As I settle down to compose this, a missive from the darkest pit of my twisted soul, it occurs to me how ironic (HA! I hate that word! But how very useful it has been for me over the years) it is that here I am, poised to reveal my real and very blackest thoughts for the very first time since The Fame Experiment began, and as far as the stinking hordes that comprise the general public are concerned, I remain the life and soul of their party. A party, I might add, that I would never wish to be invited to. One has to have certain standards, don't you know?
But there again, it has been the exploitation of the very low standards set by others that has allowed me to reach the grand heights of my current position. From a very early age, I knew my evil genius had set me apart from the common rabble. Oh, I would pretend to follow their feeble-minded interests - that game they like to watch where a leather bladder is propelled around a large field using only the feet, the stretched-cat moron inferno known as 'pop music' - but only so I could get close enough to study them for weaknesses which I could readily exploit.
I soon realised that all I needed was a pleasing look, the illusion of talent, a brittle sense of humour and a few well-publicised 'problems'. The look I achieved through a mixture of good genes, a vigorous training schedule, and some very expensive contact lenses. The 'talent' proved equally straightforward. It seems that the ability to hold a note is more than adequate to gain entry to one of these simpering collections of half-manhood that calls itself the 'boy band'.
Once I had connived my way into The Gary Barlow Sing-A-Roony Roadshow and forced them to change their name to the far more apocalyptic Take That, phase two of my plan could begin. I quickly began to undermine the hapless Barlow's confidence with my hard-won singing and dancing skills, while simultaneously courting the affections of the media by appearing to shout my mouth off at every given opportunity. It pleased me to see him cry like a girl about it.
Quick as a flash, I launched phase three, which involved deserting my Gollum-y bandmates (more crying, to my eternal delight), following some troglodyte 'rock' band around for a while and pretending to become insensible on various chemicals. Then I simply ceased the pretence of inebriation, and instructed my media underlings to describe the change as a stint in 'rehab'. And voila! A wave of public sympathy that has carried me from that moment onward.
Naturally, I have done my best to test this support, for what evil genius can hold himself back from tinkering with the forces that hold him aloft? But as yet I cannot seem to shake the monster I have created in my own image. I have appeared to strip down to my very skeleton on prime-time television, and nobody minded. I have commissioned tattoo artists to scrawl endless nonsense all over my body, thus ruining the scupltured body that attracted the masses to my side in the first place. They merely requested I refrain from wearing a vest. I have complained endlessly to the press about 'the pressure of fame', 'why I can't find true love' and 'the hollowness of casual sex', and not ONE person has taken me to one side and suggested I shut the hell up.
It is at this point that I must admit to a painful truth. I have no idea how to make these fevered idiots leave me alone. I tried living in America, tried making records that their grandparents would approve of, tried appearing to be a sexually over-driven hump-dog backstage at the greatest humanitarian concert of the modern era, and everyone still loves me. I honestly believe I could crush a baby rabbit under my heel and the ravening meat-heads would STILL refer to me as 'cheeky'.
Which is why I have decided to finally come clean. End this charade, and put the character of 'Robbie Williams' to bed so that I can continue with my life's work. Namely the to make the ENTIRE HUMAN RACE CRY! LIKE GIRLS!! Don't say you haven't been warned...
