THE MOST UNCOMMON CHARM OF JARVIS COCKER

One of the defining figures of 1990s Britain is back with his band Pulp. Older and wiser, he's still got the elusive magic that made him one of pop's most electric frontmen

- INTERVIEW BY ANNA VAN PRAAGH

Jarvis Cocker is sitting in The Park restaurant in Queensway in front of a rather beautiful hot dog which he’s worrying about how to eat — “I don't know how I'm going to eat it now and not disgust you,” he shrugs.

Dressed in quintessential Cocker attire — blue cardigan, checked shirt, taupe cords (“they're a bit dirty actually, sorry”) — his only concession to fame is a baseball cap and some sunglasses which he wore into the restaurant 10 minutes early for our interview, and are now laid out neatly beside him.

The first thing you notice about Cocker is how unbelievably nice he is. Celebrities are often brittle, narcissistic, defensive, off-hand, at once vainglorious and self-pitying, their hold on reality loose to the point of not being there, their egos as towering as they are fragile. Cocker is incredibly polite, generous with his time, thoughtful and humble (“You're tempted now, I could cut it in half...”). He has a disarming habit of concentrating on answering questions then looking straight in your eyes with a mischievous smile.

We're meeting to discuss his new album, More, Pulp’s first in 24 years. It's vintage Pulp — great tunes reverberating with thwarted desire, the drift of relationships and the occasional bleakness of adult life. Recording time was just three weeks, which was a relief for Cocker. “I was worried about going into the studio because This is Hardcore just went on forever. That’s why I gave up on Pulp really, because it was taking so long to finish things. And a lot of that was my fault. So I thought let's just stop doing this because it’s torture for everyone waiting for me to get my act together.”