We might be especially cynical, but we can't help wondering: when Robbie booked rehab, did he think "it's my 33rd birthday, which is a pity, but if I'm going to try and upstage the Brits..."?
Although really, he'd have been better off waiting 24 hours. As, instead, today there's just the sense that he's a bad loser. The 3AM Girls in the Mirror (in an "exclusive" headlined "torment of Robbie") more-or-less blames us - the Great British Public - and them - the Brits - for conspiring to feed Robbie Xanax:
And Robbie, once the golden boy of pop with a clutch of awards and millions of fans, was distraught when he managed one paltry nomination at tonight's Brits.
For the first time in 10 years he is not up for Best British Male, Best British Album or Best Single - just a conciliatory nod in the Best Live Act category.
As an abyss is bottomless is bottomless, it's not clear you can actually go further into one - it's like saying there's a deeper bottomless pit somewhere.
The 3AMies reckon the birthday check-in is part of that big 'ole wacky Williams sense of fun we all know and have to endure in gurning appearance after gurning appearance:
Yes. Very funny. Although a rehab you can check into with a cheeky wink doesn't sound like the sort of place your demons chase you to, does it?
The Meadows, of course, was the rehab clinic where Kate Moss was "cured" of cocaine use in about five minutes, and where she later sent Pete Doherty. Doherty didn't exactly come back a different man.
The Daily Mail swings into action, erm, cutting and pasting bits from Lisa D'Amato's News of the World interview on Sunday:
The Mail details - or rather, quotes the NOTW detailing - how Williams needs to pop pills just... oh, you're ahead of us.
Not that the Mail isn't sympathetic to a suffering man. Elsewhere, it offers a Bedlam style chance to look at the madman:
It brings its readers up to speed on the story, too:
That's the sort of recluse who bumps into America's Next Top Model competitors at glittery parties and pops up in paparazzi snaps shopping with Michelle Trachtenberg. That sort of recluse.
But while the Mirror suggests the root of his problems is a string a terrible setbacks, the Mail quotes his sister Sally as saying his trouble is he's like a god:
At confusing times like this, we must turn to Victoria Newton in The Sun. Much like Churchill during the darkest days of war, she'll shine some light into the now-even-deeper abysses where Robbie struggles with the loss of his fame and being too popular. Of course, the story is really all about... her:
Of course, Victoria. For you are, it says here:
The Journalist Who Knows Robbie Best
Although not so well as to stop your paper running a big piece yesterday morning about how Robbie would be marking his 33rd birthday with a celebration, of course. But do carry on.
What was he like when you met him last year?
You really do know him well, don't you? Odd that everyone else seemed to think he was a pill-popping crime scene.
Wasn't he incapable of holding a conversation while he was in Take That?
Still, at the meeting where Robbie seemed happy and relaxed, Victoria - with her trained journalist's eye for detail - noticed that he didn't seem all that happy or relaxed:
He admitted he would crack up if he wasn’t still on the “happy pills”, and I watched as he downed at least six double espressos during the course of the interview. And each time he put out a cigarette, he immediately lit up another one.
I also noticed that he still finds it impossible to sit still or relax.
He is constantly fidgeting, wandering around the room, whistling, singing, and obviously finds it hard to just sit back and chill out.
Actually, we'd be pretty agitated if we were locked in a room for two hours with Newton.
He was forced to cancel dates in Asia claiming he was exhausted while his Rudebox album was met with mixed reviews and disappointing sales.
And he has been forced to accept that the Take That reunion tour has overshadowed his own record breaking Close Encounters tour.
Not that you'd have got that impression if you read Newton's column, of course.
Oddly, Newton makes no mention of one of his other big troubles - former Take That manager Nigel Martin-Smith threatening to sue over lyrics to one of the songs on Rudebox. You'd have thought that expensive slip would have been close to the top of Newton's mind, what with her printing the lyrics in full and the paper then having to run a grovelling apology to Martin-Smith and all.
It's also interesting that Newton suggests that a bad late autumn pushed an otherwise contented Williams "over the edge" when all other suggestions - even her own bloody piece - make it clear he's been popping pills since Mrs Dale was a diarist. But then Newton is clearly so afraid of losing Williams exclusives, she can't even bring herself to call him a self-obsessed fuck-up. Indeed, you'd think she was applauding:
He's so brilliant, he's had to check himself into brilliantness rehab, to stop his wonderfulness burning a hole in his amazingness.
So, what's he hooked on? The Sun knows, of course:
And daily he gets through an incredible 36 super-strength double espresso coffees, 60 Silk Cut cigarettes and around 20 cans of energy drink Red Bull.
That's a lot. Especially since The Mirror reckons:
It's the red bull that's the most worrying, of course. Think what it's doing to his teeth.
Still, if he is getting through sixty fags a day, it might go some way to explaining why it takes him three hours to get it up.
The Mirror, meanwhile, frets over how he spends his day:
Reading about himself on the internet? You don't think he ever... nah, surely not.