No no, I really mean it: I like Robbie Williams

So the "fat dancer from Take That" (touché, Noel) is to re-square the pinkiest of circles and hit the boards once again with his erstwhile leather-clad chums. According to his mum.

Personally, I'm all for it. Robbie's always been nowt but a silly little boy, and rebalancing the drugs/hugs ratio is all silly little boys really need. He might even fit in some proper dance routines again — rolling back the years and the embattled midriff at the same time.

Any which way you shake it (and they will, you can be sure), it's a winner.

Despite being distilled from an ill-tempered haze of white lines and whittled limelight, Take That "Take Two" should see no retaliatory fireworks. Robbie aside, they've all done gone grown up.

Former bete noire Barlow, whose private-life hijinks never crept past snails' pace even back then, should provide a sturdy, forgiving bosom for our troubled young exile. Judging from Take That's recent resurgence, the potato-faced songsmith now appears so comfortably saddled in middle-aged spread he will doubtless be even happier to pull the strings this time — while Robbie, once again, fandangos centre-stage.

Right.

I've held off till now, but here it goes: I like Williams.

Yes, I'm aware of the distress this causes my fellow music-loving compatriots. It's been an issue of acute alarm amongst my closest friends since 1998 — when my fondness for Port Vale's campest son blossomed on a muddy afternoon in Somerset.

What transpired was as follows: a quaking Williams had to brave the main stage at Glasto ("Glasto Emily! Glasto!") at 5pm on the Saturday evening, having just released his first solo album in an attempt to make a "comeback" as a "new artist" after the pitiful Take That aftermath — when he fell off the wagon, got far too wasted with Oasis and was universally despised for being a bloated drugbucket.

Tough gig. The zeitgeisty hordes who'd gathered for a three-day schmooze with rock's bona fide hall-of-famers were unamused at the thought of this prodigal pop-lite schmuck. 100,000 people got ready to laugh him off stage...

But that rain-threatened afternoon... he brought pure sunshine. Literally and figuratively: funny quips; a healthy serving of self-deprecation throughout the set; constantly admitting he was bricking it; and a joke thrash-metal cover of Back for Good where he changed the lyrics and took the piss out of himself and Gary Barlow for good measure. It was fantastic.

Nobody saw it coming, and I cared just as little as everyone else about Robbie Williams before that afternoon. Simply, he had everyone pissing themselves — and not in the way we'd expected.

Somehow, Williams injected some general "Britishness" that had been lacking all festival. England had just beaten Columbia 2-1 in the World Cup the previous night and he made a big fuss of the occasion, getting everyone riled up for the upcoming Argentina match and commenting on some shit performances by certain players. Spot on. I think Moby was whining his eclec-tastic guts out on the Other Stage at that time, to a dwindling crowd — enough said.

The sun duly came out, smiles ensued all round, Williams got everyone — everyone — waving to Angels, and stole the show.

Whatever you think pop music is, or real music is, or whether you'd rather debate the silvery nuances of the Libertines (which I'd happily do with you) than even countenance being entertained by an ex-boy band member, trust me: you'd have enjoyed that day's tomfoolery.

And here's why: when you go to a festival, you can coo all you like over whatever clever indie darlings are flavour of the minute, but deep down, if something comes along and stirs a collective, situationalised feeling of goodwill, you shun it at your peril.

Of course, many, many elements of our chubby young prince shout "prick", loud as life. They always have. Because he always was a little shit, really. But the boy's a star, and that day 100'000 people knew it — to their lasting benefit.

It was a golden afternoon, and I'll long remember it.