Robbie Williams has never struggled with self-awareness, he’s struggled with the version of himself that came before it. And on Sunday night, in front of a heaving O2 Academy Brixton crowd, the former Take That star turned solo juggernaut admitted what plenty of people suspected during the ’90s: he was, in his own words, “the smuggest person that ever lived.”
The confession arrived mid-set on his Long 90s Tour, a deliberately sweaty, nostalgia-soaked run through the album that made him, Life Thru A Lens, and his latest record Britpop. Williams opened with Lazy Days and tore through the hits; Let Me Entertain You, Angels, All My Life, Morrissey, the kind of catalogue that feels less like a setlist and more like a national utility.
Before launching into Ego a Go Go, a song he reminded the audience is about former bandmate Gary Barlow, Williams referenced the recently released Take That documentary and didn’t exactly give his younger self a character reference.
He said: “What an a**** I am in episode two.”**
Then came the line that landed with the force of a confession booth door slamming shut.
“The smuggest person that has ever lived in the world.”
He added that he has apologised to Barlow “a million times”, before half-defending, half-damning the man he used to be.
“It’s not nice now but it was fun at the time.”
That tension, between the bloke who lived it and the bloke who has to rewatch it, ran through the night. The crowd roared along to Angels as if it were still 1997 and nobody had invented consequences yet. Afterwards, Williams paused to thank the audience for sticking with him through three decades of triumphs, meltdowns, reinventions and tabloid carnage.
He said: “What I managed to do is stretch, with my career, an elastic band from Stoke-on-Trent to the moon.”
Then, in pure Robbie fashion, he took a left turn into metaphysics.
“It feels like the simulation theory might be real.
It feels like The Matrix may exist, because I’m not supposed to be here with 16 number one albums.”
And in perhaps the most honest description of pop fandom ever delivered by a man in sequins, he added:
“At some point in these 36 years, you guys decided that I am your football team. And I love being your football team.”
Despite being a performer who can fill aircraft hangars without breaking a sweat, Williams chose tiny, sticky-floor venues for this tour, Glasgow’s Barrowland Ballroom, Liverpool on Friday, Brixton on Sunday, and a final stop at Wolverhampton’s Civic Hall. The intimacy suits him: less untouchable megastar, more charismatic mate who overshares at 11pm.
The timing feels deliberate. In January he released his 13th studio album Britpop, three weeks early, and it promptly became his 16th solo chart-topper, featuring collaborations with Chris Martin, Gaz Coombes, Tony Iommi and, in a neat narrative circle, Gary Barlow.
That album follows a period of relentless self-examination: the 2023 Netflix documentary that dragged his addiction and mental health battles into the daylight, and the gloriously bizarre biopic Better Man, where he was portrayed by a CGI chimpanzee, his own description of feeling like a “performing monkey.”
It’s a career that has swung from boyband glory to tabloid punchline to national treasure to something messier and more interesting than all three. And now, at 51, Williams seems content to look at the wreckage with a wince rather than a defence lawyer.
The smuggest person that ever lived? Maybe once.
The only person willing to admit it on a stage full of people singing Angels back at him? Definitely now.
