The Interior Life of Noel Gallagher: A Speculative History

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.