The first time I met Robbie Williams I couldn’t get rid of him. It was 1998, I was leaving a big job, and someone was throwing a dinner for me in one of the upstairs rooms in The Groucho Club, the private members’ club in Soho. About an hour into the dinner, Williams burst in, obviously looking for the lavatories. But, pleased by what he saw, namely a lot of adoring young women making purring noises, and extremely attentive waiters, he stayed. And stayed and stayed. He stayed for the rest of the evening, uninvited but outrageously good company — singing, telling jokes, doing cartwheels, and even spending a good 45 minutes discussing the problems with newspaper and magazine distribution with our circulation director.
