It is 30 September 1993. Take That are at the Daily Star offices, just south of the Thames, to answer phone calls from the paper’s readers, and I am there to watch. Outside the building are at least 100 girls. One of the Star journalists tells me some have been there since 3am. Take That are offered some champagne and pose for photos, and we chat. The first mention of Robbie Williams in my notebook, whose future life I will spend years documenting, says: “R: I’ve been on the wagon for a month. I was getting puffy around here [pulls out cheeks]. If I had one pint I’d have eight.”
Then the five members of Take That get on the phones, each talking to different fans, one by one. They act as though this is a perfectly normal way to be spending the day. The Star’s pop columnist, Linda Duff, mentions she has been trying to arrange this for the past nine months.
I wander round, listening in.
Robbie: “Who is it? Seedy? As in Seedy movie? Oh! Sadie…”
Gary: “That’s a lovely name, Tiffany.”
Robbie: “You’d better get your smart knickers on to throw at me…”
Howard: “Have you bought our single?”
Robbie: “I looked at you in Portsmouth? Have you got blondish hair? Brownish-blackish? I remember! Were you with someone with blonde hair? That’s it!”
Jason: “Mark’s on the phone. Don’t you like me?”
Robbie: “Hello! McDonald’s! Can I take your order, please?”
Howard: “Our album is good, but I bet you thought I’d say that.”
Robbie: “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it. But just in case bring one of those double duvet sleeping bags and I’ll share it with you. You’re not having any alcohol are you?”
Mark: “We’ll stay together as long as you want us to.”
Robbie: “I was talking about my trouser snake.”
Howard: “It’s hard to have girlfriends.”
Robbie: “You’re through to Robbie. I’m funny. What do you mean ‘too young’? Too young for what?”
Mark: “If you make me a nice cup of tea I’ll come round.”
Robbie: “Are you an alcoholic? Come on, let’s talk about it. I’ll give you some counselling.”
Gary: “My favourite song I’ve written is on the new album, Love Ain’t Here Anymore.”
Robbie: “Corinne? I thought that was something you get in a curry. Or is that coriander? It wasn’t that funny. Calm down.”
Jason: “There’s no pressure. You have a little think for a minute.”
Between calls, Robbie turns to me. “Are we nice?” he asks. “We’re not bitter and twisted,” he adds, but it sounds more as though he’s talking to himself than to me, and it also sounds as though he’s already wondering whether he believes himself.
Reveal: Robbie Williams by Chris Heath is published by Blink at £20. To order it for £17, go to bookshop.theguardian.com
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