Better Man

Good evening, folks.

Good evening, you slags.

No. Good evening, folks.

So, who is Robbie Williams?

Well, I've been called many things:

Narcissistic. Punchable. Shit-eating twat.

But while I'm all those things,

I want to show you how I really see myself.

So sit back, relax,

while I give you a right fucking entertaining.

So, the story starts.

1982. Stoke-on-Trent.

The arse-end of the north of England.

Mitchell.

It may look grubby and deprived...

Troy.

-...but deep down... -Wayne.

...it was grubby and deprived.

-Mason. -I didn't have much,

but at least I had the respect and...

-Crystal. -...admiration of my peers.

-What? -And who gets him?

No, it's you.

They just had trouble showing it.

-Robert. -Yes! Come on!

Oi!

Right, knobheads, pass the ball to Nate,

let him do the rest.

Positions! Oi!

Fuck you off to? You're in goal.

-But... -Don't fuck it up.

I'm like a chainmail condom! Nothing's getting through!

Whoo! Let's go, slags!

I had plenty of balls...

Mmm! Mmm! Come on.

...but I couldn't stop a single one.

Wasn't ready.

Nice one, dickhead.

Come on!

Robbie Williams, Captain of Port Vale!

Yeah!

You really are fucking useless, aren't ya?

He's gonna cry.

-Yeah, he is. -Little bitch.

Feelin' a little better now?

It's all right, Rob.

Nate, just leave it.

Yeah. Yeah, jog on,

you tit!

All right, come on. Let's play.

You're a fucking nobody!

See, where I grew up, you were meant to act small.

But the thing is, my DNA is cabaret.

I came out of the womb with jazz hands.

Which was very painful for my mum.

Heading downstairs for a bit.

One of the barmen's called in sick.

Goodnight, sweetheart. Straight to bed, yeah?

Don't let him ruin his dinner.

Bye, love.

How's about a warm hand for my entrance?

Thank you.

Thank you. Thank you.

My dad was well-enamored

by the stars of the day.

Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr. and of course, Sinatra.

They were gods to him.

Youth, you hear that?

That's pure love, that is.

It don't come cheap, mind.

You've got to risk it all, whatever it takes.

'Cause if you make it...

it's paradise.

Thing is, you can't learn it.

You're either born with it...

or you're a nobody.

-Light 'em up. -Light 'em up.

Dad, Dad, Dad!

Oh, fuck it!

-Now look what you've... -Sorry.

I had a full head of steam then and all.

-I can fix it. -Get out the way.

We can sing without it.

-It's not the same. -Or we could...

Robert!

I think it's time for a bath.

-But I want to keep going. -Go with your nan, will ya?

Come on, love. Come on.

Stupid. Come on, Blue Eyes.

There he is.

-Nan? -Mmm?

What is... "it"?

What do you mean?

Dad said you have to be born with "it"...

and maybe I wasn't.

Believe me, whatever "it" is,

you've got more than your share.

-You're just saying that. -I'm bloody well not!

I wouldn't change a hair on your head.

What is it, love?

Don't want to be a nobody.

Oh, love.

There's no such thing as a nobody.

Remember...

This might feel good...

but this, this is what matters.

You're enough.

I was nine years old

when I got my first real taste of the limelight.

I still remember that taste.

Pure, unadulterated terror.

Have you seen the fit one with the big bulge?

After the show, I'm going to touch him

where his bathing suit goes.

I'm gonna fuck it up, I know it.

So what? No one will notice.

-My dad will. -Tsk.

Just go out there, sing your fucking song and walk off.

That's not enough. They'll see right through me.

-What am I gonna do? -I don't know.

I'm just doing this for the sausage.

In the next three seconds,

I'm going to be found out.

They'll see that I'm ugly, I'm stupid, I'm untalented.

I'm not good at anything.

But there is one skill I've practiced

more than any other child in the world...

Light 'em up.

...and that's for showing off.

How's about a warm hand on my entrance?

You see, I thought to become famous,

you had to be really, really good.

Turns out you just have to show off and be a bit cheeky.

Put your hands together for our next contestant,

Peter Williams.

Thank you very much.

Ooh!

Do you know the difference between an "ooh" and an "ahh"?

Well, it's about three inches.

Usually go over people's heads.

Eyes off my bum!

Hurrah!

Whoo!

You're useless. You're a disgrace!

You're a fucking nobody.

Look at you.

I fucking hate you.

My dad won five quid that night.

Although it might as well have been five million.

Thank you very much. You have been wonderful...

and I've been Peter Will...

Conway.

I'm Peter Conway!

Not only did he change his name,

he changed his life.

One day, he went to watch the FA Cup Final.

Unfortunately, he didn't come back.

The audience beckoned and he left us

to be one step closer to his gods.

Don't worry, Mum. We'll be all right.

Light 'em up.