Drayton: Robbie Williams, a deprication

Last week, I watched the Brits on the telly. I do it every year. I sit, I watch, I seethe.

This year was a watershed year for the celebrated celebration, as it appeared that was absolutely nothing to hoy our caps in the air about what-so-ever. For all the bluster, fireworks, drink, celebrity and toss, it may as well have been a grey paint factory award ceremony in a grey paint factory.

I’m an older gentleman, and as much as I avoid the dread phrase ‘it was better in my day’ dribbling from my lips, it was better in my day. Where was the KLF/Extreme Noise Terror moment? The Jarvis/Jackson arse moment? In the past that’s where. I know it’s an industry event, but it’s an industry – like alternative comedy – built on rebellion, youth, danger and anti- social behaviour. Emily Sandy? Len Howard? Muser? Please, close the door gently on the way out.

What boiled my piss the most though was the addled corpse of Robby Williams honking his way through his latest shit on a plate, Candy. God, that’s a dog of a record.

I cheered when Rob left Take That. His solo career was a master class in Fuck You. As Barry Garlow slowly drowned in his own maudlin, Robbie struck out as a pop colossus. Hit after delicious hit, funeral faves, breakup ditties and spangling pop genius dripped from him. He was a great big magnificent pop pillock with a show man’s fleet feet and the sex drive of a randy Staffie.

Then Take That got back together. Barry Garlow became cool. Robbie’s ‘Captain’ was back at the helm, penning stinking radio friendly pop steam, and eventually, after wiping his arse on it, throwing down the gauntlet, urging RW to rejoin the fold. And he did. He became Barry’s bitch and the magic vanished. To help Rob, Baz penned some new songs for his new album.

It’s obvious to any one with ears that the TT split still rankles with Baz as Candy is complete and utter shit. A ditty that wouldn’t cut the mustard as a skipping song, even though it’s hook is nicked from Ring A Ring A Roses. Adding insult to injury, the woeful breathless, artless, red faced, imminent heart attack performance was akin to talent night at Pontins. By a Norman Wisdom impersonating monkey.

Further adding insult to injury, Justin Timberlake returned and showed just how it’s done. A stonking, Disney-esque affair, with musicians dancing and playing their instruments. It’s a crying shame that it takes a former mouseketeer to show a fat dancer how it should be done.

It could also be said that it’s a shame that a 53 year old bloke gets het up over something as trivial as pop music, but I do. I love it.

I don’t love Robby any more though, he helped make Barry Garlow cool.