In his peppy new track What do You Reckon?, George the Poet outlines some of the unlikely victories of his life so far. Often they came at times when he didn’t have the blessing of the people closest to him: family, friends, school teachers. They span from his early verse-writing days in St Raphael’s Estate, in Harlesden, London – back when he was just plain George Mpanga – to the quads of the University of Cambridge, where he’d make a new name for himself on the spoken word scene.

Tell me about your first week at Cambridge.
I was just excited, man. It was my first day at Hogwarts. Everyone was fresh-faced and nervous, but I got really stuck in. A lot of moments I remember and cherish were performance-related. In my first month at Cambridge I performed poetry for the first time, and obviously that set me off on the path that I’m on now. That was magical. That was special to me.

Do you remember which poem it was?
I’d written two poems. I had one called Powerless, and the other one was like an introduction to who I am. It was like I was saying: “Hi, my name’s George, I’m in Cambridge, I’m feeling a little awkward, let’s be friends.” And everyone really liked it.

How did your time at university change you?
I really, really, really became a social commentator in Cambridge because I was reading so much sociology, so much economic and social theory, that made me want to tell people about it. I wanted to tell people: “Wow, all the problems that we see, people wrote about it already, there are explanations, and there are structures and mechanisms to why these things self-perpetuate.”

Which books made the biggest impression?
Let me give you an example of something I was reading just before this interview. There’s a book by an economic theorist Ha-Joon Chang, a bestseller called Bad Samaritans; it’s about globalisation, and how rich countries lie about how they got rich, and give poorer countries bad advice on getting rich. I read that at uni, but I saw it in Foyles the other day and I just grabbed it again.

Reading it now, it’s like even more stuff is opening up to me. I realise that it’s similar even to rap music. Some rappers will tell you about how they sold drugs to make their money on the streets, and that’s all they will tell say. What they won’t tell you is the emotional process; why they did it. Like one of those poorer countries, they don’t let kids make informed decisions about their lives.

One of your lyrics to Cat D goes: “Don’t put me on a pedestal...” But as you expressly set out to influence young people, don’t you put yourself on one?
For me, I’m trying to have a conversation, and conversations are an egalitarian affair. It’s like all of us standing one floor, speaking to each other. If the people standing around me start turning to my direction as I start speaking, that doesn’t mean I’m on a raised platform. That’s why you don’t see me in some silly tabloid pages. There’s nothing to gossip about me because all I got into this game to talk about is social progress.

So what would you see as success?
To organise a community out of my listeners. A socially-motivated community of problem-solvers. I think that’s possible. Like I said, if we’re all having a conversation and good ideas emerge, and we’re able to organise ourselves because we’re united by this poetry that I’m creating, then we can impact society.

Which explains all your community work...
I recently became ambassador for the Lifeskills programme, which is about empowering young people with skills they need in the 21st-century workplace; tricks of the trade you won’t necessarily be taught in school. This is a natural extension of why I decided to do poetry. Poetry is a powerful medium because you can discuss the realities of life that can’t quite get captured in the classroom or put down in a textbook. So these schemes represent that. I’m keen to collaborate with anyone that is inclined to really impact society in a constructive way.

You often sound like a politician. Could you see yourself in a green seat?
[Laughs.] I get asked that all the time – the irony is I went into Cambridge with the expectation of becoming an MP or a civil servant. But the more I really analysed the mechanics of parliamentary politics and party politics I realised it was too restrictive to the conversation. Take Jeremy Corbyn, for example: his policies and his approach are often regarded as laughable, because it’s so far from the mainstream. Whereas if he were a poet, people would entertain it. They’d be interested in having a discussion. I do have political aspirations, but with a small “p”.

You went to a grammar school. Where do you stand on the current debate about them?
This is the weird thing for me: I’ve never said this publicly but I think there is a skewed perception of what a grammar school is. Now, one gripe that I did have with the system is that it promoted an overtly middle-class white ideology at the expense of my personal identity. The school implicitly told me that some of what I brought from the outside was unwelcome. But it was diverse. We, as a whole wave of second-generation immigrants, had Oxbridge opportunities with that school.

So you’re in favour?
They’re not all like mine was, especially outside of London. I can see where the challenge comes in. But I think those challenges can be overcome with education policy that seeks to include, to preempt inter-community division that sets in because of poverty, the lack of access to information … but that’s another conversation.

A lot of nervous students are starting university this month. What would be your message to them?
I’d say think about what you’re trying to do in life, why you’re putting yourself in this position to access all this information. You have infinite opportunities to impact the world.

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