All of us knew a gorgeous daredevil like Robbie, that's what makes him so special

FOR the past two months it's felt a little like my entire experience of the Nineties has been filtered back through the medium of Netflix documentaries. First, the Supermodels, a gentle stroll through the decade's defining fashion imagery from the people who fronted the best of it. Then David Beckham, a sweetly euphoric reminder of what modern working-class heroism looks like. And now, Robbie.

- Paul Flynn

For northern men my age, whether we like him or not, Robbie Williams is our rich, famous, candid reflection. He isn't so much a hall of mirrors as a forensic microscope pointed at who we once were and what we became. I always loved him, that unvarnished temperament, brittle proletariat wordplay, sketchy search for self-knowledge.

Despite hearing it a billion times, I'll never tire of the opening four bars of Angels.

Every northerner knew a Robbie. If you entered a Manchester pub at any point during the Nineties, you would more than likely bump into one. Perennial show-off, hand-in-the-fire party-starter, funniest fellow to buy a round, guy the girls all fancied. The way we mistakenly mixed-up hedonism with self-improvement? That was Robbie, with a sideline of the nightmarish realities of what happens when you wish upon a star. He was a fabulous impersonator of garrulous self-belief.