUTIFUL it is!), and a good solid constitution...Stephen Fretwell! Charlie Simpson! Damien Rice! Dido! Will Young! Sophie Ellis-Bextor! Harry McFly! Good old Eggsy from GLC!
I could be the Nelson Mandela of this pop malarkey, bringing peace (no more of that horrible 'rock' racket), justice (the persecution of acoustica must be halted) and manners to this pop world!
Of course, these are only preliminary plans, and must be regarded with the highest confidentiality. The press shall not know that, for once, I have a secret. I'm not just covering up for the fact that I either don't know the answers to their questions, or that really, I have no inner-depths. I mean I do have inner-depths, I just have a chronic case of low self-esteem. And it's not really a lack of self-esteem, more a genetic problem. Sob, who am I kidding? How did those Monkey scallies beat me to the top spot? Am I, James Blounte, not worthy of such glory? Surely God realises that I deserve to be at the top for more than seven paltry weeks?
James, get a grip on yourself. Domination shall be ours! Now excuse me whilst I go to try out my briefing on the toy soldiers and Sergeant Tiddles.
