The Interior Life of Noel Gallagher: A Speculative History

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 :)