The Interior Life of Noel Gallagher: A Speculative History

"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.

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