Paul Heaton scowls deeply as he points a double-barrelled shotgun at the head of the NME photographer trespassing on the huge country estate on which he stands.

He looks him in they eye and bellows, "You have five seconds to get off my property before I blow your head off!"

Sadly, he’s only joking. Paul Heaton’s real property consists of a terraced house in South Hull situated in a highly desirable, one-acre stretch of lush grey street between his two favourite pubs. Coronation Street looks like Park Lane in comparison. He has lived on or around Grafton Street and those two pubs for more than ten years. He spends the majority of his waking hours drinking in these pubs, when he’s not flying round the world as the lead singer of one of Britain’s fastest-selling pop groups in history.

In the last six months he has sold nearly two million records in Britain alone. One of the two principal songwriters, he should easily be a millionaire by now. As we stand on this country estate, the sun smiling down on the beautiful emerald lawns, a gentle breeze blowing through the trees and the serene country air cleansing our lungs with every breath, I grab Paul Heaton by the shoulders, slap him in the chops, shake him roughly and remind him - stately home, estate, servants, supermodel wife, business opportunities, life of leisure... ALL THIS COULD BE YOURS, YOU HOPELESS WASTER.

"Naah, I’m too scared of the dark," he sniffs with an embarrassed grin. "And I’d be scared of ghosts in a really big house. Anyway, I don’t like being on me own in a big space".

Oh come on now. Think of all the things you could do with the place. You could have your own football pitch, like Rod Stewart! You could build your own pub in the grounds, like that bloke from Iron Maiden! You could invite all your mates round to go shooting!

"Yeah, the only way I could handle it would be if a lot of people lived there with me. But then it’d be sort of like a commune. I don’t think it would work. "Funny you should mention shooting, though. One of me mates rang me up the other day and said, "D’you wanna come shooting?" So I go round to meet him and he’s sitting at his window with a gun pointed into his back yard. The he blows a blackbird’s head off!"

This seems deeply symbolic of the severe social under-achievement of Paul Heaton, one of Britain’s greatest living popular poets, light entertainer and singer, and indeed Dave Rotheray, equally talented tunesmith, his co-songwriter, drinking partner, Grafton Street neighbour and fellow saddo. Dave is similarly unmoved by the aristocratic splendour of his surroundings, commenting only that one could "do a dead good roly-poly down the grass bank" nearby. Doh.

"Thing is, though" comments Dave, "everyone thinks we’re dead rich, but we couldn’t afford this place. You see this band is a co-operative, and we split all the money seven ways (six band members and the manager - Economics Ed). The band is probably worth a million between us, and maybe me and Paul could afford this place between us. We’re nearly up to six figures each, I’d say. But who’d wanna live with him?"

OK, we give up. Besides, they’re both itching to get back to the pub. We still need to instil in them the importance of spending money wisely, of setting yourself apart from the peasants, of adopting a lifestyle more suited to jet-trash pop glitterati.

It’s not looking too hopeful as Paul Heaton walks into one of his two local pubs, The Mainbrace, strolls behind the bar and serves himself, without a second glance from anyone. The bar might as well be his own kitchen, and the rest of the pub his living room and bedroom. His football pennants hang round the walls, as does the HMV chart poster with "Carry On Up The Charts" at Number One. He is surrounded by friends and acquaintances, although reminds us he has to leave at a certain point this afternoon to avoid an ex-girlfriend who works upstairs here. But look! A hopeful sign! Paul is drinking tomato juice! Perhaps he’s finally slayed the demon drink!

"No, it’s because I’m on antibiotics so I can’t drink alcohol," he admits, head bowed in shame, "cos I’ve got a rash all over my body. Probably from stress. Or maybe just drinking".

Oh well, it was never going to make any difference. You might just be able to take the boozer out of the boy for a few days, but you can’t take the boy out of the boozer. But at least the Southers could set themselves apart. Wear some expensive clothes, try a few chunky gold rings, have a shave, get a nice haircut...

"I was wearing some lovely smart clothes last night but, as we were doing the photo session, I thought I might get my white Calvin Klein jeans and my DKNY jacket dirty, so I didn’t wear ‘em... but usually I just can’t be arsed".

I tug rudely at his puffy green shiny casual jacket and jeans and demand to know how much they cost.

"Pretty expensive. I’d guess I spent about £500 on what I’m wearing now altogether. That’s not bad going, is it? And I’m not even wearing my £100 Armani socks".

We can live with that. But was this not the man who sang, in "Good As Gold (Stupid As Mud)", "I want my sun-drenched, windswept Ingrid Bergman kiss/But not in the next life, I want it in this"? At present he seems to want "my lager-drenched rainswept Tracy Fairclough snog, "but not in the next room, ‘cos me ex-girlfriend’s working behind the bar...." What went wrong? You go to The Canaries to write songs, you go to Italy for footie... don’t you ever think, "This beats the shit out of Hull for a lark"?

"I get to travel loads, I get my regular fix of glamour as and when I want it. But Hull’s got a strange magnetic attraction for us. It’s a good place to come home to ‘cos it’s so far out of the music business world".

"The real reason", grins Dave, "is that our entire social life is based around pubs, and they don’t have that bar culture in Spain or Italy".

This is true. And at least they can afford to get their round in. But the Beautiful South millions cannot all have disappeared into the coffers of Bass North breweries, surely?

"I’d like to invest it", muses Paul. "But at the moment it’s more like under the mattress. I haven’t bought into Sheffield United Football Club or anything, and I haven’t even got a pension, ‘cos I don’t believe in giving them all your money to play on the stockmarket with. I don’t have a car - I still get lifts everywhere, which saves money. And I’m not sending money to Rwanda because I believe it’s the Government’s job to tax me higher. But I would invest in some decent socialist cause if it came along".

You have to doff you cap. Paul Heaton always was the first pop star to demand nationalisation of the music industry, not to mention being about the only pop star who was principled enough to demand higher taxes on his own earnings. Cheers, respect. Any chance we could turn you into a more respectable champagne socialist?

"Not the way I live. I’d rather be a lager leftie if you don’t mind".

Don’t you ever get home, though, the toaster’s bust, the TV’s on the blink, the place looks like a herd of bison have just stampeded through it, and you suddenly think, "sod this, get some servants in"?

"No, I couldn’t. I just wouldn’t feet...comfortable".

As we take refuge from the detritus of Paul’s personal life up the road in The Grafton, it seems time to stop fannying about and cut to the chase. Is it not true, ladies and gentlemen of the kids, that the reason Paul Heaton and Dave Rotheray can’t get their lives in order is because they are both incurable, desperate, red-nosed ALCOHOLICS?

"It’s not bad, this Kaliber lager, actually," remarks Paul entirely genuine, before registering what I’ve asked him.

"Yeah, I am an alcoholic. But I’m not proud of the fact, I hate people who boast about getting drunk. I don’t actually enjoy the sensation of being paralytic. I drink every day, I drink more than tramps on the street, and it affects every decision in my life. But I’m a socioholic. I drink to meet people. I don’t drink at home at all. And I’ve met more people through booze than through being in a band, for example, so I don’t regard it as a bad thing".

Dave is gasping to confess. And he’s grinding his teeth together. This is looking good - perhaps he’s going to admit to a proper, glamorous pop star addiction like heroin or cocaine...

"I’m addicted to Lottery Instants scratch cards," he says, with the utmost seriousness. "I can’t go into our local supermarket now without doing a fiver on lottery instants. I must go three times a day. And it’s really getting bad. I mean, I get pissed every day, and probably do drugs of some sort every day. And I do £15 to £20 worth of Lottery Instants every day, and I consider that by far the most morally and socially unacceptable, the most expensive and the most debilitating drug of the three. And yet it’s considered the most respectable of the three. I think that’s outrageous".

"Why don’t you just go shopping at the supermarket once a week, Dave?" suggests Paul helpfully.

"I know! I should, but I make excuses. I pretend I need bread and milk so I can go and buy a lottery ticket!"

"You must have hundreds of loaves of bread in the house," rejoins Paul, somewhat perplexed. "Doesn’t it mean you have to have a bread addiction too?"

"No, it’s usually milk".

Ahem. Any prospect of more exciting habits then?

"Nah, coke’s just not good enough to be addictive. I’ve done enough of it to get addicted if I was going to get addicted, but it just isn’t that good. Same goes for ecstasy. I mean, I do ecstasy all the time - in the mornings as well. But you can easily stop. I’ve recently got into this herbal ecstasy from San Francisco actually, and that’s dead nice. But it’s not nice enough to get addicted to".

So there we have it, readers. Lottery Instants scratch cards are more exciting than ecstasy or cocaine. You know it makes sense.

"I’d rather young people followed my example", continues Dave, to no-one in particular, "than someone like Linford Christie. He spends his whole life running round a track, lifting weights". "I mean, OK, if I did Linford Christie’s life for two weeks I’d be fucked. But if he came out with me, he’d be dead after a fucking HOUR! I’ve put ten years’ training into building a tolerance to drink and drugs, and I’d like to be appreciated and respected for that".

Paul concurs. "The real Olympians are the people who can walk five miles to find a bar".

Don’t try this at home. Amazingly, these men are sober, but their minds are poisoned to the point of mental illness. They are Last Of The Summer Wine on too much summer wine. And its gets sadder. Let Paul tell you about his crisp bag collection.

"Oh, erm, I’d rather not promote that any more. I kind of regret ever telling anyone about it. I got sent loads of ‘em, and I just wanted it to be a small collection of me own".

"I tell you what I’ve been collecting recently though", he chirps proudly "Do Not Disturb" signs from hotel rooms doors! I’ve got about 12 so far. I just thought it would be a good thing to collect to put round the house on different doors".

So, on a scale of one to John Motson, just how anally retentive are you?

"I’m pretty bad, er..."

Dave dishes the dirt. "I’ve seen him on train journeys - he’s terrible. I remember one where he was writing down the best possible Italian football team from players born in February with names beginning with the letter F".

Paul now has his head in his hands. So let’s take advantage and polish up their image a little by extracting some true rock’n’roll confessions of The Beautiful South. How many groupies do the sexy Sarf get at an average gig then?

"I don’t like using the word "groupie"," mumbles Paul, reluctant to give much away. "Suffice to say there are people who come on tour and want to shag us. Take it from me, there are a lot of people interested in this band sexually".

I can believe it. Looking at Paul (resembling Ron Dixon more every day) and Dave (greying hair thinning to the point of no return), you can just imagine what teenybop mayhem follows them around.

"I usually just go back to the hotel after a gig for, um, a shower", says Dave, his nose noticeably growing.

"No, I usually go back to the hotel," counters Paul, "Dave goes out to nightclubs to find someone to shag. I’ve usually got a shag by the time I leave the gig, heh heh heh... yeah, it’s true... no, it’s not true... yeah, it is true, actually".

Oh the sheer double irony of it all.

Have you ever slept with anyone else in the band?

"No", grins Paul, unfazed. "None of us ever have in the "shagging" sense of the word. But I think we slept six of us in the same bed once".

"I was quite up for a bit as well", recalls Dave, "but I didn’t dare make a move on Paul, he’s quite strait-laced".

Are you any cop in bed?

"I’m alright", snaps Paul. "But you can’t say no, can yer? I’d never get off with anyone then".

"I’m good in bed if I’m on my own - I last ages," asserts Dave. No-one is impressed.

We’ll grant them brief respite at this juncture. We must return to The Mainbrace, because Paul has to make dodgy deals with various people in order to secure Cup Final tickets for him and his girlfriend for the next day. To complicate matters further, it’s supposed to be a surprise for her, even though she’s also in the pub, which means he’s soon furtively buzzing around the place talking in code.

Dave, meanwhile, nips round to his house to leave his car keys there, so he’s not "tempted" to drive his vintage Alfa Romeo (see, he can turn on the style when he feels like it) home from whatever alcohol-filled gutter he ends up in later tonight.

Eventually, they return to your correspondent’s table, but they’re stressed out enough as it is now, so we’ll stick to talking about music. First question inevitably being: Having had no Top Ten hits for nearly four years, how the hell did they manage to sell two million copies of "Carry On..."?

"I liken it to the Irish electoral system," argues Dave, somewhat surreally. "You can put down your second preference on the ballot paper, so somebody can be voted in who’s not many people’s favourite, but a lot of people’s second favourite. I think people went to the shops thinking of buying something else, and bought us as a bit of an afterthought".

"I think that applies to the singles as well", adds Paul. "We’ve had a lot of mini-hits, in the teens or 20s of the chart. And the TV advert worked well. The songs are dead catchy, so you put little bits of all the choruses on an advert and people remember them all. You couldn’t do that with Jean-Michel Jarre, now could you"?

That’s a pretty sorry statement on their career, though, isn’t it? Then you go to one of their gigs and everyone knows every last lyric. This would strongly suggest that their fans aren’t just half-interested.

Mind you, it did seem like their commercial prospects were on a downward slide this time last year, around the time of the last studio album, "Miaow".

"Not so much a downward slide as a shuddering halt", says Paul. "It felt that way because we were dead keen on getting stuff released in America, and we didn’t want to keep going round in ever-decreasing circles in Britain. It got a bit depressing. But we are going to release something over there now....albeit a plate of steaming shite..."

Ah yes. "Dream A Little Dream", a cover of the song made famous by the Mamas & The Papas, off the soundtrack to the delightful romantic comedy French Kiss starring the delightful Meg Ryan. It’s currently Number One in America. The film that is.

"I’d rather it wasn’t a hit," winces Dave. "It’ll be embarrassing - a "fucking one chicken" scenario".

Er, come again?

"You fuck one chicken’ - it’s the punchline to a joke. There’s these two blokes sitting by a harbour in Greece, and one says to the other, "See those ships? I built them all. And yet, when I walk through the town, do they say, "Greetings Spiros, great shipbuilder"? No! I get no respect. Seem them houses? I built them all! And yet, when I walk through the town, do they say, "Greetings Spiros, great housebuilder"? No! I get no respect! See that hospital? I paid for that! And yet, when I walk through town, do they say, "Greetings Spiros, saviour of the town’s health"? No! I get no respect.. and then, you fuck one chicken...".

One assumes The Beautiful South’s two sexual encounters with chickens were "Song For Whoever" and "A Little Time". Their Number Ones, in other words. Neither entirely unrepresentative of their sugar-coated pills of bile and biting social vignette. So what’s the problem?

Paul frowns deeply into his glass of Swan Light. "I just think some of that early stuff, like "Song For Whoever" was a bit ... naff".

Exc-er-use me, sir, but wasn’t that the idea?

"Well, that’s the accusation, isn’t it? That we’re double-clever. But it’s more the production and things. And yeah, we probably were being too clever and cynical about it as well".

The words "twee" and "twee-er" also spring to mind, no?

Dave wakes up again.

"Well, I don’t really understand what you mean. The word "twee" to me, would be applied to someone like Blur, who often sounds like students who’ve worked it all out, and don’t actually sound like they are. Oasis sound like they are. We sound like we are. I suppose Briana’s voice was a bit cloyingly sweet at times but the music was always totally genuine. Certainly on "0898" and "Miaow". They piss on the first two albums anyway".

He has a point. The last two albums moved away from the cynical pastiche tendencies of songs like "My Book" and "Song For Whoever" and established a richer sound that didn’t have you curling your toes and reaching for your Motorhead live album. The string-soaked emotional sweep of "Ol; Red Eyes is Back", the acoustic lament of "Prettiest Eyes" or the simple deep-pile piano ballads that are "Hold On To What?" and "Worthless Lie" are not only musically soul-piercing, but lyrically show Paul Heaton’s heart breaking non-ironically on his sleeve more than ever.

It may be no coincidence that there appears to have been a fair amount of emotional drama in the Heaton household in the last year. Paul refers at several points of having had a "weird year", of having considered leaving Hull "for personal reasons", of having had his heart broken in the last 12 months. He isn’t about to elaborate, but he has evidently had a traumatic split with a girlfriend, quite possibly at the same time his other pop star life was suddenly threatening to go ballistic again. Considering this is the man who has won the Hull & District Least Likely To Marry award for the last five years running thanks to a series of deeply pessimistic lyrics about hopeless relationships, what hope is there for love to blossom now?

"I wouldn’t say I’m cynical about relationships in general", he says, scratching his neck rash nervously. "Just conventional ones, the ones that stop you being able to live your own life. It just seems you’re forced into that corner. Not by your partner but because of too little self-determination. The world’s full of floaters, innit? Shame, really..."

Naah, you’re just scared of commitment, aren’t you?

"There’s a fear of... total commitment. Not just "fancy a shag" but... I need to keep elbow room. I do enjoy living by myself. It’s a shame really, because there’s a few people I’d like to have spent more time with, but... I’ve never lived with a woman successfully... oh well".

You’re just scared of women, aren’t you?

"No! I’m scared of losing my identity. But a relationship with me, always going away touring and all that, is never going to be lifestyle compatible. I guess that’s why pop stars marry pop stars".

And there aren’t too many female pop stars in Hull, if memory serves me correctly.

"He fell asleep on Maria McKee’s lap once beams Dave. "And Lisa Stansfield gave him her phone number!"

Cheers! Get in there, my son!

"Nah, I was too pissed to remember it. And her boyfriend was there..."

Poor old Heato. He’s a hopeless case. Never mind, at least he’s got his memories, his pride, and a few hundred thousand quid to burn. He’s achieved a lot. Who knows, his impassioned socialist invective in MOR clothing might even have changed the world, just slightly.

"We got a review in the National Front newspaper recently that said we were brilliant, a really great alternative to all the jungle rhythms of the charts, then it quoted me as saying "I will always live in England". Sounded well dodgy".

Doesn’t that make you feel like your life’s work is in vain?

"No, not at all. I wouldn’t expect people to understand everything in my lyrics. I can’t change the education system in this country".

"There’s this cliché about us", spits Dave, "that we’re trying to put dead political lyrics inside accessible music. But it just turned out like that. We don’t have an agenda".

If nothing else, though, they’re one of the few bands from an independent/guitar music background that have successfully managed to beat chart acts at their own game, and to play pure pop with sufficient elegance and a songwriting class to make it not only memorable but able to compete with the likes of Simply Red and Wet Wet Wet. But The Beatles? Surely some mistake?

"I assume you’re referring to us saying "we’re bigger than The Beatles", smirks Paul. "That was just a flippant comment. It’s bollocks".

So who, pray, do you consider your worthy contemporaries?

"To be honest I always think we’re much smaller than everyone else. I was watching someone from Stars In Their Eyes the other day, who was doing the bloke from Go West, and I was thinking, "We’re not really as big as Go West". I guess it comes from living in Hull".

"I was like that when I met Liam out of Oasis", remarks Dave. "I was dead overawed. Weird, really".

So do we deduce you’re a fan of Oasis, Dave?

"Yeah, I do like ‘em. But Noel should stop stealing the limelight to do his acoustic songs. You can’t throw away your chance to rock when you’re still young. If I was still 22 I’d love to be in Oasis. Mind you, they’re not as good as Dodgy, though, are they?"

Hmmmm. At this point in proceedings Paul throws one of his confusingly eccentric musings into the conversation and stops your correspondent in his tracks.

"Our music isn’t the sort of music I’d ever listen to. If there was a band called The Beautiful South around making exactly the same kind of music I’m sure I wouldn’t have it in my collection".

Cheers. That’s about one step away from saying, "Buy this record - it’s shite and you’re a c..."

"I’m not saying we’re shit. But I would say, "If you want to buy a good record, buy something else".

Don’t listen to him. He’s suffering from his customary eccentric mixture of modesty, anti-arrogance and contrariness. Probably.

"OK, there are some songs we’ve done which are great. I’m proud of my lyrics. But I’m not a big fan of my voice. Maybe if someone made me a tape of "Miaow" I might go and buy it..."

Don’t you aspire to make great music that deserves to be in everyone’s bedroom?

"Yeah, sure I do. But if you made a record you thought was great, you’d stop making records. That’s what David Bowie said once. But you’re always struggling to make a better record, that’s what pushes you on. So I’ll never admit that I’ve made a brilliant record. But I’m still trying..."

At which point Paul slurps the last remnants of Tennent’s Low Alcohol Lager from his glass and shuffles towards the door, bound for London and the Cup Final tomorrow. Then he stops and grins, "You think I’m cynical, don’t you... you’re surprised and a little disappointed..."

In truth, just surprised. Surprised at the absence of arrogance or pseudery exuding from this man (he can’t even manage to be remotely professionally Northern) when every other band in christendom parrots the same old standard quotes about wanting to be The Beatles/bisexual/dead. Surprised at how genuinely principled he is (to the point of sharing his millions with six others), and how schizophrenically in and out of the music business he is. Mad as a donkey, as well, but so would you be after ten years as a pop start in Hull.

All that remains is for Dave Rotheray to drink 20-odd gin & tonics (with a dash of lime) and go on a fairly typical Friday night buzz around the clubs. After warming up with the indie-tastic thrills of The Blue Lamp and The Silhouette, we plunge straight into the heart of mainstream popular culture, to mix with the sort of people who made this man worth a million.

The Tower night-club is heaving under several hundred weight of moustache, lovebite, handbag and frizzy perm, but this matters nought to Dave, busy discussing who is the most likely of his mates to enjoy carnal relations with their two female acquaintances tonight.

And yet... you can’t help thinking he could be hanging out with Kate and Johnny in the Viper Room, sipping strawberry daiquiri and snorting half his body weight in herbal E, with nary a lottery scratch card in sight. I must ask again - just what is the attraction of this place?

He cracks a wry grin that says "If you’re going to ask a question like that, don’t even bother trying to understand it", and then he speaks.

"The word "unpretentious" springs to mind".