The Interior Life of Noel Gallagher: A Speculative History

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