The Interior Life of Noel Gallagher: A Speculative History

Noel noticed one day that the pavement and the sky were almost the same colour, though he wasn't sure what he thought about this.

'Fuckin rats!' exclaimed Noel as a raven defouled his lawn below. Momentarily cognizant that the creature was not rodentine, he returned to masturbating, wondering if age and substance abuse might be sapping his hitherto quick mind.

Noel considered for the first time that Shaun Wright-Philips might not appreciate the hair-tousling gesture he had made to the diminuitive winger on each of the previous three or four times they had met, but could not find sufficient resolve to refrain in future.

You're a curious individual, nakhchivan.

Reminds me of this Quietus piece - what next for Britpop's most conspicuous underachiever?. Only time I can recall seeing the guy since was him talking about his friendship with del Piero during the world cup.

Contemplating Alessandro del Piero's seemingly endless but consistenly declining career after that brief period in the mid-late 90s where he, Ronaldo and Totti were thought to augur in an epoch of splendour (since lost to drugs, corruption, canolis and dysphoria), Noel wondered how they could be friends with so little in common.

hahaha

Paralysed by an inability to decide whether or not to go outside, and haunted by the suspicion that the ravens could see into the deepest abyss of his soul, Noel sat in the dark for some four hours until he could feel naught but the tepid slurry of molten ice cream and the cloying warmth of involuntary micturition.

This is very funny and could potentially be a great book.

can we get edward gorey to illustrate it

oh fuk hes dead

"That were rubbish" thought Noel, pondering a TV show from 1991. "Rubbish", he repeated in his mind, wishing a reporter had been present to catch his display of colloquial sincerity. "Rubbish!"

"That were good that!" thought Noel, pondering an advertisement from 1987. "That were good!".

Noel was drinking undiluted lime cordial with two former members of Northern Uproar in a swanky private members club when he realized that every word uttered in that venue was a thinly disguised reference to the furtive insufflation of cocaine. Then he realized he was also on coke.

reads like the weirdest of 'YOU have the adventure' books tbh

where's the post that started all this? that was classic, sorry that were good

Was/Is Morrissey Racist?

Not really the thread for it, but I periodically see Noel wandering about, in fact to the extent that he's started to recognise me (not in any head-nodding sort of way, but in a sort of glance of suspicious recognition - it must be hell being famous in some ways). Whenever I see him, he's just mooching about, wandering the streets with the comportment of a man who has absolutely nothing to do, never with anyone, never exuding any purpose, looking down side streets with equal uninterest, extensively studying shelves in the supermarket with a sort of desultory indifference, that sort of thing, a portrait of velleity, of volition in its lowest form.

― GamalielRatsey, Saturday, September 4, 2010 11:02 AM (5 days ago) Bookmark Suggest Ban Permalink

right good, that

was told tonight of a tribute band farrago which wound up with the tribute Noel Gallagher having a brawl with the tribute Stone Roses manager

frankly emblematic of his entire mien

Noel shuffled to the door in his towelling robe to receive a promotional copy of The Independent's new condensed edition. 'It's a top idea to have a paper for clever people who can't be arsed to spend hours reading every day', thought Noel to himself before throwing it to the floor and returning to his greenhouse.

<3 this thread

"Chard, what the fuck is chard," thought Noel, discarding the cookery book. "Chard? I'll not have that. Fucking nonsense is what it is," he said to himself, laughing at the very idea. "Fucking chard," he repeated, mentally. "I love the Rolling Stones," he thought. "Love them."

"James May. James fookin May." Noel reached for the remote. "James fookin Gay more like."

'I should write these things down,' he thought. He flicked onto Dave +1, then UK Living. "Fookin channels have all got adverts on at the same time. Fookin joke is what it is Bonehead," he called out to the other room. He looked over his shoulder and rubbed the back of his head. It were quiet round here these days.

This should really be a 33 1/3 book imo

more of these!

Noel gazed admiringly upon the full-length portrait of Lennon hanging on his landing. "Top man," he thought. "Toppest man. You didn't need any of them cunts."

He headed downstairs to check on the progress of his microwave lasagna. On the way, he tried to remember which day of the week it was. Tuesday or Thursday? It was definitely one of the tees, he was sure. "Bollocks to it," he eventually decided. "They're all the basically the same."

Noel walked slowly down the hall, as fast, if not faster, than a cannonball. This combination of sloth and velocity had a vertiginous effect upon him, and he decided it was time for a sit-down. He plonked himself upon his beanbag shaped like Noddy Holder's hat, which he had acquired at no small cost from the finest novelty recliner merchant in the Midlands.

Drowsy now, his eyelids flickered and the hideous image of that cunt Damon resolved itself from the psycadelic stew in his mind. Grinning, always grinning. "Fooking cartoon bands" he murmered. "That southern wankstain don't have the monopoly on fooking cartoon bands." Suddenly alert and upright, he fumbled for a pen and paper. "Wonder what the fella who draws the Tetley tea ads is up to these days?" Another solid gold brainwave for Noely G.

Cant decide which tunet o play in Beatles rock band...maybe I should have spent the extra 15 quid to get the wireless guitar...

Since being sent to Siberia for his crimes against the state, his piano seized by representatives from the Party, which had monitored him for years and then had come one freezing night in the ruins of his manor house, Noel had begun to compose his music in his head. Harsh, unrelenting music that cursed his persecutors. It seemed as though the angrier became, the more the music seemed to come to Noel as though from some eternal, mystical source.

Sure, the workers had failed. They would fail again, Noel thought. They would never succeed. Was his life now to peter out in this barren hell hole? "Fuck no," he thought. But who was left to carry on the fight? Bonehead, Bobby Gillespie, the singer from Proud Mary, and Kasabian, all silenced as they tried to make the people see what they would never see, what they did not want to see. Perhaps it was futile. All that was left now was their art. Nothing could take that away. "That were good, that," Noel told himself, "That were good."

Noel felt at times, as the chief songwriter of Oasis, like he was competing, secretly, with his idol, Walter Benjamin; Noel felt that he was creating his own "Arcades Project," as it were, in musical form. He sometimes imagined an afterlife not unlike that described by Socrates, in which he could converse with Benjamin, and in these moments Noel let out a merry chuckle. This was in the period before Noel drank himself into madness with Tincture of Opium.

Noel found himself watching the contents of an upturned can of Tuborg disappear into the plush carpet of an unused guest bedroom. He was unable to determine why he had done this, but it was the fourteenth such can he had spilt in a similar fashion and the insensate obliquity of the event was affirmed by the gentle sobbing of a Latvian domestic in the corridor, thereafter ebbing away as she resumed tending to Noel's growing collection of obese cane rats.

Noel looked at the ancient structure towering over him, his rheumatic, sunburned eyes becoming moist with tears. Had his colleagues thought it an idle boast that he would find the lost library of Alexandria?

one of you two isn't doing it right

they both cool with me.

(sorry, will retry:)

give a shit. (looks the other way)

proper out loud laugh at Bonehead, Bobby Gillespie, the singer from Proud Mary, and Kasabian, all silenced

One morning Noel came out of the oak tree that he lived in, his small frame fitting neatly through the little one meter high door, above which a makeshift sign read, "Noel's House." "Fookin' hell," said Noel, as he made his way into the forest to collect his day's supply of raspberries, which happened to be only one raspberry because of the Lilliputian dimensions of Noel's stomach. Yes, a raspberry was a veritable feast for Noel and as he made his way back to his oak tree house he was unfortunately squashed by a passing rustic.

^^brilliant

A train passed by somewhere in the distance. You could hear children coming home from school, a lawnmower sounded from somewhere nearby. "It'll be winter before we know it," thought Noel, as examined his guitar, that had served him so well over the years. He looked at the battered wood, and his name written on the back, "NOEL." "NOEL" he said to himself slowly, examining the guitar, "NOEL". "NOEL." "NOEL". He heard a noise behind him and turned around with a fright. "Mr Gallagher, who are you talking to?" "NOEL", he repeated. "Mr Gallagher!?". "NOEL!" he slowly said again. "Okay Mr Gallagher that's enough excitement for you today, let's get you back to bed, but not before we clean up all that Tuborg you spilled, now would you like a pork pie or an bacon roll for your dinner Mr Gallagher? Mr Gallagher????"

"NOEL"

...the insensate obliquity of spilled Tuborg....

"On occasion, this seems like the dream, but I have not yet awakened," mused Noel to himself. "Where the fook did that come from?" he thought. "Goin' soft in the ed mate." Suddenly it occurred to him he'd been standing on his back patio unmoving for a whole twenty minutes. And he'd forgotten to put his trousers on.

Cristiano Ronaldo lost the ball again and promptly dived to the ground. 'Never a penalty that,' thought Noel. He went into the kitchen and came back with a cup of tea.

"Tell you what," he announced to the room, "that Ronaldo's a puff. Football's a game for puffs. Rugby, that's a game for big hard bastards, played by big hard bastards and all. Oscar Wilde said that, or someone like that."

Jim Rosenthal was talking on the telly. Noel blew on his tea. 'Not Georgi Kinkladze though,' he thought. 'He were good.'

Noel's watching the X Factor, "what a bunch of talentless fuckers", he thinks. Next week they're singing Elton John songs, "I hate that fat poof." Noel, idly picks up his battered accoustic and strums, "Still it'd be top if someone did one of my songs, maybe that Matt lad could do Wonderwall."

Noel was pretending channel surf; going up and down, he'd stop at Strictly. It was odd to look at Patsy again; something between a worry and a longing was scratching at him. He wished someone were here. He'd like to make a joke about her.

Who liked him?

(wrong bruv)

(nah, I wanted him deliberately thinking about his brother's wife. shoulda made it clearer)

(fairenuf)

love this thread

Noel's brother Paul was in town for the evening and they were planning to meet for a couple of pints. Noel put on his leather jacket, then took it off and put on his brown suede leather jacket. He looked in the mirror and put the collar up. Then he put it down again.

He sat down at the computer and logged onto national rail enquiries. He checked the times to Manchester - 2100, 2140, 2200. Paul probably wouldn't want to pop round to the flat. Probably wouldn't have time to either. Still...

Noel opened the wardrobe, took out a pile of LPs, and carried them into the living room. He stacked them on the sideboard. Revolver was at the front. 'Too obvious,' he thought, and swapped it for Beatles For Sale. Then he had an idea. He went back to the wardrobe, reached to the back, and took out Standing On The Verge Of Getting It On. He took off the cellophane and placed it at the front of the pile.

He stepped back. 'Yeah!' he thought. Then he went out.

Five minutes later, the front door opened and Noel came in. He went into the lounge and flicked through the LPs until he found what he was looking for. He lifted out Definitely Maybe and put it at the front. "Alright", he said, and nodded.

this is the 2010 equivalent of GARU G in ilx lolstakes, would make a brilliant comic strip. the concept itself is endlessly fascinating. trying to think of other cultural/music post-peak-of-fame skits but all i'm coming up with is that vic & bob slade house sketch. the sheer tedium & pathos of the noel g episodes are what make them so poignant

When the great grandfather clock in Noel's chambers struck three, the fire in the grate was blown out by what seemed to be a great gust of wind down the chimney, and the chambers were left in darkness except for a few candles and a thin moonlight that cast itself through one of the tall windows plastered with rain and fallen leaves nearly obscured by thick crimson drapes. Now Noel heard the sound of footsteps on the grand staircase and his blood turned to ice. Were the footsteps real? Each day Noel had tried to convince himself that the previous night's phantasies were just that. By now he could not remember which had come first: the insomnia, the opium use, or the ghost that manifested itself at the top of the great hall and then disappearing once seen.

With great apprehension Noel tucked his hammer pants into his boots and tentatively made his way into the hallway...

Garu G as a comic strip? Picture a grandmother's flange....

Noel stared at the brown leather boots in the shop window. He stared for a long time. He looked down at the brown leather boots he was wearing. His gaze returned to the boots on display before him. "Boots," he thought. "Boots". The word sounded strange in his head. He looked down at the boots on his feet. "Boots." He wondered whether Boots the Chemist had started out as a shoe shop. Maybe in the olden Victorian times boots were worn by people with poorly feet. Like those Dr Skol things.

"I should get one them dictaphone things," thought Noel.

Noel had spent the afternoon drinking pernod in his shed with a near-comatose Alan McGee while waiting for his harried PA to return with four crates of Guarana Antarctica and 63 lbs of condensed milk powder for Geraldine, his favourite cane rat. 'They're not fuckin chinchillas', drawled Noel, irked by his companion's insincerity, but his psychomotor skills were inadequate to the task of writing CUNT on Alan's forehead, and Noel himself fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of himself as a liliputian Quixote, charging across the windswept plains of Old Castille with Geraldine, his trusty steed.

it's like american splendor starring noel g

i love it

Perhaps the direction to go for the Noel solo album was not more tributes to (or, as he sometimes even admitted to himself in the dark depths of the night increasingly tired imitations of) the greats of old, but a spoken word record in which he would share his insights on a range of everyday objects, thus marrying the mundane and the profound. In this way he would contribute to the transcendence of the human race from its vulgar origins.

Bouyed by this notion, Noel absorbed his surroundings with a new clarity. Potential inspiration was everywhere. "Cars!," he thought, "Cars are very... Er... They, like get you places an' that! Yeah!" He beamed. "Birds! They're kinda like.. Kinda like little planes! With beaks..." Like a cheap coke high, the sheen was rapidly burnishing. Time to sum up. "But at the end of the day, right, at the end of the fookin day, all you need is... All you need is, er... Got it! All you need is love!" He considered this sudden flash of brilliance for a second or two, and then something clicked. "Oh FOOKIN 'ELL!" said Noel Gallagher.

Woken by a small needling sound, Noel raised himself onto his elbows and squinted at the clock. "Fookin ell.." he mumbled, collapsing into his 400 threadcount Kenzo sheets. His eyes closed, he saw himself riding aloft the bush-hog accessory of a 1970s-era Massey-Ferguson tractor. Bits of grass and dirt pelted his ears and face. The swing band kept playing. What was that girl's name? Who fookin cares.

Noel turned off the fridge. He listened. It was still there, that noise. He tried to hum along to it. To understand it. What was a noise? Who was a noise? No, that was poof's talk, it was probably the telly. He began walking down the hall to the living room, then stopped. He went back to the kitchen and rolled up the culture section of the Sunday Times. The noise was there alright, in the telly room, lording it. He burst into the room, but the telly was plugged out already. Noel stopped and cupped his ears, in the background he could still hear it, it didn't sound like anything at all, it was a bit like the noise you get in a church with nobody in it, that bloody mmmm.

He collapsed into the couch. "Fuck it," he said out loud. The doorbell rang sharply several times. Noel paused. "We don't have a doorbell," he thought. It would be the man in the purple coat, Noel said to himself, smiling. Here for his nightly pound of flesh no doubt.

Noel curled the dense ringlets of his mustache, and then curled the dense ringlets of his unibrow. Making his way through the dense, sooty avenues of Manchester in his horse and carriage, his small form, wrapped in black greatcoat and top-hat, lit by the few gas lamps along the street, the few passers-by out at this un-Christian hour--some tramp, or governess, perhaps--mistook Noel, who gazed at them out of the thick windows of the carriage with his magnifying glass, for some deranged lord of some ancient family driven mad by generations of intermarriage, venturing out of his country house. Little did these peripatetic ingenues know that in fact Noel was keeping them safe; and, though he was indeed a deranged lord venturing out of his country house, he did so only to solve crimes of great import.

Noel hurtled down aisle 1 at Tesco faster than, yes, a cannonball. Onions - check, garlic - check. He walked smartly across to the tinned tomatoes. Halfway there he raised a hand in greeting, a bit like the guy on the Morning Glory cover. There was nobody there though - he'd checked before he did it. He only wanted two tins but it was nearly as to cheap to get four. They were in this sort of carton-thing. Noel didn't know what that was called.

He ambled towards the back of the shop to get pasta. The spice rack was on the way and he got distracted by that for a while. How could there be so many different types of pepper? The oils were beside it and he spent a while looking at them. One bottle of olive oil - eight quid!

The dairy section. It were tough choosing a cheese - you never used it all, did you, before you had to throw it out. He did without cheese. That pissed him off - he liked cheese.

He sighed. There was only one item to get. He looked at the bacon cabinet, then at his list. 'Bacon smoked/unsmoked'. What the fuck did that mean? It was either smoked or it wasn't. They had smoked. They had unsmoked. Four hundred grams. Two hundred grams. He looked up at them. 'I don't even know the difference,' he thought.

He took everything out his basket and got a frozen pizza instead. You could cook it straight from frozen. At the checkout he looked at the front of Heat. Katy Perry and Russell Brand were on it. Noel flicked at his mobile but it didn't have Brand's number on it. It didn't have anybody's number on it. It had Bonehead's, but he'd got a new phone now hadn't he.

Noel's PA came round, the usual bunch of fan mail, "why does someone from Albania, think I'd write back? I've never even been to fookin' Albania". She's brought the latest copy of Mojo. "Dylan on the cover again. Surely must be time for a Roses cover. She tells me Joe Goddard has phoned. Joe Who? Turns out he's the fat, bearded bloke from Hot Chip. I met him at the Q awards and said we should do something, didn't think he'd think I was serious. He was telling me about funky houses. I don't know, I'm too old for this shit really, think I'll give it a miss. Still he said he worked with Robert Wyatt and Weller says Wyatt's alright. Our kid would know what to do, tell me to stop being a dickhead."

honest reaction - this thread really makes me want to listen to some Oasis

Hunched in rapt concentration, Noel stared at the typewriter before him. His mind turned over and over as he gazed through the sheet of paper, staring into the depths of his own psyche, combining and recombining words as he strove to reach the appropriate final sentence. Suddenly, all cogitation ceased and his fingers leaped forward, flying across the keys, pounding at them like a concert pianist rushing to a tremendous final crescendo. It took less than a minute. Spent, Noel leaned back in his Ikea "Markus" chair and pulled the finished page from the carriage. He carefully read back what he had written, aloud, testing each cadence and the rhythm of his prose.

"To attribute the Imitatio Christi to Louis Ferdinand Céline or to James Joyce, is this not a sufficient renovation of its tenuous spiritual indications?"

Noel smiled to himself, slowly. "Fookin' mint," he murmured.

Sir William Napier, who had until that time been enjoying a developing acquaintance with the beautiful heiress, the Duchess de Milamant, watched as a masqued figure, diminuitive yet of handsome carrriage, and dressed in black, danced a merry bourée with the Duchess. Sir William could not place the man, and as his patience grew thin approached him and demanded satisfaction. Little is known about the events that took place on a fog-laden moor at dawn the next morning except that the masqued man drew the first lot, and as his bullet smashed through Sir William Napier's heart, uttered the mysterious phrase, "Fookin' hell," before he and his second mounted a dappled steed and departed into the dim English sunrise.

Noel had summoned his PA to note down a message of congratulation for Noel's new favourite person, the estimable Mario Barwuah Balotelli. Noel gazed across the cane rat warrens at his forlorn amanuensis, unable to choose the right words and somewhat dismayed since being told of telegraphy's demise. 'Carrier pigeons! No, they're fucking cunts they are. Filthy little shit cunts'. No entreaties would overcome Noel's innate luddite disgust for e-mail, and it was getting late, so Noel left it for another day.

'Early to bed and early to rise,' thought Noel as he rose and pulled his nightcap from his clear head, 'means Noel Gallagher is fookin' wise.' Although the forecast had been fair, parting the curtains revealed the day to be stormy.

'It never rains but it pours'. He began to sing: "I'm getting outside early doors."

After a breakfast consisting of tea and the outside of a Warburton's loaf, rendered palatable by the dregs of a pot of raspberry marmalade, Noel abandoned his plan to visit town and instead retrieved Mojo from the day room. It was a Bob Dylan special this week.

"Dylan," he murmured, returning to his chambers.

Noel turned off the fridge. He listened. It was still there, that noise. He tried to hum along to it. To understand it. What was a noise? Who was a noise? No, that was poof's talk, it was probably the telly. He began walking down the hall to the living room, then stopped. He went back to the kitchen and rolled up the culture section of the Sunday Times. The noise was there alright, in the telly room, lording it. He burst into the room, but the telly was plugged out already. Noel stopped and cupped his ears, in the background he could still hear it, it didn't sound like anything at all, it was a bit like the noise you get in a church with nobody in it, that bloody mmmm.

He collapsed into the couch. "Fuck it," he said out loud. The doorbell rang sharply several times. Noel paused. "We don't have a doorbell," he thought. It would be the man in the purple coat, Noel said to himself, smiling. Here for his nightly pound of flesh no doubt.

― I see what this is (Local Garda), Friday, 5 November 2010 18:16 (3 days ago)

a+

Noel took a deep breath and looked back down at the picture. This time. Theis time he could get it. 'They look like… they look like a bunch of… students'. No. That wasn't it, Noel, that still wasn't it. They didn't look like teachers, or students, or Australian barmen, or men from the Boden catalogue (Christ, he couldn't even say that, why did he think that?) or postmen or cooks. Tramps wasn't good enough. Hippies wasn't good enough.

He didn't have it any more. He did not know what he would say if were asked about them. 'What do you think about Mumford and Sons, Noel?', 'I don't know they look a bit like tramps, student tramps, folk singer student tramps'. Pathetic. Witless. Pathetic.

He'd thought of something about Walter the Softie getting kicked out of Belle and Sebastian, but what use was that? Who cared about them now?

He pushed his face down into the NME. He did not recognise the smell. What did the NME smell like in his youth? Different from this. Had that smell faded from all original 1987 NMEs? Did it exist anywhere still? Was there a smell, or was he getting confused? He had money, but was not sure whether he could buy that smell, or even if it existed.

Like tinkers? Was that racist?

fantastic

who is the US Noel Gallagher I wonder

http://i54.tinypic.com/11l4yvn.gif

johnny depp?

or am i getting banned

apparently, now we can all say Romo without getting imageblipped, we cannot say Chaki now.

adam sandler

What did the NME smell like in his youth

mel gibson

the NME never smelled like mel gibson.

mel glibson tho.

It was a parallel universe. The time, between lunch and tea. Noel had finished his morning's compositions and was treating himself to hot buttered crumpets. He ate his crumpets with the rich satisfaction of a composer who is highly respected by society, and has reached an age where he may revel in his plumpness and state of wealth. Also, the lower part of Noel's body was that of a small frog. Aside from that though, Noel was quite content. Just then, however, Noel came to a stunning realization: his top half was also that of a small frog. Such, such were the days.

who is the US Noel Gallagher I wonder

― BIG MUFFIN (gbx), Monday, November 8, 2010 11:19 AM

Scott Stapp solo debut!

Former Creation label boss Alan McGee says Oasis will reform "in four or five years".

http://www.bbc.co.uk/6music/news/20101109_mcgee2.shtml

Noel awoke with a start, what the fuck were that on his jeans? "What the fuck were that on my jeans," he shouted angrily. Nobody answered. "Fuck off then," he roared, hearing his voice echo around the house. Noel 1 Silence 0 he chanted in his head. He had nodded off after a second pot noodle, and it was only fucking Tuesday. What was he, a fucking nonce. The seat and his jeans was soaked through with urine. "Fuck" thought Noel. He looked at the phone. It had been weeks.

He scrabbled around in his pockets. Where was it? There it was, an old fag packet with some phone numbers on it. He dialled one. "Hello could I speak to Bonehead please?"

"What do you mean National Accident Helpline? This is Bonehead's number. I'll not stop calling it, it's Bonehead's house. What? No you've got it wrong mate, put bloody Bonehead on. Don't know who Bonehead is? Read your history books mate. Well tell him I called. I said TELL HIM I CALLED. 77 times in 3 days? Yeah cos he's never fucking in innit!" Noel laughed, who was Bonehead?? Who was this cunt?

"Fuck off cunt. Bonehead will explain everything to the police when he gets in. Like I told you last time. Piece of free advice mate, if you're going to answer Bonehead's phone you might want to find out who he is."

Noel replaced the receiver, furious now. Where the fuck were Bonehead? He'd given him his number when they met by chance at the train station back in 2006.

He dialled a second number, thinking of numbers the Beatles might have liked. 3, 7, great fucking numbers them. "Hello, could I speak to Liam please? Is there fuck no Liam there? Get him on."

The line went dead. Noel squelched deeper into the piss soaked couch. He'd have to clean it soon. But it were a struggle just to stay awake.

haha amazing that one

also, tracer you missed the most telling quote from that mcgee interview:

"The reason that guy is quiet is he knows what he's got up his sleeve."

reads like a retort to this thread!

'Waterman can keep his fookin' train sets', thought Noel. 'Probably sits there wearing a uniform and cap, blowing his whistle and looking a proper cunt'. As for that wanker Liam, well if he was happy knitting scarves and sewing buttons onto anoraks, like a woman, then it just showed how little he understood then concept of having a real hobby.

Noel held the bunch of threads firmly but gently; one false move now and the whole thing would be ruined. He pulled with a delicate motion, eyes fixed on the tiny bundles of cloth and wood. For long agonising moments it looked as though nothing was going to happen, but finally, gloriously, the components separated and stood true: masts, rigging and sails, perfect in every detail. Noel's eyes prickled with tears as he looked at the 1:300 scale model of HMS Bellerophon, sealed now forever in a decorative glass bottle. He could almost hear the shouts of the crew, and fancied that he saw the miniature sails filling with a stiff southwesterly.

"Heh heh", he exclaimed aloud. "First fooking time and all!"

The Glass Waste wheelie bin swung noisily into the rear of the refuse lorry, whining hydraulics accompanied by a cacophony of breaking glass as it disgorged its laden contents into the crushing mechanism. Whilst this took place, a bin man busied himself placing a large notification sticker onto the top of a General Waste wheelie bin which had the letters "SH" painted on the side in crude letters. This bin wasn't getting emptied today, not when it looked like the contents were a mixture of empty ready-meal cartons and dozens of clear glass bottles, with broken wood and rags stuffed inside. Belsize Park had very clear bye-laws on recycling and there was no way this was going in, not on his watch.

Noel opened the CD case, "why were they so fucking hard to open these days, bloody student art cunts," and placed the CD in his stereo. Had he gone deaf, or did every bloody CD just sound like he hadn't pressed play. He looked at the remote control and pressed the large button labelled "PLAY/PAUSE". The timer stopped on the player. Could he hear more than he heard before?

"It were louder a minute ago," he said. Did he think that or say it, he wondered aloud. Or did he wonder aloud? He phoned Bonehead, but found himself standing in the garden with a spade next to his ear. "A fucking spade," he thought. When was the last time I phoned Bonehead? He awoke with a start, he couldn't move his arms, was he in hospital? Of course not, he thought, nodding off.

He awoke once again, back in his lounge. What's that smell he said, but the sounds might have only come out in his head? He picked up the dictaphone on the table and studied it. It had recorded something the previous day. He pressed the button marked "PLAY".

"That were piss that. That were piss."

flawless

Noel answered the door. It was Liam again. "Oh fook," thought Noel.
Liam began to say, "Let's 'ave it lar--" when a great, booming voice from the sky said, "Enough!" and in a great puff of smoke Liam was turned into a pillar of sand about the size of a Frappuccino. Thusly did God make his presence known to Noel Gallagher.

the last local garda one is the best yet

"Joyeux Noël", God said to Noel.

"Stay...who goes there," Noel announced to the hallway, a foreboding general amongst the ranks of the many rooms of his house. His voice merely echoed back at him. Had he heard nothing at all? His head was filled with triumphant flutes, playing the most wondrous symphonies he had ever heard.

"What is this fucking nonce music, I can't shut it off," he thought, each word barely audible inside amongst the swooping brass tones filling his mind.

Then it happened again. Liam entered the king's court, the buttons on his fine jester's costume winking at Noel with delight. "Alright NOBHEAD," he chuckled, cartwheeling across the floor while a bawdy King Bonehead nodded his approval. Bloody nobheads.

"What the fuck is this shite," Noel wondered aloud. But it were too late, the guards had seen him. "Andy, Gem, how's it going lads," Noel offered, delighted to see his old friends. But the trumpets were sounding and it was time to lead Noel back to his cell.

He awoke again. He were back on the couch. The phone rang, "Noel it's Bonehead." "Ah Bonehead, mate, great to talk to you, I've been trying to call you for fucking weeks."

"Sorry mate I probably couldn't hear you. I'm King of England now and I've been learning the flute."

Noel was waiting in the anteroom of a TV studio smoking kreteks and rehearsing his contribution to 'I Love the 00s', a scathing aside about the lamentable 'new acoustic' movement, about how much he hated them and how they were all fucking cunts, when he considered that he didn't really want to be there, whereupon he fell into a catatonic stupour unresponsive to the fraught solictitude of the malnourished script girls and wished that he could just fucking die.

LG i hope you somehow incorporate these into yr new job.

god i wish i could get paid to write stupid shit

Is that the latest Noel epistle?

Noel's PA rushed upstairs to find him perched on a coffee table, screaming incoherently and fighting off a cane rat insurgency with a ceremonial katana he had recently bought on eBay. But the cane rats were nowhere to be found.

"Who's lived up to Oasis? What, since us?" Noel took the last miniature roll from the basket and tore at it to gain thinking time. "Nobody, that's who!" he exclaimed. The roll had something soft in it. A sultana he thought it was. Why would you want a sultana in a roll?

He pushed his spoon about in his soup. It was cold and thickened and he could trace dents in it, which slowly filled to become lines on the surface. This wasn't going anywhere. "The Libertines, they were pretty good," he conceded. "That singer though, he were a lightweight."

Two waiters shuffled noisily near his table. Noel shot them an angry look, but he'd turned his head too far round and everything lolled about for a moment. He turned back to the interviewer. It was a woman this time. He tried the exchange again and this time he said Razorlight but it sounded stupid. They tried again and this time he said The Libertines. That would do. The Libertines, they were alright. That sounded alright.

Every single time I see this thread, 'The Interior Life Of Noel Gardner: A Speculative History' is what I misread it as.

"I should have picked out Burnley. Bastard."

"I tell you what mate, fookin' right weird dreams I've had lately. Don't know if I'm even awake half the time. What's that about, eh? Tony?"

McCarroll just smiled enigmatically from across the kitchen table.

Noel remembered how that smile had always unnerved him. It was like he fookin' knew something. Actually, that was one of the reasons he'd sacked him in the end, wasn't it, although he'd never told the others that of course. He pretended to be reading a leaflet about patios that had come with the post. Couldn't be arsed much to read these days. Who had time for all that bollocks? Not him. When he looked up again the chair opposite was empty.

"Fookin' drummers," Noel muttered. "A good drummer is like a...like...um..." He shivered suddenly. What had he been thinking about? Kasabian, they were alright. "That's a proper band that is," he informed the empty kitchen. "Real songs."

The time had come for Noel's big day. He looked at himself in the mirror. "Was this fucking nonce rubbish?" He didn't think so. But why did he feel like a porcelain doll about to be sold off at a toy shop?

His corset pressed against his breasts. "This were bad," he thought. He woke up with a start. "Victorian bollocks," he announced to the grandfather clock. Why did he keep dreaming he was a woman in an arranged marriage? And dreaming fucking nonce poetry about it. He'd tried to tell Liam but knew it would end in a noncing.

"What was a noncing," he wondered to himself. "Non...cing" he said. "What?" There was nobody there. He walked to the fridge. However all that was there was the wattle and daub wall of his neolithic hut home. Noel stood, dumbfounded. His loincloth itched. He walked outside into the night, pointing his cudgel to the rising moon.

"What the fuck are these symbols on these fucking stones," he wondered. "Fucking rubbish," he thought, pondering tomorrow's hunt.

Noel was thinking about his arch nemesis Jay Z, the fucking cunt, though Noel had taken to renaming him 'Nigel' in his mental firnament for reasons now obscure. Fucking wanker, total, complete fucking wanker. Fucking wrong'un so he is. No class, no credibility, thinks the world owes him a fucking living, stealing his songs and passing them off as his own. Could he file a claim for copyright infringement, or defamation? Noel stared at the crudely fashioned effigy in his hands, the blunted shiv and the can of turps. Nigel had left the room.

And what fooking bollocks! His fooking idiot brother even LIKED that fooking wanker!

(That almost works!)

Hey Ronan did you get the SS job in the end? Or any job? :)

hey sam, not heard about sky yet, but working for radio 1 till mid january so got some money at least. have an interview with blue peter next week, really really want that! that were good.

thanks for asking btw...

yay! feel free to punch chris moyles or fearne cotton in the face.

also if you see scott mills tell him to bring flirt divert back.

and now to carry on the manc madness.

The arrival of the snow revived Noel's dormant joie de vivre, and he rushed into the limpid silence of the garden still dressed in towelling robe and slippers. This was the fucking life, and Noel gambolled in prelapsarian abandon among the shrubbery, swigging schnapps and singing a jaunty tune. Taking great handfuls of snow in his bare hands, he set about amassing a great edifice, a great fuckoff lump of snow, thereafter fashioning it according to his whim, and a roughly hewn central column was shortly adumbrated by two carefully shaped spheres.

He could scarcely contain his elation at the fruits of his labours, and glimpsing the uptight Goldman Sachs VP sneering from his drawing room nextdoors, Noel couldn't help but exclaim; "PUNK. FUCKING. ROCK.", whereupon the puritanical banker shook his head and left his housemaid to close the curtains. "Fucking student CUNTs".

Scanning through names in his iPhone, he remembered Bobby G from back in the day, dimly recollected he lived nearby and sent an urgent though unspecific sms entreaty. Noel had passed out by the time Bobby arrived, and only a swift kick to the back of his head awoke him from his hypothermic repose. Noel struggled to his feet, stepped a few feet back and wordlessly encouraged Bobby's awed contemplation. Alas this was not forthcoming. "Fuckin cock innit!"

And nothing. Jesus fucking Christ, had Bobby lost the true flame of the punk spirit, the fierce integrity and visionary poetics? Bobby broke it to Noel gently; there wasn't anything original or special about his creation, he could recalls such snowcocks from his distant Glaswegian childhood and suspected they predated even that.

The rage simmered, a choleric so pure and fierce that Noel was briefly paralysed. This dismal anorexic had slandered his inmost spirit, such horror, such great horror; was Noel a mere epigone, an empty vessel with no ideas of his own, a bankrupt, a fraud, a fucking student? Bobby sensed something was wrong and tried to humour him, but it was too late, and with furious energy Noel struck him on the temple with the schnapps bottle, his purblind snowcock splattered with viscera and toppled by 100lbs of convulsing wraith.

The paroxysms subsided and the haematoma saw off Bobby within seconds, though it may have seemed like a lifetime to Noel. This was the end, the living fucking end, and Noel was forced to kick down the rest of his beloved creation in order to conceal the corpse, before stumbling inside through the blizzard. Thank God nobody would find Bobby ever again.

oh my god

nxt lvl

nakhchivan the less you reveal who you are and when your first book is being/was published the more I gnash at your mysterious and fulsome talents

lj has a boner

too cold for that iirc

iirc?

if he remembers his penis correctly

those were the days

kinda wanna know if nakh is a fan of Vivian Stanshall's radio plays, specifically Sir Henry At Rawlinson End - there is much that is redolent

anyone else who fancies a listen to the astonishing and hilarious tale of a character even more dissolute than ILX's Noel Gallagher, http://open.spotify.com/album/3W3xqrFA6sxLTFWZPdvvQr

before vacuum cleaner accidents

His twitter is absolutely hilarious

kinda wanna know if nakh is a fan of Vivian Stanshall's radio plays, specifically Sir Henry At Rawlinson End - there is much that is redolent

anyone else who fancies a listen to the astonishing and hilarious tale of a character even more dissolute than ILX's Noel Gallagher, http://open.spotify.com/album/3W3xqrFA6sxLTFWZPdvvQr

― rmad and dangerous (acoleuthic), Tuesday, 30 November 2010 14:30 (5 hours ago)

nah, never heard of him (assumed her)

if i was into changing my display name, i think "purblind snowcock splattered" is damn good.....

bahh, thought this was about liam gallagher.

well, still:

Listen up fat fuck as a real northerner I was brought up 2 say shit 2 people's faces not behind their back. Live forever LG

'That's more like it', thought Noel. 'Nice'.

"What an arsehole," Noel muttered, slamming the telephone down. Ay, these bleeding telemarketers. What was this world coming to that a man wouldn't even bother coming to your home to swindle you out of your hard-earned money? But on the plus side, this 34 second conversation had been some form of human contact, and Noel had read at some point in the hazy 20 years that had passed since his meteoric rise that human contact was important. Indeed, this phone call was fortuitous, Noel rationalized as he unwrapped the third packet of fags he'd opened that morning. As he shoveled a cigarette into his mouth, Noel paused, and smiled smugly to himself. Why, despite being publicly chewed up and spat out by the music industry, his philosophical response to this call proved that he was he was still able to maintain a sunny outlook on life. And wasn't that message of positivity, in the end, the central theme of his crowning achievements with Oasis? Wasn't that the reason they had soldiered around the world, playing countless coliseums and stadiums to sold out crowds? Was it not the reason why they were loved and revered by millions, perhaps billions, who placed them atop the much-heralded Beatles in the musical canon? Maybe. He could not quite recall.

this is currently my favorite thread on ilx. would love to see these animated or filmed with v/o as bumpers spots

The last day of Noel's probation saw him in customarily confrontational demeanour. Not going to 'take no for an answer', he strolled into the street, found the nearest bus stop and thought about asking a Lebanese fashion student to have sex with him for £20,000, before deciding she was a 'fucking tart', though he was decorous enough not to say so. Fuck this shit, he thought. Two streetsweepers seemed bemused by Noel's attire, a gilt towelling robe and ermine dungarees, so were offered £3000 in cash to 'do a fuckin tramp dance'. Jesus they were fucking shit, clowns the pair of them. Noel struck up a broken conversation with a Kosovar vagrant, shared a few cans of spesh while watching the world go by, left him some £3420 in cash and felt altogether more in touch with the spirit of the world before returning home to a fish supper and an early night.

aw, noel discovered zen :)

Few months ago I did a post-Britpop landfill-indie version of this on DiS, sorta: http://drownedinsound.com/community/boards/music/4259463#r5400359

"I really couldn't give two shits about any of it, mate," Mr. Gallagher riposted rather matter-of-factly, before taking a deep drag from the Pall Mall cigarette that dangled from his calloused, elephantine fingers. He slouched slightly in his Elizabethan-style balloon-back diner chair, which he had recently purchased for £50,000 from the Gary Glitter estate sale, and blew a cloud of gray smoke into the interviewer's face. "Nowt. Two. Shits," he continued.

There was no talking to this man, thought Jonathan, who had been given the unenviable duty of extracting information from Mr. Gallagher by the Sun. Fresh out of uni and eager to make his mark, Jonathan had offered to take on the task of finding out more about Mr. Gallagher's current musical fixations-- oh, and that salacious divorce-- a task which everyone else at the office had dismissed out-of-hand as being beneath them. Why waste an afternoon with that washed up twat, they asked? He hadn't done anything important for, oh dear, it had been nearly two decades now. But Jonathan was desperate to make a good impression with his editor. And more to-the-point, he remembered how, at age 9, he had been given his copy of "Be Here Now," an album that had changed his life-- not entirely for the better. It was revolving on the turntable when he had his first encounter with that happy white dust, and it had ever since been the harrowing soundtrack to the downward spiral of his life. But somehow, yes somehow indeed, he had made it through uni and was on the road to recovery now. But the scowling Mr. Gallagher was proving that this rocky road was not going to be an easy one to traverse.

"Nowt. Two. Shits," Mr. Gallagher repeated once again, glowering from behind his dark black bug-eye sunglasses. Realizing that Jonathan was perhaps lost in his own thoughts and had not registered his twice-repeated dismissal, Gallagher lost his comportment. "'EY! Are you 'earing me?" Nothing. "'EY, YOU COONT!! NOWT TWO SHITS!!!"

Jonathan looked up from his notepad, dazed. Suddenly, the mercurial Gallagher's mood shifted. His eyes darted furtively across the room, and his voice took on a self-conscious whisper. "Hey, mate, have you got any...?" He leaned forward in his chair, his eyebrows raised.

Jonathan shook his head.

"Daft coont," Mr. Gallagher belched, throwing himself backwards onto the chair. Gallagher poured the remnants of a scotch bottle down his throat. The watermark on the £150,000 Victorian table where it had been sitting was quite visible, and clearly was not going to be coming off without some serious work.

"Oh, so you do like Daft Punk, then. Is that all you like in terms of popular music?" asked Jonathan.

Gallagher scoffed, stunned by the displays of this amateur wanker. He shook his head, and pulled the sunglasses to the crown of his head, exposing his bright red, bloodshot eyes, and leaned forward. "I said: YOU. ARE. A. COONT. A DAFT COONT."

"What about Sleigh Bells?"

"Coonts."

"Deerhunter?"

"Coonts."

"Kanye West?"

"Coont."

"Arcade Fire?"

"Massive coonts."

"Girls?"

"Coonts."

"Is there anyone who you don't think is a cunt?"

Noel paused, and reflected a moment. "Me."

"If you believe that you are the only one in the world who is not a cunt, would it not suggest that you are also a cunt?"

Noel sat back. He twiddled the 5 day growth of hair on his chin, nodding his head as if carefully processing the comment. Finally, he spoke: "You're being a coont, mate."

awes

Noel paced outside the apartment complex for a good while. He noticed the world around him fading into darkness, and the shadows elongating on the sidewalk beneath the trees. Where the fook was this wanker? He was supposed to be here by now. Just then, an out-of-breath hooligan wearing a blue vinyl sweatsuit and green trainers turned the corner, gasping for breath. "Sorry," he panted. "Sorry."

"Where the fook were you?"

"I was getting the gun."

With that, the hooligan fired the .32 caliber pistol at the Oasis leader twice, killing him instantly. Finally, Noel Gallagher had realized his ultimate dream.

would love a sister thread about alan sugar: washed-up onetime shouty business exec who *never actually made or thought of anything* (issues abound) but now spends his time engaging in illiterate twitter arguments with fellow celebs, most of who think he's joking at first then are amazed that this surly old bastard actually *means* what he's bashing out with his fat crinkly fingers. that's when he's not being wheeled out, queen mum-style, for silly bbc talent shows.

charlie brooker's article about shugs room101 'joke' about donald trump's hair has pretty much set the ball rolling on this one.

yeah but no one knows who that is

oh americapaws

Thank fuck, after forty-five minutes of being shuttled among Amstrad's useless admin, Noel finally reached the praetorian guard, a gnomic Fijian called Abdul whom he was assured held access to the big man himself. 'Thing is right, wait a minute.......[ ]......right, yeah, I was talking to Nigel the other day, and he says there's this American 'rapper' twat called Suge Knight, can you fuckin believe that, no lie Abdul son, no fuckin lie, this cunt's name is SUGE KNIGHT.....'

The silence spoke a thousand words, then the nasal exhalation.....Noel's insight was unwelcome here. 'Did you fuckin listen to that....' [ ]

The line went dead, and with it Noel's renascent sanguinity. The dysphoria came flooding in like piss in a lift, the iPhone shattered on the marble tiles, the broken absinthe bottles, the vivisected cane rats, the automatic writing in fecal cuneiform on every inch of carpet. This, in retrospect, was the beginning of the end.

who is the US Noel Gallagher I wonder

― BIG MUFFIN (gbx), Monday, November 8, 2010 10:19 AM (1 month ago) Bookmark

KANYE

omg hadn't seen that last one. just1n3 can you get nakhchivan a book deal plz

^^^^^^

needs to be 400+ pages tho

yeah I mean start the dude off and he won't stop until every single word has been used

reckon a Tristram Shandy type romp would be the best format

all of these are great but this one absolutely kills me

Sure, the workers had failed. They would fail again, Noel thought. They would never succeed. Was his life now to peter out in this barren hell hole? "Fuck no," he thought. But who was left to carry on the fight? Bonehead, Bobby Gillespie, the singer from Proud Mary, and Kasabian, all silenced as they tried to make the people see what they would never see, what they did not want to see. Perhaps it was futile. All that was left now was their art. Nothing could take that away. "That were good, that," Noel told himself, "That were good."

― I see what this is (Local Garda), Tuesday, 2 November 2010 14:41 (1 month ago)

kind of reminds me of that one scene in babe when the farmer is all "That'll do pig, that'll do"

except noel is both the farmer and piggy

kinda wish Oasis' third album was called Baa Ram Ewe now

res's "Where the fook were you?"/"I was getting the gun" one killed me the most

does kanye have any kind of interior life worthy of the name that hasn't been splurged in glorious vomicolour all over the http/tv/mp3sphere?

lj, sincere thanks for yr encouragements and i agree justine's stuff looks awesome, but probably best u restrain yrself lest it seem ~too~ street team for ilx' resident dismal cynics (they can go talk to the cane rats imo)

</notnoel>

yeah i'm pretty sure that kanye has finally dissolved that human, all too human dualism between interior and exterior lives.

kanye has that same thing as now of thinking he incredibly profound when he's actually just a stupid puerile self obsessed dick

if kanye could hear you over the tapping and scraping of black amex cards on coffee tables, he'd take offence to that

new third eye foundation album is the musical event of the latter half of 2k10, don't listen to kanye

Noel wanted a sausage roll, but he did not know how to get it.

Serge from Kasabian had told him that Gregg's sausage rolls were good, but he'd never been in a Gregg's, and he wasn't sure if there was one near him. They were blue, he thought. He'd once seen a sound engineer eating what looked and smelt like a nice one.After the engineer had finished, he noticed the bag crumpled in a bin: lifting it out, he saw that it was black, with an orange picture of a pirate on it. That was of no help to him really, although, he supposed, he could describe this bag to his PA and send her to find one. He didn't feel like getting one from Waitrose - never again would he stand in a supermarket till queue, he had sworn that - and he thought the corner shop might sell them, but what if he were papped buying one? Would that be bad for his reputation, or good? Would it look like he'd hired someone to catch him buying a sausage roll? He was a man of the people, though the people, it seemed, no longer believed that.

It was best not to risk it. Perhaps he could make one? That would be fun. It'd be a great story, too. 'You won't believe what I did today'.

Two hours later he was confused. He was holding a dustpan and brush. A raw taste the difference Lincolnshire sausage lay atop a frozen block of shortcrust pastry. Guinness-sprayed cupboard doors, cracked eggshells on the floor. The lump of mince with half an onion pressed into it, sitting in a pan on the hob, leaking a thin brown juice. The singed tea towel. The smell. The huge flour spill on the worktop, and the milk spill dribbling into it. He imagined tiny little black men running over that white chaos, and a tiny little Michael Caine defending the area over towards the shattered Heal's mixing bowl. Zulu on the Moon. That could be a song, if it wasn't racist. He was pretty sure it wasn't. Did he have a number for anyone from Cornershop? Did they like him? They had some good songs. Sitars.

He wasn't sure if the oven was on. He could clean this up himself. He did not need his mother. The smoke alarm won't stop why won't it stop.

i know i have been a vegetarian for a couple years but greggs sausage rolls are fucking rank.

also looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooool

A+++++

oh that is beautiful

so good

"Fuckin Agatha Christie," Noel exclaimed to the living room. "Who gives a toss who did it," he laughed disdainfully, throwing the inferior tome against a wall. Though the nagging suspicion it was Lady Rochester wouldn't leave him. But how did she get on board the steamboat at night, when it were closed?

Liam's face appeared on the wall, "Agatha fucking Christie? Agatha you're a fucking nonce mate more like" it said, slowly, separating into hundreds of Liam's heads and revolving like a roulette wheel. But would he bet on Liam black or Liam red? And what number?

"Liam black, 65," he announced, finding a small marble in his hand which appeared to be an exact likeness of Bonehead's skull. The Liam-wheel spun furiously, tossing the Bonehead ball up and down. "This were good," Noel thought, "I love a bet."

The Liam-wheel came to a standstill. Noel strained to hold in the flood of nervous urine as he awaited his result. Victory meant a brief respite. Defeat, well he knew what that meant.

"63 RED" roared Liam with glee. "YOU FUCKING NOBHEAD".

Noel stared at the cackling wheel of Liams, urine streaming onto the floor, and braced himself for another bet. It would be a long afternoon.

wow at these last two

so many noels, akin in spirit yet all different

i think my noel is the most depraved of all tho

a noel becomes like a tamagotchi, except rather than looking after their welfare, you supervise their decent into untold ignominy

LG raising the bar again. the "separating into hundreds of Liam's heads and revolving like a roulette wheel" and the "bonehead, kasabian and the guys from proud mary, all silenced" lines are up there with my top 10 favourite actual lols of the year

not even remotely a competition for thread of 2k10

Sunday would see the visit of Sam Allardyce to Noel's grand North London townhouse. Quite what tidings this larger-than-life figure would bring was a mystery, but Sam could be relied on to provide entertainment of a fashion, and Noel was nervous with excitment as a troupe of Guetamlan maids tidied the house and disinfected the areas where decomposing cane rats crawled with maggots and lent a sinister air to the otherwise friendly mixture of sky-blue tinsel and fairy lights.

"Thook thake", Noel spluttered irritably. It had been days - weeks, perhaps - since Liam had ceased taunting him, but returning to normality was presenting its own more mundane challenges. Suddenly, Noel stopped dead, struck by a terrible thought: he had not fed the cat since before Liam's visage appeared before him.

The frozen pizza dropped to the floor, saliva slowly dripping down the plastic wrapping. Noel rushed from room to room, gripped by an urgency he had not felt for some time. How many rooms did this fucking mansion have anyway? At the time, the architecturally dubious modifications he had made seemed worthwhile, essential, but now they were an unwelcome hindrance. That fucking Cuban builder. Noel could see his hateful face now, one-eyed, always laughing. The cunt would pay, but now was not the time.

Scrambling for hours through the dank catacombs, a hidden room full of identical Union Jack Epiphone guitars and the third bathroom with the grotesquely misshapen waxwork of Malcolm Allison, Noel found himself back in the room where had started out, and suddenly, miraculously, a weight was lifted from his mind: "Ain't got a fookin' cat".

The relief was almost intoxicating, but at the same moment he finally became conscious of the malign presence that had engineered his confusion, hidden in plain sight all this time: an enormous spectral bat hung from the ceiling, Paul Weller's face staring dispassionately from behind its folded wings. "You fookin' cunt", Noel spat, chunks of frozen dough arcing through the air.

As Noel came to terms with this latest betrayal and prepared for the coming war against his new nemesis, his cat Mavers listlessly fished another decomposing cane rat from the bin in the corner.

oh wow.

The Weller creature's influence had quickly extended to the whole house. Sleep deprived and wild eyed, Noel had holed up in the third bathroom, nervously arpeggiating a G major chord on one of the legion Epiphones, his eyes locked distrustfully on the ghastly waxen Malcolm Allison. Perhaps now his only recourse was to animate the Allison golem and instruct it to destroy his enemy. But it had been a long time, and the instructions of the insane Haitian who had fashioned it for him were now a garbled mess in his addled brain. Who knew what it would do to him if it completed its macabre task? Still, a life of servitude under Big Mal was probably preferable to what that turncoat cunt Weller had in store.

He would have to go into the computer room to research the necessary rituals. Fucking Internet. Sara had insisted on the broadband connection, and now it was Noel's only slender connection to the outside world. Daft cunts, the lot of them. Bowlheads. Fucking nonsense.
There would be e-mails from Paul, of course. Hundreds of them. Pleading. But that was a level he could not yet stoop to.

The monitor was already on, eerie light filling the small room. Noel recognised the familiar logo. NME.com. "Let's see what them daft fuckers are sayin' about me."

Beady Eye premiering new song 'Four Letter Word' on NME.COM – video

"Oh fook", Noel gasped, retching until a feeble stream of clear vomit doused the mouse mat. He mashed at the keyboard with insane vigour, shattering the spacebar. Impenetrable scripts swirled and dispersed on the screen in front of him, fragments of infernal languages no earthly mind could comprehend. A voice spoke in the dark.

William John Paul "Liam" Gallagher (born 21 September 1972) is an English musician and songwriter and lead singer of English rock band Beady Eye. One of the figureheads of the 1990s Britpop movement as lead singer and frontman of Oasis, Gallagher's erratic behaviour, distinctive singing style, and abrasive attitude have been the subject of commentary in the press. He remains one of the most recognisable figures in modern British music.

The Weller daemon was here. "Oh God, give me a fookin' break will yer", Noel howled. But God's light no longer shone on this place.

You must go to Liam. You could probably have some new material together in time to play Glasto 2011.

"That's fookin' bollocks that is", roared Noel, tears of rage and confusion streaming down his face. As he continued to rain blows down on the half destroyed keyboard, the blasphemous text on the screen churned and recreated itself, until finally he found his eyes able to perceive something recognisable.

Are you sure you want to uninstall Football Manager 2009 Demo? This will remove all of the selected components from your computer.

"Y'fuckin what?" Noel snapped, as his chair finally tilted over backwards and catapulted him onto the floor.

Noel. Liam wished you a merry christmas on Twitter. You should call him.

Sobbing, Noel scrambled towards the door, slammed it shut and slumped against the wall on the other side of the corridor, dried vomit caking his lips.

I'm tired, Bonehead.

Behind him in the darkness, the Weller creature kept up its siren call.

never occured to me that liam may be short for william before

In the dim light cast by his miner's lamp, Noel struggled to make out the way ahead. Was it left or right? Up or down from here? He reached into the map pocket of his parka and retrieved the crumpled schematic diagram; not an easy document to obtain, this map, showing as it did every manhole, ductway, sewer and passage that existed beneath the whole of Belsize Park. But he still had a few contacts, and if hard cash and the promise of a signed Les Paul meant anything these days, it made it possible to get hold of the things that make life a little bit easier. Where once that might have been blow as white and crisp as Persil, now it was a document so extensive and accurate it was issued to only a select handful of government architects and planners. There had also been the small matter of the initial tunnel from his basement to the first service passage, but that 50-yard stretch had only taken him 18 months to dig out by hand and now that he was "connected" this subterranean world rolled out before him like a Knebworth crowd, willing him to join it, to sing "Wonderwall" to it.

Noel rotated and checked the map a couple of times to be sure of his bearings. He was ready to strike off down a vent to the left when a faintly warm breeze and distant thrum from the yawning darkness made him certain that only the tube lay in that direction. It'd not do to get it wrong down here; he could fall through a suspended ceiling onto the tracks and that would literally be the end of the fucking line! They'd have to identify him from dental records, just like poor, dear Tony McCarroll. Noel shuddered and finally settled on the correct route before gingerly walking into the shimmering gloom ahead.

The hatch in the floor of aisle three levered smoothly open, and a dark coated figure hoisted itself upwards onto the tiled surface. Gently closing the cover behind him, Noel stood up and drank in the blissful silence and half-light of the Londis mini-mart. He cast a wary eye at the instore security camera, but its baleful gaze was blank, its red LED powered off. Another problem that could be solved, if you had the right contacts. Noel's all-weather moccasins meant his walk to the front of the store was almost silent and once he had picked up a basket his weekly grocery trip could begin. The same every time, the same items carefully studied and appraised, the long, exquisite moments spent scrutinising the shelves until he felt the world fall away from him as a cloak falls from one's shoulders, until there existed only that glorious, suspended instant before a choice was made. Like in that fucking stupid story about the cat.

And all of this, at 4am, down the tunnels and through the night, away from the pity-filled eyes of that fucking bastard nobhead who had made him this way, watching him and judging him in shops and on the street corners. Volition? That cunt might be able to spell it, but he'd never see it Noel Gallagher style again.

Home-made Temazepam coursing through his veins, Noel winced in discomfort and sank into his chair; VH1's latest selection was "My Ever Changing Moods". Weller was still refusing to take his calls. Perhaps he was upset about the four occasions Noel had defamed him in magazine interviews during those lost 19 days he had gone without sleep. Perhaps he was just a fucking moody gobshite. Surely Weller could understand that it was all a misunderstanding? "No, I'm not having it" Noel snapped, with sudden impatience. "You can fook off pal. Fook right off."

Vowing to give the matter no more thought, Noel switched channels, settling on a video of some student looking bird in shorts singing about boys and girls. Wasn't that a song by...? An uneasy combination of arousal and contempt coalesced in him, and he pondered masturbating. Had it come to this?

His dilemma was interrupted by the realisation that Mavers had strolled into the centre of the room and was blocking his view. He moved instinctively to hurl the TV remote at the malnourished cat, but it had fallen to the floor three feet away during his reverie. Noel sank further into the chair in impotent frustration, as Mavers fixed him with a look of exquisite smugness. The cat was slowly defecating onto the carpet. The smell was abhorrent. What had it been eating? A tense standoff ensued.

"I tell you what, pal", Noel finally announced, thrusting an accusatory finger. "You can fook off an' all."

Sgt. Biscuits you are pretty much a genius up there with Plato and Newton and no others.

I've realised that I don't think I've come across the real Noely G doing anything since this thread started. But now it's the new condition for any response I'm ever going to have to him.

bravo

one of you two isn't doing it right

― BIG MUFFIN (gbx), Tuesday, November 2, 2010 8:36 PM (1 month ago) Bookmark

i take this back, btw

"Fookin' eh!" went Bonehead, and punched the air as the replay flashed across the screen. "Never saw Phil Neville do THAT for England did you?" Noel threw the control pad down on the sofa in disgust at the scoreline. England '96 - 4, Brazil 1970 - 2. Robbie Fowler hattrick. Robbie Fucking Fowler. "Was Fowler even in Euro '96?"
Noel shrugged. It was 1996, fucked if he could remember anything four months either side of Knebworth. "Probably", he said. "Sitting on the bench, shoving coke up his fat Scouse arse. Come on, I'll give you a rematch".
"Sorry, gotta get going", said Bonehead, slinging the game into his bag. "Me mam's got the tea on."
Noel's face darkened. "Come on, you've got to let me beat you".
"Another time Noel, thanks for the lager." Bonehead already had one foot out of the door. It slammed shut just before Noel shouted after it, "...and with Robbie Fookin' Fowler, how could you, you Judas cunt?"

A couple of hours later, Noel lay in bed, the evening's humiliation still stinging. Tell you what, he'd never have got away with that on the tourbus. Liam wouldn't have tried that. Even Alan McGee wouldn't have tried that. Noel shut his eyes, but sleep would not come to him. Robbie Fowler. Anyone but Robbie Fucking Fowler. Getting right in there. Twisting it. Noel opened his eyes, closed them again, got up for a wazz, paced up and down the hall for a bit, got back in bed, stared at the red illuminated digits on his Rolls Royce clock radio.

1am became 2, 2am rolled sleeplessly into 3. "How could an hour be so short?" thought Noel to himself. "That's like, eight Hey Jude's. Six All Around The Worlds." Every time he closed his eyes, there it was. Robbie Fowler's Scouse fucking face, grinning at him. Mocking him. Noel hadn't felt like this since he saw that stall full of Alex James-branded cheese in Primrose Hill. Fucking cheese, just sitting there, giving it loads. Noel couldn't even go down there any more. "I hope your fucking bits of cheese all get AIDS and die", he'd been thinking about saying to the posh girl on the stall. But then again, he probably wouldn't.

4am. Noel tossed and turned. This was no good. He had to get Fowler back somehow. Time was Noel would have just given him the wanker sign at the Met Bar, but you didn't run into people so much these days. Maybe phone him up, shout "cock" down the phone, that'd do. But did he have his number? Noel scrolled through his phone. No sign. No Steve McManaman either. Jamie Redknapp, yes, that'd do. House phone though, what if his missus answered? She were alright she was, him and Meg had gone out with her a couple of times, eaten Thai or sushi or something in Soho with her and Jude Law and Goldie back in 1998. Goldie, there's a proper genius. Orchestras. Fucking epic. They'd had some big nights back then, gone on to the Met Bar and the Groucho. Noel had thrown a bread roll at Gomez once. Great days. All gone now.

Noel hit the green button and let it ring for a bit. Heard Redknapp on the other side, sounding half asleep. "Scouse cunt", Noel said. "Shiny-trousered Scouse cunt." He hung up, satisfied. He'd got Redknapp good and proper, he wouldn't try that again. Noel could sleep now. As he drifted off, he thought about how he'd been feeling in his darkest moments that night. "Could write a song about that", Noel made a note to himself. "Really dark psychedelic shit. Get Weller and Steve Cradock in."

I'm feeling left out because the only one of these I've done was posted in ITT: Tell The Beatles to Fuck Off , so fuck it I'm going to pathetically post it again, inferiority to the godly standards on show be damned:

There they were, silhouetted by the sourceless golden light, the noble beauty of their magnificent profiles overwhelming. John. Paul. Ringo. George. His opportunity, finally here. What would he say? The subject of hours of daily thought since they adorned his bedroom walls, a dream cruelly torn from him on that cold New York street. The three, the three, he had drunk, laughed, loved with the three, their individual beauty awed in the flesh, but they were not The Beatles. Dozens of questions articulated over dozens of years raced through his mind, each a singular force battling for supremacy, to be that which leaves the mind and passes through the mouth, into the air, into the ears. The ears of The Beatles. Those ears that had heard so much. So much. He drifted. Only the unconscious expression, he knew, would satisfy. His mouth opened. His tongue, his lips, twisted, contracted, formed the words...

"FOOK OFF."

Noel awoke with a shriek, seated bolt upright in the luxurious silk velvet of his four poster bed. Soaked in sweat from head to toe.

all you british people are true princes for this thread

<3

need to watch 'performance' again one of these days

</notnoel>

never occured to me that liam may be short for william before

― irish xmas caek, get that marzipan inta ya (a hoy hoy), Monday, 20 December 2010 17:13 (Yesterday) Bookmark Suggest Ban Permalink

Yeah, and he has six toes on his left foot (true)..

Matt DC's "...but you didn't run into people so much these days" and "Great days. All gone now" get to the core of what i love most about this thread. top notch

Noel whirled through the mansion with a newfound determination, cleaning it of all traces of the madness that had gripped him. There'd be no more of that daft shite. Clint Starkey had phoned him in the middle of the night announcing that he was paying a visit. Clint fucking Starkey. It would be good to catch up.

Shoveling up the cat effluence and the rodent viscera was unpleasant work, but it had to be done. Where was that fucking cleaner anyway? What was he paying her for? Was he paying her? Fucking disgrace. The mountain of esoteric pornography in the drawing room would probably have to go; a parting gift from Joey before he went north. Joey was a good lad. He was misunderstood, people had the wrong idea about him. Noel knew the feeling.

He strode into the second bathroom to clean it. As he entered, the odour hit him and he saw the thousands of flies circling an indistinct mass in the bathtub. Cursing God, he backed out and closed the door. He didn't need a second bathroom anyway. That were for ponces.

Undeterred, he ploughed on. Hours later, Noel stood triumphant, a spent bottle of ECover surface cleaner in one hand and four bin bags full of crushed Tuborg cans and assorted detritus surrounding him. This was a house fit for Noely G and Clint Starkey to have it large, like the old days.

Clint would inevitably demand to be regaled with tales of those old days. Downing Street. Knebworth. Hazing McCarroll until he cried (died?) Noel could handle it, pretending he'd enjoyed carrying those ungrateful idiots on his back. The 46 consecutive weeks of interviews with Melody Maker since the split had left him adept at affecting an air of detached amusement about the whole farce. The whole ordeal. Say what you wanted about Noel, he was a pro.

And yet fear began to spread horizontally across his mind. What if the conversation steered towards The Mockney, or his cartoon band for art students? He could usually straight-bat the hacks with some half-hearted avowal of respect for that inoffensive, specky guitarist, but Clint was more persistent. Prying. Insatiable. God, what if he brought up The Bassist? That grinning, cheese selling cu-

Noel felt the sick rising in him. The walls closed in. He gasped audibly, his chest tightening. Clint couldn't see him like this. He would have to call and postpone. Buy some time to get it together. Clint would understand. Limping to the phone, he lifted the receiver and carefully dialled the 31 digits from memory. There was no dial tone. "That is absolutely fookin' shockin", Noel declared. "Absolute fookin' shite". He was pleased by the terse authority of that final syllable. Slowly, he scanned the wires running from the phone along the wall to the white socket in the corner. The problem was clear: the wires were hanging loose from the wall, hacked to pieces. Noel had gone at them with the shears during a fugue, months prior, and now they were proper fucked.

He turned away, his brow furrowing involuntarily as the first light of dawn crept through a gap in the curtains and shone harshly onto his eyes. The handset fell from his grasp unnoticed, as a troubling thought slowly took shape in his mind.

Who the fuck is Clint Starkey?

Cruel laughter reverberated around the room as Noel shambled sadly back towards his pit.

who the fuck is Clint Starkey?

lol - series title?

So who's going to have a crack at 'Noel's Noël'? (or 'a Christmas Carroll'?)

oh man that's a challenge. defo one to be taken up after a few beers and lots of christmas fayre once i get back to dublin...

"Noisy little twats." Noel tired of the constant interruptions to his latest domestic quandary.

He had successfully halted the telekinetic prank calls by fashioning himself a colossal metal turban out of tinfoil, more than doubling his head circumference in the process. He had also taken the shears to the neighbours' phone lines, just to be on the safe side. But the selfish nobheads had taken their petty revenge by sending all of their bastard children out to sing Christmas carols in the street. In the middle of July. Those cunts were sick in the head.

There was no way it was safe to go out and buy provisions with madheads like that laying siege to his home. But his contingency plan carried its own significant risks, and the supermarkets were refusing to deliver, citing adverse weather conditions. July. The lying fucking bastards.

He cursed his timidity, knowing that to the 1997 vintage Noel, emboldened by youth and narcotics, this would have presented no challenge. He pictured his younger self standing atop a sun-drenched hill, proud and mighty, flanked by his brothers in arms. Bonehead. Guigsy. Digsy. Gormless to the end. Ashcroft, that magnificent, tragic bastard. John Power. You've got to fly.

Suddenly fortified by the enduring wisdom of this illusory Liverpudlian simpleton's message, Noel steeled himself. This was a load of nonsense. He was a national hero, a trailblazer and he answered to nobody. Punk fucking rock could never be caged, and it was time for action, not dithering. He had to fly. "Right. Let's fookin' 'ave it", he boomed, nostrils flaring, his voice heavy with portent.

Throwing off the yoke of convention forever, Noel began lowering the choc-ice into the lukewarm black tea.

'That you Mario? Fuckin A, Mario it's Noel son'.

'.........'

'Fuck off then'.

yknow i've not seen this thread. it's great. should be on i love football, but i dont know why

The wintry sunset of Christmas Eve finally saw Noel entering the festive spirit. He was coughing furiously from the fumes of burning plastic and lamenting how he'd forgotten how to smoke heroin, when he noticed a Transformers calendar amid the crushed vials and loamy silt of the bathroom floor. Fuck, it was that time of year already. As the opening strains of Scott Walker's 'Farmer in the City' serenaded his fumbling experiments, Noel was reminded of that time he and Alan Mcgee took turns pissing on a comatose vagrant in a santa hat. 2002, 2003, 2004? Good times, anyway.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2011/jan/06/noel-gallagher-album-oasis-liam

"I haven't seen him," Liam said. "It's very hush-hush round his camp." While he still has lots to say about football, Noel has scarcely commented on music over the past year. He is a busy father, "doing nappies and all that malarkey".

malarkey

Noel sighed. This past year he'd scarcely commented on music. He was a busy father. "Doing nappies and all that malarkey," he thought.

He stood up from his chair and realised thousands of years had passed since he sat down to watch a film about The Who. Outside the window wars raged between the corporations that now controlled vast robots. Noel pulled the curtains.

"Fuck I'd really like a findus crispy pancake," he said to himself.

Noel Gallagher roared down the streets of Neo-Tokyo on his hi-tech motorbike. "Fookin' shite music, this," he thought to himself, "all I can fookin' hear is banging". It sounded like that rubbish The Mockney was going on about these days. Chinese operas. Fucking poncey art student wank. He had no time for that bollocks now.

He stopped briefly at a crossing in the middle of the city's main shopping district to look at a holographic billboard. It read, "THE WHO ARE TOP". He solemnly nodded, and off he went again.

There was something bugging him, something needling his mind. Something was a bit off. What was it? As he soared down the majestic freeways that criscrossed the northwestern zones of the city he kept trying to remember something, something he had to make sure... make sure what?

He didn't get any farther in thinking when he heard his brother's voice. "NOOOOOOEEEEEEEL!" he screeched.
Noel grimaced. What was he fucking playing at now? The nonce.
"NOOOOOOEEEEEEL!" screeched Liam again.
"Christ!" thought Noel. "What d'yer want?" he shouted out.

Liam's enormous, swollen mass swang into view from behind some skyscrapers. He was just an enormous bag of psychically disfigured flesh now, muscle and bone slicing their way through the buildings ahead, crushing the people living inside.

Noel's stomach lurched. He braked hard and flew off his bike. He lay panting on the freeway, eyes wide. That was proper fucked, that. Proper fucked. He staggered to his feet and nearly fell down again - he'd gone and fucked his leg coming off. He painfully stumbled towards his bike, the Liam-thing screeching Noel's name again and again. Out of the superbike he grabbed his big fuck-off gun - he had to kill him. Kill that fucker. He was an obscenity now.

Noel balanced the enormous laser cannon on his shoulder. He took aim - right between the eyes. Fired. An immense wave of gore and viscera exploded out of Liam's face, and headed straight for Noel. "Bollocks," he thought. "Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks."

The moment the wave hit, Noel suddenly found himself in a hotel room in London. A journalist was interviewing him. She looked like a nice girl. Big tits. Noel shook off the lingering weirdness of the hallucination and tried to listen to her questions, but all that came out of her mouth sounded like them teachers from that Peanuts cartoon.

"Wahhh wahhhh wahh wahwahwahhhhh," she said.

Noel was about to ask her to repeat that when he suddenly remembered what was bothering him during the initial stages of the Neo-Tokyo episode. Your baby. You must make sure your baby is safe.

"Fookin' 'ell," cried Noel, leaping up out of his chair and running over to the crib. He saw a mound of blankets. Ah. It must be asleep under there. He sighed with relief and lifted up the blankets to see its head. Underneath said blankets was an oven-ready chicken in a nappy.

As Noel tried to form some kind of word, or at least an urgent sounding noise, the Liam-thing's enormous bug-eyed head crashed into the side of the hotel, sending half of the building smashing down onto the ground. "You FOOKIN' NONCE!" screamed Noel.

"Stop it, you nonce! Fookin' STOP!"

But Noel could not stop Liam. His younger brother was intent on riding the burning unicorn into the concrete sarcophagus of Chernobyl.

"The minute he hits the walls," shouted Kryten from Red Dwarf, "It's all over!"

Noel could only stand and watch in horror as his crazy, reckless fuck of a brother smashed through the walls. In an instant, the entire power plant bonded with Liam's body and soul, the two merging into Liam Ultimate, a twenty mile high being made of radioactive debris. He opened his mouth and out came a beautiful, cleansing fire.

"We've got to reform," blubbed Noel into the receiver. "It'll be like the old days. D'yer remember the old days? They were great. Everything was better then. Everything was better."

"I don't know who this is, but you can fuck off for calling me at 3 fucking AM," shouted Robbie Fowler. Click.

Liam Ultimate was lecturing the young unicorns on the importance of sacrificing themselves in times of war. Kryten from Red Dwarf was smothering Noel with a pillow. "Shhhhhhh," whispered Kryten. Noel struggled under Kryten's powerful hold.

Noel threw the duvet off the bed. "Who is this?" said a woman in Kent who he had somehow dialled on his mobile. "Hello? Hello?"

Noel held the screen of the mobile up close to his eyes. So bright and pure... like a cleansing fire....

Then the screen switched itself off. He dropped the phone and scrambled underneath the duvet on the floor, trying to shield himself from the many Paul Wellers staring through the window.

a+ for second one

Liam Ultimate, a twenty mile high being made of radioactive debris

An immense wave of gore and viscera exploded out of Liam's face, and headed straight for Noel. "Bollocks," he thought. "Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks."

these are fucking amazing, GREAT 2011 revive

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/football_focus/9462589.stm

Noel Gallagher has threatened to pull out all the hairs from ex-Manchester United full-back Gary Neville’s moustache with his teeth.

The former Oasis man made the threat after he discovered that Neville had written on his Twitter page, Twitter.com/GNev2: "'While we're living the dreams we have as children fade away'. Not if you support United!". The first half of the tweet is a lyric from 'Fade Away', one of the B-sides to Oasis’ 'Cigarettes & Alcohol' single.

When alerted to this, Gallagher responded in typically forthright fashion last night (May 10), telling The Sun: "I feel violated. If Mr Neville continues to use the holy scriptures of Oasis to communicate with the Cockney massive, I shall be forced to come up to Cheshire in the middle of the night and break into his house."

Sun's original copy far more enlightening:

IT has been a while since NOEL GALLAGHER served up one of his razor-sharp verbal volleys.

Mr Angry ... Noel Gallagher
Dave Hogan
But GARY NEVILLE is just the kind of comedy character to spark the full force of a Scud missile from the former OASIS hero.

Earlier this week Gary took the liberty of quoting Noel's classic track Fade Away on Twitter after Manchester United all but wrapped up the Premier League title.

He wrote: "'While we're living, the dreams we have as children fade away.' Not if you support United!"

Like little Gary playing the offside trap, it has gone pear-shaped.

Here is Manchester City fanatic Mr N Gallagher's response:

"I feel violated. If Mr Neville continues to use the holy scriptures of Oasis to communicate with the Cockney massive, I shall be forced to come up to Cheshire in the middle of the night, break into his house, tie him to a chair, make him listen to the Best Of Simply d(Red)ful while I pull his tash out one grey hair at a time (with my teeth), liberate those Oasis CDs and s*** in his manbag. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED..."

The Interior Life of Paul Scholes

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-13752688

Honestly, it's as if Noel's trying to prove this thread wrong or something.

http://www.holymoly.com/music/news/noel-gallagher-announces-release-his-debut-solo-album57904

Noel's debut album as a solo artist was recorded in London and completed in Los Angeles during 2010 and the first half of 2011. It was co-produced by Noel and David Sardy, with whom Noel has worked Previously. It features ten brand new tracks. Guests on the album include Crouch End Festival Chorus and The Wired Strings.

A second album, a companion to the above but as yet untitled, was recorded in the UK this year and is now complete. This album is the result of Noel's continued collaboration with the Amorphous Androgynous, and will be released in 2012. Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds will tour this autumn, subsequent to the release of their eponymous album.

"There isn't a guitar solo on it till the 6th track. It's not fucking guitar hero.

"Some of it's vaudeville, some if it's space jazz, some of it's kraut rock. And that's just the first track."

Derek Smalls to thread.

sounds like nobhead music to me

http://www.digitalspy.co.uk/music/interviews/a345222/noel-gallagher-interview-i-dont-want-to-hear-adeles-album.html

What would you be doing now if you weren't talking to us?

"If I get a day off I'd just be mooching about the house. I don't like to do a great deal. Smoke some cigarettes, strum the guitar."

"Pick the kids up from school."

"Who cares what's number one anymore? Just be thankful we lived in the '90s."

This is very funny and could potentially be a great book.

― Les centimètres énigmatiques (snoball), Thursday, September 9, 2010 1:44 PM (1 year ago) Bookmark

w/ plenty of accompanying photos of Noel appearing annoyed and/or mildly bemused.

find a photo of anything but tbph

cartoons/art

Can't wait for partner site paulscholesweb.com:

We literally bumped into that top Scientologist Katie Holmes on the way into the studio. We came out of the lift and BANG, there she was.

Now at this point my mate, and friend of the stars, Scully was doing a bit of filming for my website and managed to capture the moment. She did look a bit miffed at the various North-West accents and some vigorous handshaking, but there was no need to send one of her people over to demand the video be deleted!!!! Un-fuckin'-believable.

We didn't let it spoil the day though. And what a day. Loved it.

'We were brought up under Thatcher,’ Noel Gallagher is saying.

'There was a work ethic – if you were unemployed, the obsession was to find work.

'Now, these kids brought up under the Labour Party and whatever this Coalition thing is, it’s like, “Forget that, I’m not interested. I wanna be on TV.” It was a different mindset back then.’

‘Under Thatcher, who ruled us with an iron rod,’ he says, ‘great art was made. Amazing designers and musicians. Acid house was born. Very colourful and progressive.

He never would have visited Number 10 if John Major had invited him, he says. But, it turns out, he will be sending his sons to private school.

‘I don’t want them coming home speaking like Ali G,’ he explains. ‘Anyone in my position, you owe it to your children to send them to a school where they don’t have to walk through a metal detector in the morning.

'There were riot police outside our local school the other morning. Turns out there’d been a stabbing. Rival gangs. We shouldn’t need riot police at schools. This is Maida Vale. This isn’t Handsworth or Tottenham, do you know what I mean? I don’t want my kids going to a school like that. I’d rather they were at a school with Russian oligarchs’ children.’

Up until the last election, I voted Labour all my life,’ he says. ‘But I’ve lost all faith in the Labour Party. After the expenses scandal and what happened with the banks – that “There’s no money left” note and all that – I just look at them and think the Labour Party should really be ashamed of themselves for the way they let the country down. I voted for a pirate at the last election.’

he's a cunt. he's always been a cunt. he will always be a cunt. cunts will always love and defend him. cunts.

also he's thick as bigshit, and about two inches tall. i saw him last year standing outside waitrose in marylebone high street, nervously waiting for his chauffeur with his shit-brown rolls royce. he looked like a puny thunderbirds villain with his strings cut.

Turns out there’d been a stabbing. Rival gangs. We shouldn’t need riot police at schools.

hmmmn fair enough rite?

This is Maida Vale. This isn’t Handsworth or Tottenham, do you know what I mean?

oh rite just /those/ schools with those.....different ppl

'Now, these kids brought up under the Labour Party and whatever this Coalition thing is, it’s like, “Forget that, I’m not interested. I wanna be on TV.” It was a different mindset back then.’

I feel like someone should play Mr Gallagher the lyrics to his own song "Rock N Roll Star" from his very first album? How quickly people forget.

I feel like someone should play Mr Gallagher the lyrics to his own song "Rock N Roll Star" from his very first album? How quickly people forget.

but he worked so hard under Thatcher to get there, robbing houses iirc

can't believe our most forward-thinking and exploratory musician is a social reactionary on the quiet

When you say "quiet" ...

'There was a work ethic – if you were unemployed, the obsession was to find work.

'Now, these kids brought up under the Labour Party and whatever this Coalition thing is, it’s like, “Forget that, I’m not interested. I wanna be on TV.” It was a different mindset back then.’

... we were absolutely determined to roadie for the Inspiral Carpets, no matter what barriers society put in front of us

But, joking aside, he was lucky enough to grow up in an era when you could bumble about on the dole for years getting a band together or whatever else that twat was doing at the time

We were all of us in the gutter, some of us were looking up at the La's...

(thang yew, I am on Paypal..)

Shooting for the (Clint) Boon

http://louderthanwar.com/featured/it-was-better-under-thatcher-noel-gallagher-misquoted-by-the-mail

the thatcher quote was by no means the most egregious quote in the interview

While short of his younger brother’s stage presence, he’s not short of charm – bantering with the front row about Man City’s Mario Balotelli and Liverpool squeaking through against Cardiff on penalties just hours earlier in the Carling Cup Final.

http://londonist.com/2012/02/music-review-nowl-gallagher-o2.php

i've read this whole thread thinking it was about liam

It suits Liam more than Noel imo

The Interior Life Of Liam Gallagher:

.....

...



...

...

.



.

r0nan endlessly otm <3

<3 this thread so so much

"I haven't seen him," Liam said. "It's very hush-hush round his camp." While he still has lots to say about football, Noel has scarcely commented on music over the past year. He is a busy father, "doing nappies and all that malarkey".

malarkey

― NI, Friday, 7 January 2011 11:51 (1 year ago)

his spot on alan carr last night p much confirmed this thread

It were good, it.

what are you going to do no that you're taing a year off?

I can make a tesco shop last all day, me. Just spend all day, shopping.

Still nowhere near on-point if it was Liam

Noel Gallagher criticises Muse drummer for smoking an electronic cigarette

"There are no characters left in the music business. When we first started going there was a healthy percentage of people, and we were all dirt-kickers from council estates, and we all couldn’t believe our luck that we were at the Brits. You go in now and everybody is a careerist. It’s very corporate, and you know what I’ve actually seen people doing at the Brits? Eating. I saw the drummer from Muse smoking an electronic cigarette. A cigarette with a battery in. I had to say to him: ‘Really? Really? Is that where you are at? Do me a favour mate, either have a proper one outside, or don’t have one.’ It lit up green when he had a drag of it. Nonsense. He said that immortal line – ‘Oh you know how it is mate’. And I said ‘I’m sorry mate, I actually don’t.’

Gallagher continued his outspoken views on the ceremony, calling the night "instantly forgettable" and rallying against young people who wear hats.

rallying against young people who wear hats.

"Is it rock ‘n’ roll to be two hours late? It depends on what he was doing in those two hours. Was he snorting coke off prostitutes? Or was he playing bridge? That’s not very rock'n'roll, is it? My cat sounds more rock ’n’ roll that that"

he made something up and then immediately went on as if it were a fact, that's our noel.

Most Read News

Kasabian guitarist quits to join Beady Eye
Noel Gallagher criticises Muse drummer for smoking an electronic cigarette
Kings of Leon admit they're 'too drunk' to work on new album
Morrissey 'Rickrolls' David Bowie following photo ban
Noel Gallagher: 'My cat is more rock n' roll than Justin Bieber'

nuthin' more rock'n'roll than hanging out w/prostitutes this is true.

Every time I read a quote from this guy, I instantly want to go and listen to his music, because some part of me goes, "He's a fucking maniac genius! Now I must dive neck-deep into his catalog!" Fortunately, it wears off before I actually fire up Spotify.

Same thing happens when I read a quote from Mark E. Smith. Except in the case of Smith, it led to an actual CD purchase once.

Well, that's the lay of the land..

i know this is liam, but god... just look at him.

http://img.thesun.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01689/SNN1203SLA---_1689568a.jpg

actually looks like a muppet, and i don't mean that as the common pejorative.

you mean as in "The Cookie Monster" or "Oscar"

this is the muppet who's got the right eyebrows for the job

http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20060102004117/muppet/images/0/02/Sam02.jpg

Gallagher continued his outspoken views on the ceremony, calling the night "instantly forgettable" while still somehow managing to recite a list of perceived offences against rock'n'roll he committed to memory at the event.

‘Really? Really? Is that where you are at? Do me a favour mate, either have a proper one outside, or don’t have one.’ It lit up green when he had a drag of it. Nonsense. He said that immortal line – ‘Oh you know how it is mate’. And I said ‘I’m sorry mate, I actually don’t.’

Bullying Muse about e-cigarrettes is p awesome

Oasis def top 5 interview bands of all time but I don't really dig their music

rallying against young people who wear hats

I can't argue with that.

In time he will be acknowledged

don't mean to be all NME grammar police but shurely he was "railing against young people who wear hats"

Maybe he was trying to put together an army of his peers to defeat the feckless be-hatted youth.

Or perhaps he was engaging in an off-road motor racing contest against teenage millinery enthusiasts.

Or planning an Occupy event at a haberdashery.

I believe he was recovering from an earlier attack from the behatted youths

http://www.nme.com/news/noel-gallagher/69195?utm_source=twitter&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=blur50

Gallagher, standing in for The Who's Roger Daltrey, has curated a week of huge shows at the London venue, including headline appearances from Kasabian, Paul Weller, Primal Scream and Noel himself. Speaking to Shortlist about how he arranged the all-star bill, Gallagher said that he had spoken to artists personally backstage at festivals during the summer of 2012 and had verbal agreements from lots of artists who subsequently "wriggled out" of appearing.

"I'd talk to Ed Sheeran and Mumford And Sons thinking, 'I'll just do the fucking seven nights myself, what the fuck am I asking these people for?' and I got turned down a lot. Everybody says yes to your face. Everybody. And then the agent will call, and their management will call and then their PR will call and say, 'Ah, they're going to be in Australia at the time.' Really? Well they never said that to me. What's interesting is all the working class bands said yes straight off the bat, no fucking inkling of when it was. The middle class bands said yes and wriggled out of it. I dunno what that means, but it must mean something. It was an interesting summer. But I will say, if the people that blew me off but said they'll do it next year actually do it, it might be the greatest event since Woodstock.

it must mean something.

"working class bands"

that horny-handed son of toil Bobby Gillespie

one out of three ain't bad

Kasabian, Paul Weller and Primal Scream? How did Noel think of asking them?

next he'll be saying he's keen on the Beatles!

"But I will say, if (Ed Sheeran and Mumford And Sons) actually do it, it might be the greatest event since Woodstock."

Led Zep and the Beatles were the Ed Sheerans and Mumfords of Woodstock

Cancelled Acts
Jeff Beck Group (The band broke up in July, forcing cancellation)
Iron Butterfly (Stuck at the airport, their manager demanded helicopters and special arrangements just for them. Were wired back and told, as impolitely as Western Union would allow, "to get lost", but in other 'words'.)
Joni Mitchell (Joni's agent put her on "The Dick Cavett Show" instead)
Lighthouse (Feared that it would be a "bad scene".)
Ethan Brown (Arrested for LSD three days before the event.)

Declined Invitations
The Beatles (John Lennon said he couldn't get them together)
Led Zeppelin (Got a higher paying gig at the Asbury Park Convention Hall in New Jersey that weekend)
Bob Dylan (Turned it down because of his disgust of the hippies hanging around his house)
The Byrds (Turned it down because of a melee during their performance at the first Atlanta International Pop Festival, held at the Atlanta International Raceway on July 4 and July 5, 1969)
Tommy James & the Shondells (Turned it down because of being misinformed about the size and scope of the event)
Jethro Tull (Turned it down because they thought it wouldn't be a big deal.)
The Moody Blues were included in the original posters as performers, but backed out after taking a gig in Paris on the same weekend.
Spirit (they had other shows planned and did not want to back out of their commitments; not knowing how big that Woodstock would ultimately become)
Mind Garage (Declined because they thought it wouldn't be a big deal and had a higher paying gig elsewhere)

who is ethan brown?

Ethan Brown was a solo guitarist highly admired by the 'hippie' youth, but he was arrested three days before the festival on LSD related charges. He is known best for his earlier childhood friendship with The Doors piano player, Ray Manzarek.

huh. thanks. nothing on allmusic.... did he ever record?

No idea - any search for him brings up the same couple of sentences being repeated on lots of websites. Maybe if he hadn't dropped that acid tab he'd be a household name.

iirc noel referred to robbie williams as a fat karaoke singer from stoke, but every word out his mouth is a jewel so the details hardly matter

robbie williams as a fat karaoke singer from stoke

Lol
I know ppl that live in the uk have a lot of oasis baggage, but trust me if you live in the u.s. where they are no better remembered than like semisonic or gin blossoms these dudes are super hilarious and I wish they did interviews every day

So do they.

This stuff writes itself!

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-21916688

Former Britpop rivals Noel Gallagher and Damon Albarn have buried the hatchet and performed together at a charity concert.

Oasis guitarist Gallagher joined Blur singer Albarn and his bandmate Graham Coxon at a Teenage Cancer Trust gig at the Royal Albert Hall in London.

Paul Weller completed the supergroup, who performed Blur's 1999 track Tender.

Oasis and Blur were famously engaged in a feud in the mid-1990s as the biggest bands of the Britpop era.

Noel Gallagher caused controversy when he said in 1995 that he hoped Albarn and Blur bassist Alex James would "catch Aids and die".

But Gallagher and Albarn have recently made peace. They shared a table at this year's Brit Awards, with Gallagher later saying they bonded over a dislike of boy band One Direction.

Ha ha ha these fuckin guys

And I said ‘I’m sorry mate, I actually don’t.’

can vividly picture noel saying this. every expression - one eyebrow raised as he says 'sorry mate', flicker of a smirk round the edges of his mouth as he says 'don't'. eyes darting about, waiting expectantly for peals of laughter at yet another classic no-nonsense wit-drenched bon mot from the big noelly g

not on topic but it is depressing as sin how noel has taken on the role of 'voice of the working class' when he's the ultimate NIMBY small c conservative. same goes for the enemy et al

I know ppl that live in the uk have a lot of oasis baggage, but trust me if you live in the u.s. where they are no better remembered than like semisonic or gin blossoms these dudes are super hilarious and I wish they did interviews every day

― ums (upper mississippi sh@kedown), Saturday, March 23, 2013 7:35 PM (Yesterday) Bookmark

otm

lol at the thought of nimby small c conservative not being the voice of the working class

um ok. (is this more of that fabled darragh banter?)

if you mean warmed-up barely digested daily mail bollox then probably

Ha rein em in folks (or not, as the case may be i spose) but no, bantlessly i put forth the contention that blokey noel may be very much the voice of the working class. I can't figure out if it's his bantz or mine that are the warmed up daily mail bollox etc but i'm not sure it stands as solid refute in either case.

More interior life, pls.

;)

And I'd contend that's a pretty fucking narrow and clueless take on the "voice" of the working class tbh, but there you go eh? xp

Ha fine then, there is no 'voice of the working class' dry yr shorts. If there were it would certainly be a highly educated liberal but not in any paternalistic way.

Frustrated much btw? Just a message board thread about noel gallagher, working class boy done good.

Xp fair enough schwantz

noel wondered why he couldnt be working class and rich and a bit tory all at the same time. Or why, being so, this made some people angry. It were all a bit strange, that.

Noel lit a cigarette. "A real, proper fucking cigarette," he thought. "Not one of those poncey electronic jobs."

How long can you go without writing?
Oh, fuckin' 10 months. I don't chase it any more, doesn't bother me in the slightest. It only really dawns on me when I'm out with Weller. He'll say, "Have you written any songs recently?", and I'll say, "Actually no, I haven't." He'll say, "When was the last time you wrote?" and I'll say, "Oh fuck, nine months ago." We'll have an argument about that or something or other and he'll say, "Get your fuckin' finger out, you lazy …" – all that. From when I joined Oasis to when we became a real big, fuck-off band – when you fall into that cycle of album, tour, a year off, so it's once every three years – I was on a mission. All that Definitely Maybe, Morning Glory and Be Here Now stuff was all written while I was on the dole. After that other shit gets in the way, like going on tour for a year and a half. It slows you down a bit. It comes with age, kids: you don't get the time to devote to it any more.

When the band needed a first single you just went into a room and wrote "Supersonic".
That just appeared. We were doing "Bring It on Down" because Creation wanted it as the first single and it was just fuckin' rubbish. Instead of scrapping the session somebody said, "Just go and write a song." I had the chords and that, it was just magic, and I've never done it since. It was amazing, that night. I wrote the whole song in less than half an hour, recorded it and mixed it that night, played it to Creation and that was it – fuckin' hell, great.

Do you think in traditional structures when you're writing?
I only listen to music derived or from the 60s. I'm not interested in jazz or hip-hop or whatever's going round at the minute; indie shit. I don't loathe it but I don't listen to it. My education as a songwriter was from listening to the Kinks and the Who and the Beatles. I don't listen to avant-garde landscapes and think, "I could do that." I'm not a fan of Brian Eno. It's Ray Davies, John Lennon and Pete Townshend for me.

Where would that education take you? Was it listening and absorbing or thinking, "What's Ray Davies doing here?"
No, I'm not that clever. I would play along at home to "Dead End Street" and "Waterloo Sunset" but that's it. I taught myself to play the guitar; it's just a tool for me to write songs. I'm not a great guitarist. I don't study it. It frustrates me sometimes. I'll never be the super session guy: I can do sessions for Oasis. It would take all the magic out of it to break down "I Am the Walrus" to its basic components. I listen to it and go, "It's fucking amazing; why is it amazing? I don't know, it just is." That's why I find journalists such joyless fucking idiots. They have to break music down and pull it apart until there's nothing left, until they know it all; they analyse it down until it's bland nonsense. They don't listen to music like the rest of us.

Is it a default when you're stuck for ideas: rain, shine?
I'm not one of the world's greatest thinkers. Damon Albarn said this once in an interview: he can "see four black dudes playing cards in a pub in Notting Hill and write a symphony about it". I would see the same four black dudes and to me it's just four black dudes playing cards. It's just how you perceive things in life. I'm not a great reader of books; I'm not a great art lover. What I know is street life and street talk and football and drugs. I am probably the only songwriter in the entire world that hasn't written a song about 9/11.

god, i find this bloke so entirely depressing

He wasn't always like that but it sure explains why Oasis turned to utter shit once they discovered the Beatles and mythology.

it's all awful then he gives you that damon quote which almost is worse.

i can't find any source for the damon quote other than noel, so i'm not massively convinced that's what he said or, you know, at least how he said it?

I am probably the only songwriter in the entire world that hasn't written a song about 9/11.

don't think i've ever heard anyone mention a song about 9/11, ever.

Neither has Noel probably

McCartney has done it. Springsteen has done it. Neil Young has done it. These are Noel's peers tbf

in his dreams

Oasis turned to utter shit once they discovered the Beatles

So... before they started Oasis, then? Sounds about right.

my thoughts exactly

Depressing, I wasn't sure about him after escaping the bubble of Oasis but it seems his perspective if anything has narrowed rather than the other way

Gallagher's a churl who isn't worth a moment's attention but i want to say as a side note that i don't think a gleeful eclecticism of influence is necessarily better for an artist than a handful of fixed references. a creative imagination doesn't need a vast range of inputs - they just need to be creative and imaginative.

agreed - though purposefully blinkering oneself from anything that's not white and holding a guitar and from the 60s probably is a strong indicator that said artist is unlikely to be creative or imaginative.

It doesn't seem to occur to Noel that even his boring old moth-eaten heroes were not as incurious and ignorant about music as he is, albeit as shit and boring as they are.

I'm not interested in jazz or hip-hop or whatever's going round at the minute; indie shit.

not sure what's going on w/ the punctuation here but I like to think that he's bracketing jazz and hip-hop as "indie shit"

Hey guys have you taken a second to contemplate how horrific Noel's jazz or hip hop influenced music would be?

There was some experimentation: "D'You Know What I Mean?" contains a slowed down loop from N.W.A.'s "Straight Outta Compton",[17] while "Magic Pie" features psychedelically arranged vocal harmonies and a mellotron. According to Noel, "All I did was run my elbows across the keys and this mad jazz came out and everyone laughed."[18]

"All I did was run my elbows across the keys and this mad jazz came out and everyone laughed"

That's probably a result of Goldie giving him some advice.

imagining him going out for a piss straight after that and everyone else in the studio sort of looking at each other and all wanting to broach the subject of when are we going to stop being so craven and just tell him that his ideas are terrible and this wasn't "mad jazz" but the sound that anyone would make if they ran their elbows across a keyboard but all of them also knowing that this is a great life and why do anything that would even moderately dent it

That is probably the closest to the bone post on here in terms of Noel's True Interior Life.

"I am probably the only songwriter in the entire world that hasn't written a song about 9/11."

have to admit he's making his best case for himself here

anything that's not white and holding a guitar and from the 60s

hey now he did rip off Stevie Wonder that one time. Gary Glitter/T.Rex aren't really from the 60s either

we're never going to hear the AA vs noel album are we.
he seems to have withdrawn back into his comfort cave.
shame, as i was really looking forward to that.

yeah, still we will always have that 12" of 'Falling 4own" anyway

i find him pretty sympathetic in that interview? seems like a guy who's aware of his limitations and interests.

he likes beefheart!

it's the natural next step after a life eating blood sausage

seems like a guy who's aware of his limitations and interests.

yeah but 15 years ago he was all "hip-hop is the bestest" and four years ago as m e notes he was all "fuck an Oasis, I'm doing this album with FSOL," and

I remember him raving about drum n bass and taking e

I know he's said stupid things and has made a lot of bad bad music but I can't help finding him pretty funny in interviews...
he seems pretty laidback and cool for a "rockstar".
can't hate the guy !

In a way, I prefer his down to earth/basic approach to music etc to bands/artists trying hard to pretend they're forward looking, artsy, conceptual or whatever.
it doesn't mean it makes me want to listen to what he produces, though !

how do you pretend to be forward-looking, artsy, conceptual? copy your music off Wikipedia the day before it's due to be handed in?

"at least i am real not like the class swot who nicked a Kursaal Flyers riff then stuck some quote by David Tudor on it"

I was hoping he'd do a Riverdance kind of thing

http://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/men-of-the-year/home/winners-2013/icon-noel-gallagher

"50 Shades Of Grey? 50 Shades Of Shite!"

This is cringe-inducing.

People who celebrate their own ignorance are the worst fucking cunts in the world.

You want all the work done for you.
Too f***ing right. Novels and the people who write them, like I say, are putting themselves a few rungs above the rest of us. They're purporting to be intellectual, and... for you to write a book, is for you to say, "I am better than you." My 68 million records beat your one book.

Your album's over in 45 minutes.
Yeah! Done! In and out, put the kettle on. There's just a lot of time devoted to the reviewing and reading of books. More man-hours are devoted to reading about books - not even reading books.

this doesn't even make sense. i mean, does he really think books are discussed more than music? god, what a fucking total monkey-faced prat.

i wonder what Noel thinks about children's television programmes or Clarice Cliff ceramics?

curious as to his views on chocolate bars

Gallagher may be a self-atrophying cunt but he got rich thru his lack of endeavours. what fucking excuse does this Danny Wallace or any other adult male sub-chode who still worships at his shitty-haired altar have?

xp "Flyte? More like s****"

http://ichef.bbci.co.uk/podcasts/artwork/266/dannyw.jpg

that's strange, he doesn't look like a cunt

really?

(very pleased with that picture/DN combination)

christ a quick perusal of Wallace's CV tells me a) he is evil and b) some ilxor is gonna wander by shortly to tell us that some horrible fucking thing he's done is "pretty good actually"

He looks like Sue Perkins.

What else can I say that's nice, comparitively?

Why would you want to?

good point.

I feel stupider for having read the Noel interview.

Still, he and vile Tory rag GQ deserve each other.

Too f***ing right. Novels and the people who write them, like I say, are putting themselves a few rungs above the rest of us. They're purporting to be intellectual, and... for you to write a book, is for you to say, "I am better than you." My 68 million records beat your one book.

of course those people who boast about selling tens of millions of records are in no way trying to put themselves "a few rungs above the rest of us". An amazing display of passive aggressive anti-intellectualism, well done Noel!

jesus christ that interview. my brain was actually struggling for oxygen reading that, like i was being smothered by a huge pillow full of bloated ignorance.

To what extent would u consider ng to hold the opinions of an ordinary briton

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4F4qzPbcFiA

Think no one should ever suggest even in jest "dont care about the music, but he's good copy" ever again

that is unreadable

I would like to see his bookshelf. His collection of books about shit that happened.

I imagine he has a small collection of novels. Two Irvine Welshes, the complete Kevin Sampson, maybe a John King. None of them finished.

Tony Parsons.

Guy is a comedian. I doubt he even believes the things he says himself.

Saying that, I can imagine he never reads a book/novel.

Also, is his more famous brother an inveterate church-goer?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danny_Wallace_(humourist)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humourist

The material written or performed by humorists tends to be more subtle and cerebral than the material created by stand-up comics and comedy writers.[citation needed]
The intention is often to provoke wry smiles and amusement rather than outright belly laughs.[citation needed]

"Humorist" redirects here. For the thoroughbred racehorse, see Humorist (horse).

Dom Joly and Danny Wallace are to team up for a BBC Radio 5 Live show about the bizarre traditions of the festive season.

Most terrifying sentence ever written?

only virtue of wallace is that any success or visibility he has might upset Dave Gorman. i can imagine it as a downbeat 50s london novel, increasingly bitter comedian on the way down starting to fixate on his former sidekick, believes he's stolen his life.

"Dom Joly and.." is enough

shitty-haired altar

"Dom Joly and a hungry Bengal Tiger are to be locked in a prison cell together"

his views don't reflect those of the average briton, but the general level of ignorance he displays is pretty much representative of, without using labels, a certain section of our society.

"Dom Joly and a hungry Bengal Tiger are to be locked in a prison cell together"

Someone probably could have done a better variation on this, I just woke up and saw this and thought someone was bound to get their first if I didn't.

Saw "Dom Joly and.." is enough I mean, seemed like an open goal.

is pretty much representative of, without using labels, a certain section of our society.

trying to think of labels that would have sounded as half sinister as this sentence construction.

'half as sinister' even.

trying to think of labels that would have sounded as half sinister as this sentence construction.

Now I'm worried this looks like I was having a go at Outdoorfish, which I wasn't, something just made me laugh about the was he phrased that. I should remember to not externalise my interior life on ilx before I've been awake for more than 10 minutes (or 'trying thinking before you post'), sorry.

i think he was wrong to make the generalization tbh, the "section of society" it reflects is oafs, a category that knows no socioeconomic bounds imo

there is ignorance in all socioeconomic strata, it's just easy to stereotype what types belong to which i guess

yeah, I've never met anyone as actively proud of their own ignorance as some of the public school types I encountered at university.

many of whom were big Oasis fans, thinking about it.

hahaha

what novels would u have to have read and be able to discuss to what standard in order not to qualify for oaf socioeconomic standard pls, i ask as an interested outsider

Bravo Two Zero.

way to quote the one in which the narrator brags about beating on the paddies

it's not so much that someone hasn't read certain books, it's aggressively asserting that a large swathe of culture is somehow a terrible thing solely because you personally can't be bothered to make an effort to understand it at any level, that is the oafish thing.

nothingness: the science of empty space by henning genz

not henning berg then

not a novel as such, but according to all creationists a true work of fiction.

blackburn defender?

xp Absolutely. I don't care if people don't want to read novels. It's the reactionary resentment that bothers me, and the implication that fiction is just for posh wankers and not simple working-class folk.

yeah i am the first to argue books aren't a more noble art form than any other - what makes Noel G a first class cunt here is his aggressive dismissal of even the motives behind reading books. as a working class kid who used to get called posh on the reg for having the temerity to give a shit about things like books i feel pretty comfortable calling an oaf an oaf tbh

sorry if this doesn't generate the right "liberal elitists of ILX scoff at the common man whilst swigging champers" vibe

the other irony here is Gallagher tries to pull his salt of the earth hardman shtick having made his living in one of the most effete career paths possible

Hold on, I've just remembered a very early Oasis interview, from immediately after they were hauled off the Dutch ferry for rowdiness and deported back to Blighty - in it, Liam rips the piss out of Noel for being holed up in his cabin wi' 'is fookin' books instead of joining in the fun.

Liam calls porn "books"

Noel: Yeah, alright. Well if you're, right, well if you're, right, well if, if you're proud about getting thrown off ferries, then why don't you go and support West Ham and get the fuck out of my band and go and be a football hooligan, right? Coz we're musicians, right? We're not football hooligans.
Liam: You're only gutted coz you was in bed fuckin' reading your fuckin' books...

as a working class kid who used to get called posh on the reg for having the temerity to give a shit about things like books i feel pretty comfortable calling an oaf an oaf tbh

this this this this

noel always seems like he feels he has "something to prove" as he gets older imho.

Odd, I was thinking about this thread just this morning

I imagine Noel read nothing but rock bios in the early days

ACME how to construct a band using bits of early seventies british bands and other random bit and bobs, while distracting everyone with endless waffle about the beatles

DW: Have you read it? You once said you'd never read a book. Have you still not?

NG: I'm reading a book at the minute.

DW: What book are you reading?

NG: I'm not saying.

DW: Why not? It's not that embarrassing, surely. Is it the Bible?

NG: No, it's not the Bible.

DW: Is it something like The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole or Harry Potter?

NG: No.

DW: What is it? Is it something that won't make you sound cool?

NG: No. It's just my missus, Sara... She's got a very superior attitude to books and...

DW: (sternly): Tell us what book it is.

NG: (exasperated): Noo. I'm not telling you what book it is.

DW: Is it a children's book?

NG: No, it's not a children's book. Someone I know was reading this book and I read the back of it and I thought: 'That sounds quite interesting, I'll go and buy that.' And of course I got it back and my fucking superior Scottish girlfriend went: 'That's fucking rubbish, what are you reading that shit for?'

DW: Who wrote it?

NG: It's a guy called ... It's a guy called Dan Brown, I do believe. It's called Angels and Demons.

DW: OK! Well that's all right. What does Sara read then?

NG: Fucking Proust. I don't know.

DW: So hang on. You're supposed to have never read a novel but you know who Proust is.

NG: I know who Proust is but I've never read a book! This is my first ever book. Believe it or not, it is.

Aside from anything else, take yr chippy 'i got called posh once' offended marxist credentials out of the once-alltime speculative history thread ffs

you're always such a butthurt dick on this thread tbh

i mean like jeez

like we're all laffin at this dumbass and his latest dumb interview and you're all "To what extent would u consider ng to hold the opinions of an ordinary briton" *twiddles ends of mustache having tied the topic to train tracks while train approaches*. how about you keep yr challops about the common briton out of our "laff at the choad who hasn't made even a quarter decent record since 1994 and who looks like a bad stingray puppet" thread?

The book I'm reading right now has a recommendation from Noel Gallagher on the cover. It's a rock bio.

http://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1328731022l/312380.jpg

Haha I have no idea if those daisies are meant to represent expletive-deleted asterisks or just spell out "fooking"

(book is pretty fookin great btw)

I might, stevie, but this thread isnt that fuckin thread. I mean i h80s to go al gr80s on it but cmon this thread worked, it meant something to a lot of ppl, it had style, an aesthetic, it was what it was.

Now its just another thread with the usuals being as shocked and outraged as they were meant to be by a piece designed to fill no other function but to set off a selfrighteous ownfartsmelling digust-and-congratulations chain of 'shocking'!s and 'good lord did he really'!s and the odd *swagger* 'fuck this ignorant cunt' setpiece nonsense that calls to mind idk grainy black and white footage of a seal in a waistcoat clapping itself and honking for all and sundry because it likes the noise or maybe it had a trainer once used to give it fish for such displays but he's gone now but the spinning dishes pass for thoughts in the poor grainy fishless bastards head still retain a hint of past rewards for dimly remembered performances of a trick that only amused the seal itself and a long dead trainer who may or may not ever have existed. And touched kids.

Also morning glory was 95 and is awesome so yknow there's that too

A couple of those High Flying Birds tracks are pretty dope too, right?

Steady fuckin on

Now its just another thread with the usuals being as shocked and outraged as they were meant to be by a piece designed to fill no other function but to set off a selfrighteous ownfartsmelling digust-and-congratulations chain of 'shocking'!s and 'good lord did he really'!s and the odd *swagger* 'fuck this ignorant cunt' setpiece nonsense that calls to mind idk grainy black and white footage of a seal in a waistcoat clapping itself and honking for all and sundry because it likes the noise or maybe it had a trainer once used to give it fish for such displays but he's gone now but the spinning dishes pass for thoughts in the poor grainy fishless bastards head still retain a hint of past rewards for dimly remembered performances of a trick that only amused the seal itself and a long dead trainer who may or may not ever have existed. And touched kids.

is noel the seal in this metaphor?

of course d you're adding to the mud tracked over this carpet with every post too. if you wanted to argue for it's purity - not an unfair point - you shd've gone to Mod Requests, or maybe opened up a different Oasis thread and posted a Youtube of yrself with yr mascara all smeared crying "LEAVE NOEL-IE ALOOOOOOONE"

We need nakhchavian to save us!

where's the fuckin craic in that i ask

i posted the link and ruined the thread. srsly the idea that noel gallagher needs saving on some anti-snobbery tip... jesus. if liking books makes you a snob then everyone who doesn't can burn in the hell they've chosen for themselves.

http://afflictor.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/fahrenheit_451.mp4-1.jpg.jpeg

ah, the key word 'srsly'

I'll see your srsly and raise you a lol

even lghthrtdly

glty

fkn ll

tht wrw rt gd tht

like we're all laffin at this dumbass and his latest dumb interview and you're all "To what extent would u consider ng to hold the opinions of an ordinary briton" *twiddles ends of mustache having tied the topic to train tracks while train approaches*. how about you keep yr challops about the common briton out of our "laff at the choad who hasn't made even a quarter decent record since 1994 and who looks like a bad stingray puppet" thread?

yoga flambé

c'mon deems this thread can get back to Noel fanfic on the next revive

i sometimes wonder if ppl who read ilf and ppl who dont isn't the main schism in cultural understanding on the planet today

read that as "people who read this thread..."

People who read ILF know not to bother responding to Darragh's "yes but have you considered how the ignorant choads feel?" posts, it's not like there's any sincerely held belief behind them.

As a pose, the brave speaker of truth amid a sea of manufactured liberal Twitter outrage has been played out for years.

that would be the "Brendan O'Neill position" I believe

a lot of that on ilf matt, is there?

tbh the most played-out persona on ilx these days is the contemptuous now-above-it former high-volume poster

http://www.afro-style.com/Images_series/all_of_us/all_of_us_titre.jpg

excuse me for being lost by this thread now

Haha no shit

wow, what a thread. i think i lost half of my day at work reading this thing. genious

I haven't seen him around recently. not since they closed the library. wandering in other pastures.

I mean, some songs are pretty shit, and there’s a couple of periods you’d rather forget, but I think on the whole . . . I think we made three great albums and four good ones, which is not bad out of eight. Kind of a 50 percent record. That’s pretty good, I think.

But I’m cool with it. I don’t think there’s any unfinished business. I don’t think that we left anything unsaid, do you know what I mean? It’s like, if you’ve seen [Oasis], then good for you. If you didn’t, then that’s fucking tough shit. I’ve never seen the Beatles. So there you go.

http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/oasis-are-never-ever-getting-back-together-20131120

Anybody that comes back with a double album, to me, needs to pry themselves out of their own asshole. This is not the Seventies, okay? Go and ask Billy Corgan about a double album. Who has the fucking time, in 2013, to sit through 45 minutes of a single album? How arrogant are these people to think that you’ve got an hour and a half to listen to a fucking record?

Did you see that they’ve asked people to wear formal wear or costumes at their shows?

[Sighs] Well, what’s the point of that? Do you know what the point of that is? That is to take away from the shit disco that’s coming out of the speakers. Because everybody’s dressed as one of the Three Musketeers on acid. “What was the gig like?” “I don’t know, everyone was dressed as a teddy bear in the Seventies.” “Yeah, but what was the gig like?” “Ah, fuck knows, man, I have no idea. I was dressed as a flying saucer.” “Yeah, but what was the gig like?” “Fuck knows. I don’t know. Seen Cheech and Chong, there, though.” Not for me.’

Fucking had a shit year. All I’ve done is sit around the house and become a fucking hypochondriac. Dog-shit year. Can’t wait until it’s over.

http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/noel-gallaghers-epic-year-end-gripe-session-20131205

hmm

loved Yeezus, Disclosure, Daft Punk....talks shit about Arcade Fire...sure he doesn't post to ILX?

wouldn't doubt it. his 11/10 rating of the new bowie's a major tip-off

under the name noodle vague?

I don't have a problem with him doing a double album because that's the kind of thing I would expect him to do, plus I'll probably never hear it. Thankfully he can still deliver an entertaining interview which is increasingly rare. eg:

Be good. Don't be outrageous. Anybody can be outrageous! I could go to the Rolling Stone office and fucking shit on top of a boiled egg, right? And people would go, "Wow, fucking hell, that's outrageous!" But is it any good? No, because, essentially, it's just a shit on top of a boiled egg. That's all it is.

Then later on...

Q: What do you think about Lady Gaga?
...She's another one. In fact, she's probably doing a shit on top of a boiled egg right now. And somebody will fucking freeze it and call it art.

hi OutdoorFish! thanks for defending standards!

when he goes home he sheds a silent tear because shitting on top of a boiled egg is the only idea he's had all year.

His interviews are awful, he's like some tedious blowhard below the line commentator on a guardian article only he's being interviewed by Rolling Stone and GQ.

the only standards on here are double standards

His interviews are awful, he's like some tedious blowhard below the line commentator on a guardian article only he's being interviewed by Rolling Stone and GQ.

― elegant eyes, aristocrat face, gorgeous hair (soref), Saturday, December 7, 2013 3:08 AM (5 hours ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

thank you, i thought i was going insane here

Lady Gaga- she's another one. In fact, she's probably doing a shit on top of a boiled egg right now. And somebody will fucking freeze it and call it art.
― footballer of the future (Noodle Vague), Thursday, October 17, 2013 8:31 AM (1 month ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

IT WAS STARING US IN THE FACE ALL THIS TIME

that were a good post, that

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9alHSFI1tuo

oh good, 83 minutes and 11 seconds of the worst fucking music ever made

ah, we are in agreement, you have proved me wrong!

Gah, posted this in the Guradian thread by accident.

http://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2014/jan/22/noel-gallager-hates-oasis-videos

eheh. I had never seen most of these videos but they are truly awful... and they do walk in slow motion a lot !

this is hugely entertaining. thanks!

"can we do that bit again but can you do it with a bit more energy in your eyes?"

The DVD that comes with the "Time Flies" has a Noel commentary as an extra.

Basically, he likes the "Importance of being idle" video, and that's it.

more than i like

"Is that Phil Mitchell?"
"No it's not"
Love this whole thing

yeah this almost retrospectively justifies Oasis

I like his reactions to the Standing on the Shoulder of Giants videos/songs. especially by the time he gets to Sunday Morning "that's exactly how I feel mate"

So yeah pretty much the most entertaining thing Noel's been involved with since Some Might Say.

That was so great.. When he realizes what song is coming up next and just starts freaking out, oh man

ha yeah, "what's the next one off this... oh fucking hell, oh fucking hell."

'that wasn't an actual record playing, by the way, and he's not a real clown'

just came here to see if this had been posted. amazing.

fukkin brill

Oh, I see now the article is about that very DVD.

Yeah, I was I'll off work and sat through the whole DVD with the commentary on, which made it worth doing... They are very 'fit for function' for the overwhelming majority as in 'perform/promote song., that's it' so it's really the only good thing about it as a whole.

Oh, Liam does his one single too.

He sounds incredibly Karl Pilkington in some of these bits!
My favorite one is when he sounds like he's never seen the video before, with the motorcycle driver crashing through the window and going to the hospital. Killing me.

"Look at the size of Bonehead's shirt. That's fuckin' insane."

"Yeah, I'm not having any of this."

This is highly entertaining. Good to see Noel speaking for all of us.

He sounds incredibly Karl Pilkington in some of these bits!

this^^^^^

this is hilarious. "The video is backwards" "Oh yeah? Pity the song isnt. It would have sounded a lot more interesting."

"Is that a man with legs made of sausages?! That’s not real."

instead of making music he should host a radio or tv show or something.
maybe have a live show online that he would do at home, while doing other things (or nothing), with a headset.

i think he guests quite often with russell brand on something or other.

He should regularly review music videos.

the fact that he does his aggressive philistine churl shtick even on his own back catalogue isn't a plus point imo

"Is that a man with legs made of sausages?! That’s not real."

― Darin, Friday, January 24, 2014 6:19 AM (5 hours ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

otm

Which obscure member of a Britpop band are you?

I got Jake from MLS
fair enough

My favorite Gallagher insult is when he described Jack White as looking like "Zorro on donuts."

Jesus - I don't like a fat joke, but something in the simplicity of that phrasing just slaughters me

the fact that he does his aggressive philistine churl shtick even on his own back catalogue isn't a plus point imo

Yeah, I hate that side of him. He's clearly intelligent; he's a major Smiths fan, for God's sake, which is completely at odds with the yobbo lager lout persona he chooses to project. I believe that Liam actually is that sort of dimwit, but Noel isn't, which makes it frustrating when he plays dumb. I guess that persona served its purpose in the 90s in making them popular in the UK, but I suspect that Noel has a lot more in common with an egghead like his "enemy" Damon Albarn than he chooses to reveal in public.

He's clearly intelligent; he's a major Smiths fan

Plenty of Smiths fans are idiots!

Noel obviously has a kind of intelligence, but he's so depressingly self-limiting. Everyone knows people like him: middle-aged men who enjoy their own vituperative impotence to the extent that they're happy for it to define them. Everyone laughed at Win Butler's recent "I'm a fucking rock star!" comment though it was obvious that he was being knowingly reductive. Noel means it when he says things like that, which must make it easier to live with his limitations. I bet he rarely meets anyone who doesn't find him straightforwardly amusing. That's a nice life, in a way.

I've always found him hilarious, but again it's probably easier to do so without a lot of baggage in the US where Oasis is regarded on the same level as like Soul Asylum.

Noel means it when he says things like that

I think he means some of what he says, but not all of it. If you watch him on chat shows or in other conversation, he's clearly sharp, witty, and intelligent. And ballads such as "Wonderwall," "Sunday Morning Call," "Just Getting Older," or "Don't Go Away" (with its key line, I think, "damn my education / I can't find the words to say") reveal a sensitive side of him that is completely at odds with his dimwit lager lout persona. I'll repeat that I believe he adopted that persona to be popular, much as many rappers feel like they have to play up how street or hard or tough they are: Noel's whole "I'm just working class lad from Manchester" persona is simply a northern UK variation on that kind of pose. It has served him well, and it's pretty fucking funny when he's on a roll, but I really don't think that that's all there is to the guy.

Oh the smiths

Wd imagine ng is at least as intelligent as yr avg ilmer, at least as focused on image projection, clearly in a different way tho tbf.

His mums from charlestown theres a lot of mid-mayo in him imo.

Wd imagine ng is at least as intelligent as yr avg ilmer

no joke

gelatinate mess (darraghmac) wrote this on thread trenchant social commentary on board 7Curtis's 7borad on Jan 27, 2014

fart

gelatinate mess (darraghmac) wrote this on thread trenchant social commentary on board 7Curtis's 7borad on Jan 27, 2014

fart

gelatinate mess (darraghmac) wrote this on thread trenchant social commentary on board 7Curtis's 7borad on Jan 27, 2014

fart

gelatinate mess (darraghmac) wrote this on thread trenchant social commentary on board 7Curtis's 7borad on Jan 27, 2014

fart

gelatinate mess (darraghmac) wrote this on thread trenchant social commentary on board 7Curtis's 7borad on Jan 27, 2014

fart

gelatinate mess (darraghmac) wrote this on thread trenchant social commentary on board 7Curtis's 7borad on Jan 27, 2014

fart

Matts own brand of churlishness is more a sligo thing ime but it takes all sorts

more like hurlishness

Hurling (Sport)

recently learned that a friend of mine sent a friend of mine a story about noel g over a series of text messages a while bqck, inspired I think partly by this thread (which i'd once mentioned for some reason). i now c&p it here, prob against his wishes, in its spiritual home for posterity -

Noel Gallagher knocked the ash of his Cuban cigar on to the marble floor and took another swig of cab sav. This is fookin' rubbish, he grunted, waving his wine glass at the canvas in front of him, a semi-abstract portrait of an old man playing solitaire. Where's the fookin' balls? Bang some balls on that and then we're talking. The artist, a small Japanese woman with glasses, smiled at him and bowed. Thank you, Gallagher san, she said.

Gallagher sneered and slouched over to the next work, the attentive crowd of students following behind him in silence. This time the painting was a watercolour miniature of Morrissey reading the Independent, a cup of tea in his hand. Gallagher scrutinised it carefully. Slowly, he began to nod his head. This one's shite too, he declared, thoughtfully. But it's not as shite as the others. A teenage boy in the crowd fainted with pride.

As the other students rushed to revive their fallen comrade, Gallagher stalked across the gallery in the direction of the gift shop. I need some fookin' moogs, he muttered. And a fookin' throw pillow with an owl on. He passed a man dressed in the uniform of a security guard. Excuse me sir--began the man, but Gallagher waved him away. In his hurry to acquire art-related houseware, he failed to recognise the face of his former nemesis. Tony Blair.

Noel bought two mugs with his face on and a latte. He sat down in the gallery cafe, took out his iPhone 5 and composed a text to Damien Hirst. Art was wank. Drinking a coffee. Fuck off m8. He despatched the text with a mischievous smile. Thirty seconds later he received a reply. M8 ur cock is sml & shit. Noel laughed. Gd 1 m8. He wrote. Now fuck off. Tony Blair watched from the shadows, grinning maniacally.

At first Noel didn't notice the figure limping towards him. Then he noticed it but didn't care. Finally he noticed and said Fuck off. But it was too late for that. Tony Blair reached into the pocket of his blazer and pulled out a knife. Will you sign this? he asked.

Is this an original? asked Noel as he inscribed his world-famous 'Noel Cock'n'Balls' logo on the razor sharp blade of the weapon. Yes, replied Tony Blair. It's my favourite piece of yours. I've always wondered how you thought of it. Noel shrugged and picked his nose. I just bought a knife one day and thought: this is mint. It's like...art. I see, said Tony Blair. Amazing.

I also really like Champagne Supernova, continued the former PM. The lyrics are so surreal. Yeah, agreed Noel. I copied them off the wall of a public toilet. I just thought...fuck. That's mint. He took another sip of his latte and belched. Tony Blair began to hum Champagne Supernova. Noel nodded.

Gradually, Tony Blair began to insert odd lyrics into his humming. Doo doo do da nova doo da sky, he murmured. Noel, smiling, began to beat time on his coffee cup with a teaspoon. Gaining confidence, Tony Blair burst fully into song. Suddenly there were dozens, hundreds of people in the cafe, surrounding Noel, singing along to his greatest work.

It was at this point that Noel began to be lifted up into the heavens. The process was almost imperceptible at first: a few whisps of pure white smoke gathering at his feet, curling gently around the soiled cuffs of his Levis, the mingled voices of the congregation rising to an ecstatic roar.

"There are no characters left in the music business. When we first started going there was a healthy percentage of people, and we were all dirt-kickers from council estates, and we all couldn’t believe our luck that we were at the Brits. You go in now and everybody is a careerist. It’s very corporate, and you know what I’ve actually seen people doing at the Brits? Eating. I saw the drummer from Muse smoking an electronic cigarette. A cigarette with a battery in. I had to say to him: ‘Really? Really? Is that where you are at? Do me a favour mate, either have a proper one outside, or don’t have one.’ It lit up green when he had a drag of it. Nonsense. He said that immortal line – ‘Oh you know how it is mate’. And I said ‘I’m sorry mate, I actually don’t.’

Gallagher continued his outspoken views on the ceremony, calling the night "instantly forgettable" and rallying against young people who wear hats. "It was an instantly forgettable night," said Gallagher. "There was nothing going on at the Brits, there was nothing going on at the aftershow parties. There seemed to be a lot of young people in hats, with iPhones. They’re either all involved in some massive video game that they’re all hooked up to, or they’re just texting each other saying ‘Where are you, what are you doing?’ And they’ve all got hats. Where did the hat come from? We’re going back to some Dickensian nightmare. I don’t understand it. People with hats and Blackberrys under the age of 30 should be shot. Or stoned to death."

– ‘Oh you know how it is mate’. And I said ‘I’m sorry mate, I actually don’t.’ -

someone posted what I posted itt about a year ago but w/e

thread is fuckin mint

Noel sat up from the vaseline-filled coffin, gasping for air. He coughed and spluttered, trying to wipe petroleum jelly off his face and out of his eyes.

"Fuckin' hell," he said.

He attempted to clamber out of the coffin, still half-blinded by petroleum jelly. The coffin tipped over and it fell onto the floor upside down, trapping Noel inside. He panicked and started to thrash around, vision and senses blinded.

Then the coffin was lifted off him.

Noel, weakened by the shock and surprise and effort, lay limply as someone quickly wiped the vaseline off his head with a towel, and then set about scooping away the goo from his natty polyester suit.

Noel opened his eyes.

"Ah!" said Kryten from Red Dwarf. "I see Sir has finished rebooting."

Noel stared at the angular latex face, so familiar and beloved by millions of thirty-year-old men who occasionally watch Dave. He frowned. "What the fuck is going on?" he demanded.

"Well," said Kryten, and then the comedy android's head was blown apart by a well-aimed shot from Clarence Boddicker.

Boddicker aimed his shotgun at Noel. "Okay, mothercrusher," he said, the second word sounding oddly dubbed. "I'm giving you to the count of three to get the heck out of my branch of Halfords."

Noel struggled to his feet, took a step and then fell into a display of sat navs.

"One..."

Noel staggered up again, walked a few more steps, lost balance, and went flying over some BMX bikes.

"Two..."

Noel realised he wasn't going to be able to walk or run, so he opted to crawl as fast as he could. In a blind panic, he raced on hands and knees through the doors and set off the security alarm.

"What?! What is this baloney?" cried Boddicker. "You stupid, stinking mothercrushing thief!" Noel suddenly noticed that he had somehow unconsciously stolen a pile of tyres, which were tied to his back with string.

Boddicker ran after Noel, screaming, gun firing wildly...

I saw the drummer from Muse smoking an electronic cigarette. A cigarette with a battery in....It lit up green when he had a drag of it.

funny how Noel failed to foresee one of the defining totems of Underclass 2014

who is the US Noel Gallagher I wonder

― BIG MUFFIN (gbx), Monday, November 8, 2010 10:19 AM (1 month ago) Bookmark

KANYE

― kanellos (gbx), Wednesday, December 15, 2010 11:18 AM (3 years ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

Turns out Noel's a big fan of Yeezus:

I was at a party quite soon after that, and that track "Black Skinhead" came on. I didn't know who it was – like I said, I'm not wised up on that kind of shit. I was like, "What the fucking hell is this?" And turns out it's off that new album. So I got the album, and it's fucking great. I really like it. Particularly that track – it's fucking out there, do you know what I mean? It's got a great low-fi, punk vibe to it.

Not as much of a fan of Miley Cyrus though:

It's just embarrassing. Be good. Don't be outrageous. Anybody can be outrageous! I could go to the Rolling Stone office and fucking shit on top of a boiled egg, right? And people would go, "Wow, fucking hell, that's outrageous!" But is it any good? No, because, essentially, it's just a shit on top of a boiled egg.

Apparently Lady Gaga is doing something similar:

Lady Gaga for me is all about that first album, because my daughter and my wife loved it. I've never heard of her since. What does that say? That speaks volumes, to me. She's another one. In fact, she's probably doing a shit on top of a boiled egg right now. And somebody will fucking freeze it and call it art.

to sum up: many people were shitting on boiled eggs in 2013

Rolling 2013 Shitting On Boiled Eggs Bobbins

http://i57.tinypic.com/33upy1i.jpg