As he releases his second album, the all-conquering grime star talks about living in the public eye, a new politics of hope – and why it nearly all went wrong at Glastonbury this summer
Ladies and gentlemen please make way for the man of 2019, barrelling into his lovely kitchen-lounge in a blue dressing gown and tracky bottoms. “Sorry, sorry!” says Stormzy, enveloping me in a hug. “Sorry.” His apologies are because he’s a bit late – he had a headache, “even though I went bed early” – and also because I’ve just heard him bawl out a man who came to his front door. Stormzy had thought it was a food delivery and so buzzed the gate to let him in. But the man wasn’t delivering food. “He was looking for money,” says Stormzy. “So send me an email, you get me? I get it’s a charity, but this is my home. I’m Michael here, not Stormzy!”
We’re sitting on an L-shaped sofa, opposite an enormous TV. Michael Omari Jr, aka Stormzy, who is jolly despite his buzzing head, goes to feed his dog, a huge Rottweiler lounging by the front door. Time for me to have a nosey around. Stormzy’s house is open plan, bright and modern, with what at first glance looks like an awful lot of ornaments but turns out to be awards: 29 of them, on various living-room shelves, including several Mobos. There’s also his 2019 Time cover, framed and waiting to be hung up, and in his downstairs loo a double platinum disc for his first album, Gang Signs & Prayers. The place is neat, but not a show home. There are clothes on the ironing board, bottles of Coke on the surfaces.Floor-to-ceiling glass doors look out over a grey sky, a small square of grass, a free-standing
boxing bag and what looks like a glass-fronted studio. It’s actually a glamma-kennel, for the dog.