The Interior Life of Noel Gallagher: A Speculative History

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!

it's almost eerie

Still got it.

Had this been around earlier, a screencap of this would definitely have been the pre-cover album cover.

this is a real thing, apparently?

https://exclaim.ca/images/oasis_6.jpg

in

In?

huh?

this concludes the three-post summary of the thread

noel, liam, paul

I didn't know that Lena Dunham in 2018 had done that.

I've been listening to The Jam's LP ALL MOD CONS and remembering how in about 1999 (?), Oasis covered two of the songs on a TV programme. Especially grating was the memory of Noel G playing 'to be someone': here perhaps in a different performance:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YZEpx_A-H7s

I know that NG has some pop talent, some virtues. But I have been reminded of his horrible gurning face and his smug sense of this song - there is something about his relation to other people's music that is bad for it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jF9YrCJVakQ

Official version!

Maybe the problem is just - his voice is bad.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tZubxdFFF3M&ab_channel=PodcastDevotee

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tZubxdFFF3M

Just seen Noel Gallagher say he was listening to a Man City game on the radio when it was interrupted to say Lennon had been shot in December 1980.
City played on the 6th and 13th December.
Lennon was shot on the 8th.#laterjools @BBCLater

— Ted 🔴⚪⚫ (@Nojwanderer) May 14, 2021

The incredible divorced dad energy emitting from this image made me long to revisit this thread again. Imagine the free time Noel will have now to explore the complexities of his inner life, all the amazing thoughts he's going to have.

https://i.imgur.com/1pJDvit.png

Probably should've saved it for the Cursed Images thread

https://preview.redd.it/0r7l3haq4a751.jpg?auto=webp&s=6c402ea8602904aada3576a36bf814bea57d2ba5

p**k

irl lol

Would've expected the margarita thing in the other direction. The pizzas more of a thing than the drink in the UK?

also had a good lol at both brother updates. top shelf.

This is such bullshit and it’s the same bullshit he’s been talking for ages. The music industry doesn’t give a shit if you’re on drugs and make it money. The music industry will *give* you those drugs. Harry Styles is a good pop star. Noel is increasingly boring. pic.twitter.com/95015t56ER

— Mic Wright (@brokenbottleboy) May 24, 2023