Mary Portas will be trying to help British manufacturers in her new show. Photograph: Karen Robinson

Handbag lady … Paris Hilton. Photograph: Excel Media / Rex Features

Mike Tyson says he is learning to be silent. Photograph: Rex Features

In the middle of the sound-check, he shakes his head and stops playing. The harmonica wheezes gently in protest. Everyone falls silent. Something is bothering him and no one is quite sure what. Will he throw a diva-esque tantrum à la Mariah Carey, and demand that his dressing room be re-stocked with lilies? Has someone forgotten to fulfil his rider request for eight dwarf strippers and a bowl of M&Ms (no blues)?

“That should be an F sharp,” Sting says after a few seconds of tense silence, pointing at the clarinettist. There is a collective sigh of relief. The music resumes and, this time, the clarinettist gets his notes right. Sting looks over and gives him the thumbs-up. The clarinettist beams with pleasure.

It is, perhaps, precisely this attention to detail that has given Sting such staying power. His musical career has now spanned a quarter of a century and along the way he has scooped 16 Grammy awards, sold more than 100m records and written some of the most memorable songs of the past three decades (“Roxanne”, “Message in a Bottle”, “Englishman in New York”). By the time we meet, the Symphonicity tour, which features orchestral re-workings of his substantial back catalogue, has been playing to packed venues for the best part of 18 months.

Sting explains (to a different interviewer) the songwriting process Link to this video

It becomes clear, throughout the rehearsal, that the members of the orchestra both respect Sting’s musical instinct and want to please him, as though he is a favoured teacher they are desperate to impress. Even the world-weary roadie next to me, who has spent most of his adult life on tour with various rock stars (Rod Stewart was, he confides, a nightmare) speaks about him like a mooning teenage girl. “Sting has such respect for other people,” the roadie says. “He’s just a great guy.”

Oh please, I think to myself. He can’t be that perfect. What about all those awful press articles you read about him? The ones with the yoga lessons, the constant preaching about saving the rainforest, the overly earnest attempts to paint himself as some kind of eco-warrior when his carbon footprint must be the size of Pluto? What about the rumours of arrogance and stubbornness, the fact that when the Police broke up in 1984 – one of the most successful British rock bands of all time – the drummer Stewart Copeland said that an on-going argument with Sting about what drum machine to use in a recording session was “the straw that broke the camel’s back”?

What about the tantric sex with Trudie, the networking events they hold in their Tuscan villa for spiritual gurus and creative thinkers, the biodynamic vineyards and the fact they were responsible for introducing Madonna to Guy Ritchie at one of their glitzy celebrity parties and, by extension, for subjecting us to all those photographs of Madge in tweed caps and tracksuits?

What about the accusations of unabashed grandeur, the rambling country pile in Wiltshire, the penthouse in New York, the chef who supposedly had to travel 100 miles to make Trudie a bowl of soup? What about the time when Elvis Costello, of all people, once called Sting’s music “appalling”?

But then, just as I am thinking of every single negative press cutting I have ever read about him, Sting walks across to introduce himself. He fixes his eyes on mine, touches my arm and says: “Are you who I think you are?” and the effect is totally disarming. Embarrassingly, I hear a giggle, then realise it is coming from me. It is hard to convey the impact of his sheer physical presence. He is not especially tall, but his body is powerful: thick-set and muscled, the veins in his neck sticking out like a wrestler’s.

Later, of course, it will strike me that it was a particularly clever opening line, managing simultaneously to give the impression that he knew who I was without actually needing to remember my name. “I have to wash before I speak to you because I stink,” he continues, his voice a weird transatlantic potpourri of vowels and dropped consonants. He smiles, blue eyes glinting, then walks briskly off stage. Everyone turns to watch him go

The roadie looks at me, raising his eyebrows. “Told you,” he says, grinning.

‘My ambition initially was just to make a living as a musician.’ Sting in 1979. Photograph: Jane Bown for the Observer

After Sting has showered and changed into a T-shirt and combats that look exactly the same as the ones he was wearing before, we walk to a nearby café and sit on the open terrace, facing each other across a wooden picnic table. He is turning 60 in October (taking advantage of this milestone to release a 25-year retrospective box-set of CDs and DVDs) and so, to break the ice, I ask him if this makes him a Libra, believing that my feigned interest in astrology will doubtless appeal to his “spiritual” side.

“Well I’m actually an Asparagus,” he says, deadpan. “Unique sign.”

Then, after he has ordered a miso soup and a shredded vegetable salad with Tahini dressing from his personal chef, I ask him about his diet. Is he strict about what he eats? “Officially yes. Unofficially: it’s ice cream, chocolate, wine.” But doesn’t Trudie tell you off? “No, no, no. I mean, she tells me I’m being silly when I’m being silly. When I have too much wine, it’s ‘Darling!’ She’s pretty disciplined.”

Well, this is most unexpected. Five minutes in and Sting has already demolished the mung-bean-eating myth of himself as pop music’s answer to the Dalai Lama. The next thing I’ll find out is that he’s fed-up of tantric sex… is he? “That story is 20 years old,” he says, protesting. This is slightly disingenuous – in January, he and Trudie, his film-producer wife of 18 years and mother to four of his six children, gave a joint interview to Harper’s Bazaar in which he claimed: “I don’t think pedestrian sex is very interesting… we like tawdry.” To which the near-universal response was: put it away, love.

“If you want to ask me seriously what tantric sex is, I might try and give you a coherent answer,” Sting says now, sipping spoonfuls of miso soup. “It’s using every aspect of your life – whether it’s walking, breathing, eating, speaking, making love – as an act of devotion or an act of gratitude. That’s all it is. The whole idea of seven hours of fuc – ” he stops himself, “of intercourse – I mean, please!”

We laugh. In person, Sting seems to take himself much less seriously than the public image of him would have us believe. Given all the flak he has attracted over the years in the press, does he care what people think of him?

“In some ways I consider it an advantage to know how other people view you. You’re under no illusions about how you’re thought of. You have to strike a balance: there’s people who can’t stand the sight of you, there’s people who really love you and obviously the truth is somewhere in the middle. That’s the passage I’m navigating… I don’t get unduly hurt. I might get a bit crazy…”

What – you might punch someone (the Police were well known for their impromptu back-stage fist-fights)? He gives a lazy smile. “No, I wouldn’t do that. I might rehearse it in my mind, but I wouldn’t do it.”

He spears a sliver of carrot with his fork and chews, thoughtfully. The sky darkens and a few droplets of rain fall on the ground. Within minutes, we are in the grip of a thunderstorm and four separate minions have come to bring him an umbrella, stacking each one up against the side of the table. “Thank you,” he says, every time someone brings him another, obviously worried lest he appear ungrateful. By the time the storm clears, he looks like a cloakroom attendant.

It is all a very long way from Wallsend, Newcastle, where Sting – born Gordon Sumner – grew up in a house “where literally the ship yard was at the end of the street – surreal!” His mother, Audrey, was a hairdresser and his father, Ernie, a milkman. As a boy, Gordon helped his father on the round, but secretly dreamed of being a musician, plucking away at home on an old Spanish guitar left behind by an uncle who had emigrated to Canada.

“My ambition initially was just to make a living as a musician,” he says. “I thought that was a very honourable way to make a life, to pay the rent, put some food on the table.”

His parents’ marriage was an unhappy one and his mother eventually eloped with one of his father’s co-workers. In his critically acclaimed 2003 autobiography, Broken Music (written without a ghost-writer), he describes Audrey as “always looking longingly away from home for her salvation”.

As the eldest of four children, Gordon bore the brunt of much of the marital strife: “because my siblings were younger I was trying to protect them from what I knew and that was a big strain for me. I was basically the keeper of secrets.” He grimaces. “Still am.” He says that, at the age of seven, he was “detached, lonely and driven” and that his personality has barely changed since. “That’s basically where I am now – detached, really detached.”

And it is true that no matter how charming Sting can be, there is a definite sense that you only get so far with him and no further. It is not guardedness exactly – in fairness, he answers every question I put to him – but more a sense that you are speaking to him through a layer of glass; that he is more comfortable in his own company, with his own thoughts, than with having to explain them to anyone else. He strikes me as a loner who, by dint of his profession, finds himself spending a lot of time around other people, explaining things he would rather leave unsaid. “I’m not usually happy,” he says, “but at the same time happiness can be thought of as a kind of bovine state – cows are happy; I’m curious.”

Don’t stand so close to me: with fellow Police members Stewart Copeland (centre) and Andy Summers, at the height their fame in the early 80s. Photograph: Getty Images

After attending a Catholic grammar school, he got various jobs – at one point working in his local tax office – before becoming a primary-school teacher in a nearby mining town. In the evenings, he played in local jazz groups, earning the nickname “Sting” from a band leader after performing in a bee-like black-and-yellow striped jumper.

But it wasn’t until the late 1970s, after years of gigging, that Sting got his big break. He moved to London with his then wife, the actress Frances Tomelty and their baby son, Joe, and met the drummer Stewart Copeland. They formed the Police along with guitarist Andy Summers. Their first album was released in 1978 and included the track “Roxanne”, about a man who falls in love with a prostitute. Sting never looked back.

He spent seven years with the Police before calling time on the band and pursuing a highly successful solo career. Copeland and Summers allegedly never forgave him (although a 2008 reunion tour, which raked in £108m, must have helped ease the tension somewhat).

Whatever you think of his music – and there are oft-repeated accusations of creative unoriginality, the sense that his songs are little more than hyped-up elevator musack – it has enjoyed remarkable longevity. “I don’t think there’s very much original in what I do,” he admits. “In pop music, there’s no such thing as composition. We collate from pre-existing tropes and then the originality comes in the interpretation.”

Given that he put in years of hard graft as a performer, Sting has understandably mixed feelings about the modern narrative of reality TV show fame. “I think the idea of going straight from school and then becoming a TV star is bizarre because it doesn’t give you any perspective. You know, I held a job down, I paid a mortgage, paid my taxes, before any of this happened so it allowed me at least to keep a balanced view of what was happening to me. I really value those times when I struggled. You know, we were poor. So I don’t envy kids who go straight from X Factor to record deals. It’s a kind of dangerous trajectory. That’s my opinion.

“People nowadays say, ‘I want to be famous,’ not: ‘I want to be a musician. I want to be an actor.’ The first thing on their minds is: ‘I want to be famous.’ You’ve got to be careful what you wish for.” He gives a dry little chuckle.

Sting’s path to success certainly came with its own ups and downs – his first marriage was an early casualty, put under strain by financial insecurity and endless touring. Of course it didn’t help that Sting fell in love with a next-door neighbour while the couple were living in Bayswater, London. The neighbour’s name was Trudie Styler and the first time he saw her, Sting thought she looked like “a damaged angel”.

The subsequent messiness as his marriage buckled was, he says now, “a huge psychological event. My first marriage is the only thing I’ve ever failed at and I failed miserably.” He still feels bad about it – is that because of some lingering Catholic guilt from his childhood?

He pauses. “I don’t think it ever goes away, that feeling of conscience, but I think I have a conscience anyway… I don’t regret my Catholic upbringing, but I really don’t like certainty in spiritual matters. I find that very dangerous. You end up with massacres and you end up with 9/11. Certainty is wrong. Uncertainty is a much more sensible position.”

Sting and Tomelty had another child, Fuchsia, but eventually divorced in 1984, and he went on to have four children with Trudie. Does he think he is a good father? “I wouldn’t say I’m a good dad. You know, I’m a travelling musician rather than a dad. But I take my job seriously and when they need to talk to me or need a shoulder to cry on, I’m definitely there for them. And as they get older, their problems become more interesting. Young kids, I’m not that keen on, but as they get older you can actually talk to them, about relationships, about the meaning of life – now that’s fun.”

‘She tells me I’m being silly when I’m being silly.’ Sting with Trudie Styler in April 2011. They have been married for 18 years. Photograph: Venturelli/WireImage

He admits that he “adores” being on the road. “I enjoy it. It keeps me out of trouble.”

What sort of trouble would you get in otherwise? “Oh God knows. Crime…” he laughs. “I can’t imagine life without working. I think one of my anxieties is the idea of doing nothing terrifies me. I love the feeling of forward momentum. It’s become an addiction.”

Does he think, in some ways, he is like his mother – always looking for stimulation outside the home? He ponders this. “It’s very hard to stay in one place. But at the same time, I like somewhere to orbit. I like the fact there’s a family home somewhere. Without that central point I think I’d go crazy, I’d spiral off into…” He leaves the thought unfinished. “My family have sort of learned to deal with it – they understand it’s what Dad does. I get anxious being still. It’s really a discipline to settle down.” Is that why he took up yoga? “To calm me down?” He nods. “I think so.”

Of course, the problem with this ceaseless wanderlust is that it does rather conflict with his stated desire to save the planet. When you combine it with the fact that Sting owns several glamorous homes in various countries and travels between them by aeroplane, you have to question how it is that he squares his carbon emissions with his 20-year-long campaign against deforestation (he and Trudie set up the Rainforest Foundation in 1989). Is he a hypocrite?

“Well that’s the narrative: venal celebrities preaching to the world about climate change. The fact is none of us can help but do the wrong thing. I’m assuming you didn’t come here on a donkey, right? Tomorrow, I’m going to get on a plane and go to another city and admittedly my carbon footprint is massive. At the same time, I say we shouldn’t rip up the forest because if you read the Stern report, all of us could stop travelling tomorrow, industry could stop tomorrow, but the largest contribution to global warming is deforestation – by a huge, huge amount. So until we do that, we might as well just carry on.”

The rain has stopped now. We sit and chat a bit more – about Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, which he recently read and loved, and about whether his phone has ever been hacked: “Probably. I’m sure Trudie’s has.” After a few minutes, he leaves to prepare for the evening’s concert.

Later, sitting in the wings, watching Sting on stage, it is obvious that I’m in the presence of a consummate performer. He cajoles the crowd, teasing and flattering them in French. His voice expands to fill the amphitheatre. He flirts with the backing singer and the female conductor, without having to do much more than raise a judiciously timed eyebrow. He is in total command of the stage, the orchestra and the audience.

I begin to wonder whether the whole interview has simply been an extension of this performance, a further example of his ability to assume a persona in order to charm.

But then, after the show, he invites me to come back and join a few of the musicians at the hotel bar where he orders wine for everyone on his tab. He introduces me to Paul, a friend from Newcastle days whom he has known since he was 11. Paul is holidaying nearby with his wife and daughter and when Sting found out, he invited them to come and watch the gig. The friendship between the two of them is easy and affectionate and clearly genuine.

What was Sting like when he was 11, I ask Paul? “Exactly the same,” he replies in a broad Geordie accent. “Exactly as he is now.”

Sting: The Best of 25 Years double CD is released on 24 October

This is a surprise. The 69-year-old former Labour MP turned disgraced multi-millionaire TV presenter has been called many things – racist, xenophobe, Europhobe, Islamophobe, Arab-hating Little Englander and orange (thanks to his alleged sun tan) – but not until now an upholder of liberal Guardian values.

Most of these labels are false, he argues. He isn’t even orange: “I’m not tanned at all. Look at me.” And he isn’t. Kilroy-Silk and his wife Jan have just returned to their Buckinghamshire estate from a summer spent at their 11-bedroom Spanish villa between Gibraltar and Marbella. Jan, who will later kindly drive me back to the station in their Daimler, has a nice tan, but her husband of 48 years surely looks as pasty as he did when he was raised in Birmingham’s backstreets during Britain’s postwar austerity years.

That’s because he has spent his summer in the shade, filling reams and reams of paper in his new career as writer of eye-poppingly unsavoury novels that nobody will publish. “If the politics were taken out, they’d be eminently commercial,” he says.

But back to the non-existent tan. When someone chucked a sack of manure over him before his appearance on Radio 4′s Any Questions in Manchester in 2004, the Have I Got News for You wags joked that “the shit hits the tan”. Unfair: yes, there was shit (and a court made the defendant pay Kilroy-Silk £200 costs for throwing it), but then, as now, no tan.

The manure incident followed Kilroy-Silk’s sacking from the BBC for a column in the Sunday Express headlined “We owe Arabs nothing” in which he wrote: “We’re told that the Arabs loathe us … What do they think we feel about them? That we adore them for the way they murdered more than 3,000 civilians on 11 September 2001 and then danced in the hot, dusty streets to celebrate the murders? … That we admire them for being suicide bombers, limb-amputators, women repressors?”

What made him write that? “There was a big thing in the Independent about how Arabs think we’re decadent. I thought, what do we think of them? This was in the context of the Iraq war, when Britons and Americans were laying down their lives … I’m not stupid. I didn’t intend to say every Muslim or Arab is like that.” Then perhaps he should have substituted “Muslim extremists” for “Arabs” throughout. “I wish I had. That’s what I believe.”

Does he regret the article? After all, it cost him his lucrative TV career. (Younger readers may not remember, but 10 years ago Kilroy, daytime precursor of the Jeremy Kyle show, was watched daily by 6 million viewers). “I don’t regret it. I regret the fact that the BBC allowed itself to be bullied by a few people. Most of the complaints came from one Muslim website. You could tell because the complaints all spelled my name wrongly in the same way.”

The Sunday Express editors clearly liked his article, since they ran it twice, in April 2003 and January 2004. The second time it appeared the Muslim Council of Britain and the Commission for Racial Equality condemned it: “I was vilified in every single newspaper.” Guardian columnist Faisal Bodi argued that Kilroy-Silk should be prosecuted for inciting race hatred. Bodi contended that Kilroy-Silk had previous in slurring Muslims, when defending Salman Rushdie during The Satanic Verses affair in 1989. “But I was right about Rushdie!” he snaps. “We shouldn’t allow books to be burned. I’m in favour of a multi-ethnic Britain, but not a multicultural one. You can’t tolerate practices that are morally wrong on the grounds of cultural difference. You can’t accept that one part of the population discriminates against women, imposes forced marriages or allows female circumcision … I was called a racist for saying these things. But now Cameron, Sarkozy, Merkel are saying them. My daughter says I’ve been outflanked by the right.”

We’re drinking tea in the opulent living room of his vast house, formerly owned by suave actor Dirk Bogarde and heavy-metal bawler Ozzy Osbourne. It was in this very room, Kilroy-Silk tells me, that Alan Jay Lerner and Rex Harrison were brought together by Bogarde. Harrison soon afterwards starred as Henry Higgins in Lerner and Loewe’s My Fair Lady.

Beyond the French windows is a rolling garden, and beyond that deer and goats roam in acres of parkland. It’s only an hour down the M40 from Birmingham, but Kilroy-Silk has come a long way materially, from the terrace house in Summer Lane where he was born to this eight-bedroom Georgian mansion. Like Osbourne, Kilroy-Silk is a working-class Brummie done good. “I’m from Hockley, he’s from Aston, which is posher.”

His dad, William Silk, was a Royal Navy stoker lost at sea during the war when Robert was 18 months old. His mother, Rose Rooke, later married William’s best friend, car worker John Kilroy – hence the double-barrelled surname. The grammar school boy studied politics and economics at the London School of Economics before becoming a politics lecturer at Liverpool University. Later he served as Labour MP for Ormskirk (1974-1983) and Knowsley North (1983-86).

“The two things I was most proud of in my life were going to the LSE and being an MP. Trollope said M and P were the most prestigious letters a man could have after his name. When I was elected as a 31-year-old MP I was respected. Now if you say you’re an MP you’re treated with contempt. Understandably. How could the prime minister think it right to claim having his wisteria pruned as a parliamentary expense? Now those other letters in my life, LSE, have been besmirched.” He means because of the revelations earlier this year that the LSE received donations from the Gaddafi regime.

He became disillusioned with parliamentary politics decades before the expenses scandal. “I got shafted by Militant. The were trying to deselect me and by 1986, I’d had enough. Fortunately I got offered a TV job simultaneously.” I suppress a giggle. Not because being subverted by Trotskyist entryists is funny, but because he said “shafted”. In 2001 Kilroy-Silk hosted a daytime ITV game show called Shafted, once crowned the worst TV progamme ever. At the end of each episode, he would ask the two remaining contestants if they would share the prize money or risk getting more money by shafting their opponent. He would make an unwittingly hilarious fisting gesture to demonstrate the latter option, for which he was weekly mocked on Have I Got News For You.

Kilroy-Silk’s career could be told as one of being repeatedly shafted – by Militant in 1986, by the BBC in 2004, and by the UK Independence party when he failed to become its leader later that year. He was shafted by his new party Veritas when he was ousted as its leader in 2005, and by voters who failed to elect him at the general election in the same year. He was shafted by I’m a Celebrity viewers when he was the first to be voted off the 2008 show.

Could he have risen higher in politics? “I’m too much of a troublemaker. My contemporaries, Jack Straw, John Prescott, Margaret Beckett, all became cabinet ministers. Possibly I could have done too, but I’m too much of a maverick.”

No one can shaft this troublemaking maverick any more. Perhaps more’s the pity. Enriched by the millions he earned from the BBC in his TV glory days, Kilroy-Silk is beholden to no one as he writes novels that he self-publishes on Amazon’s Kindle. He’s published three since the spring and each seethes with rage at political correctness in modern British society – with their unsavoury racism, glum sexist stereotypes, borderline homophobic jibes and digs against Islam, they reek of an outsider judging a world he doesn’t want to understand.

The first novel, Betrayal, is about consensual adult incest. In it an 18-year-old daughter meets her 40-year-old father for the first time and they are immediately sexually attracted to each other. What made him write that story? He says he originally approached his agent with a political saga of a novel. “They thought it was wonderful but that publishers wouldn’t be interested in a political novel. They said you can clearly write and we’d like something from you. Then I found a story about a daughter and father who have an affair when they first meet and the mother shops them to the police.

“I thought it raised all sorts of moral issues I could explore. It also made me angry. Consensual adult incest is illegal in this country, but it shouldn’t be.” Why not exactly? “There is surely nothing wrong with incest between consenting adults, at least when, as in my book, one party is a parent and the other is a child, and they haven’t seen each other for decades. I know it’s shocking, but there are circumstances such as those when it isn’t wrong.” Really? “I’m proud of the way I tackled a difficult subject and I thought I did a reasonable job empathising with the characters, but when it went out to publishers they weren’t prepared to push the boundaries. Adult incest is taboo.”

It’s not the incest theme that put me off Betrayal, just the clunky expository writing and endless digressions. It begins: “Michael Steven’s 18-year-old daughter, Katherina, who he had not seen since she was less than a year old, had arrived at his front door a little over an hour ago, on this Friday afternoon in early June, looking spectacular in the bright sunlight.” It cries out for an editor. Kilroy-Silk, to his credit, concedes the point.

The second novel, Closure, anatomises the disintegration of a British family. He hopes it will be adapted as a TV series. His third, Abduction, is better written than the others, but even more likely to require publishers who read it to be brought round with smelling salts. It deals with two parents framed as violent by a pair of hetero-hating lesbian social workers and have their children forcibly adopted as a result. “It’s based on fact,” says Kilroy-Silk. “Read Christopher Booker in the Sunday Telegraph, Lib Dem MP John Hemming or the Forced Adoption website.” It ends (spoiler alert!) with the wretched stereotype of an obese lesbian social worker being murdered by a vengeful father who leaves her strangled corpse tied up amid dildos to make it look like a perverted autoerotic asphyxiation. After, of course, having arranged that the children have been kidnapped from their adoptive parents and whisked away to Cyprus. It’s a Daily Mail revenge fantasy on PC Britain gone nuts.

Nonetheless, I submit, Abduction is the sort of drama Hollywood might like, ideally with Mel Gibson as an un-PC little guy avenging himself on power-crazed social workers, moronic coppers and other jumped-up state functionaries. “Oh do write that!” says Kilroy-Silk. Only one problem: your inveterate homophobia would need to be excised. “Homophobic? That’s not me.” But there does seem to be a theme: not only do the absurd lesbian social workers gleefully install one of the forcibly adopted children on a gay Islington couple who toast their adoption triumph in Taittinger and offer a glass to their six-year-old charge (monsters!), but two other characters moan about gay men fellating each other in public in Brompton cemetery. “But that’s based on fact!” says Kilroy-Silk. “I’m in favour of equal rights and the legalisation of homosexuality, but not of anyone having sex in public. And the lesbian social worker story is based on fact.”

Kilroy-Silk is now writing a thriller: “I’m trying to write in a more disciplined way, without the politics.” Perhaps, then, his new book might get published. “Who knows? Jan thinks I should write my autobiography. Maybe I will. Or I might get disillusioned and spend my time feeding the goats and deer.”

It’s a lovely autumn afternoon at the Kilroy-Silk estate as I leave him, so I can understand that impulse. But surely it would be premature: Kilroy-Silk is clearly still overflowing with energy and political passion. The only question is whether anybody wants them any more.

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