For the past two months it’s felt a little like my entire experience of the Nineties has been filtered back through the medium of Netflix documentaries. First, the Supermodels, a gentle stroll through the decade’s defining fashion imagery from the people who fronted the best of it. Then David Beckham, a sweetly euphoric reminder of what modern working-class heroism looks like. And now, Robbie.
For northern men my age, whether we like him or not, Robbie Williams is our rich, famous, candid reflection. He isn’t so much a hall of mirrors as a forensic microscope pointed at who we once were and what we became. I always loved him, that unvarnished temperament, brittle proletariat wordplay, sketchy search for self-knowledge. Despite hearing it a billion times, I’ll never tire of the opening four bars of Angels.
