SINCE Robbie Williams and fame began their uneasy relationship in the early 1990s, the former Take That star has rarely been alone. Those who know him best say he prefers to surround himself with people at all times. Nights in at home in Los Angeles are regularly accompanied by a dozen hangers-on. It suits his nervy disposition. He likes noise, distraction, adoration.

Last week, however, in the moments leading up to arguably the most crucial performance of his career, the 35-year-old pop star stood in the darkened wings of The X Factor studio with nothing but his demons for company.

It was billed as the biggest comeback since Elvis (or Dirty Den, at least). For several months, executives at Virgin Records, and its parent company EMI, have toiled with a single purpose: to convince the British public to fall for the Marmite charms of pop’s wayward son once more.

The stakes are high. The company signed an £80m recording contract with Williams in 2002, and in an industry where sure-fire hits are harder than ever to come by, superstars are a rarity.

Hence Williams had been booked on The X Factor, the TV talent show that routinely attracts more than 13m viewers. But as he stood by the stage waiting to perform Bodies, the lead single from his new album, the sliding door wouldn’t open. Williams managed to elbow his way into the lights but his shaky confidence was already thrown.

“So there’s a bad start,” he said afterwards. “I had a whole pose planned and what not. But that went out of the window.”

And how. The next five minutes were a car crash of darting eyes and cringe-worthy mugging, with a slick of sweat across his brow that would have done Richard Nixon proud. The song tanked.

Perhaps most shamefully, his quivering vocals were eclipsed by the X Factor contestants who had taken to the same stage the previous night. The assortment of single mums, pub crooners and novelty acts had outsung the seasoned pro.

Even worse, Williams appeared wide-eyed and jumpy in an interview with the show’s host immediately afterwards. Internet forums quickly filled up with suggestions that he was high on more than the atmosphere. They were strenuously denied by his management team. Nevertheless, a couple of days later, a tabloid newspaper featured a picture of a bug-eyed Williams with the headline: “Mummy, who’s that strange man on X Factor?”

It can’t have been what Williams (nor the executives at EMI) had hoped for. He had so much to prove. In 2006, Rudebox, his last album, was released to critical whiplash and lacklustre sales — a million unsold copies of the CD were sent to China to be recycled as road cladding.

After a debilitating tour in which he experienced chronic stage fright, a burnt-out Williams sloped back to Los Angeles (where he has lived on and off for years), grew a Rasputin beard and developed a quirky affection for UFOs.

Then, earlier this year, a chink of light. After a stint in rehab to wean himself off myriad prescription drugs, Williams returned to Britain and went into the studio with Trevor Horn, noted producer of 1970s and 1980s hits including Relax, for Frankie Goes to Hollywood, and the Buggles’ Video Killed the Radio Star.

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