The Interior Life of Noel Gallagher: A Speculative History

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