In 2001, Robbie Williams, at the very height of his fame, wanted a break.
His managers struck a deal with him. If he would agree to a book, they said, he could have a year off.
I was signed up to write it, but I didn’t meet the man himself until I was at Heathrow. Suddenly there he was, large as life. Despite my best intentions, I found I was weirdly starstruck, barely able to speak.
‘Let’s get together for supper in Stockholm,’ he said kindly, before retreating
