We all headed out of the park, intent on making it home. Through stealth and caution, we very nearly made it. Three of us had split from the main group and were using the back entries of Levenshulme as a safe route home. Suddenly we stopped as dark figure appeared at the bottom of the alley we were in. We turned to go back on ourselves, only to find somebody else moving down the entry from behind us. Decision time. I sized up the guy in front, who looked smaller than the guy behind, and decided to make a run for it. Upon nearing the end of the entry I was surprised to see my would-be capturer was a lad I knew, called Noel. I knew him as Paul Gallagher’s younger brother. I knew Paul Gallagher as Tommy and Peggy Gallagher’s son. So I knew that he came from a strong Irish background. One of the two friends with me also recognised Noel. ‘What the fuck are you doing trying to catch us? You’re as Irish as the rest of us, you nugget,’ he said.
‘I’m English. I was fucking born here,’ replied Noel.
‘Yeah and you’re gonna die here as well if you don’t fuckin’ move.’
Noel was a few years older than us, but my friend had been attending the same boxing gym as me and was becoming known locally for his ability to fight. As Noel slowly recognised him in the gloom of the entry, there was a visible change in his stature. Sure enough, he shuffled to one side and we burst past. I remember Noel whispering, ‘Don’t let them catch you’ as we did. I thought it strange that somebody from the same background as myself would be in such a gang, but nevertheless he had helped us to escape – even though he had also had a hand in making it necessary in the first place.
Fast forward to 2008, and a very different Noel spoke to the Irish times:
I feel as Irish as the next person. The first music I was ever exposed to was the rebel songs the bands used to sing in the Irish club in Manchester. Do you know, I think that’s where Oasis songs get their punch-the-air quality – from me being exposed to those rousing rebel songs. It was all rebel songs and that god-awful Irish country and western music. I grew up an Irish Catholic. I remember my mum would only buy Irish butter and milk. But then, during the 1970s with all the bombings, our local co-op wouldn’t stock Irish produce, so my mum went elsewhere. I clearly remember my parents coming back from the Carousel Club in Manchester, the Irish club, and telling me about how all the cars in the car park had been vandalised by an anti-Irish crowd. It was scary.
During the following weeks, we slowly integrated ourselves into Errwood Park, through a combination of football and Merrydown cider. Even the rest of the gang that had originally run us from the park seemed to have forgotten that evening and suddenly new friendships were born. Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights would never be the same again. The football games were fast and furious and sometimes downright hostile. Paul and Noel Gallagher were an ever present. As my dad was a friend of their dad, it was natural that we also became friends. Paul was the confident, cocky one, with Noel standing somewhat in his shadow. I liked Paul: he had a sense of loyalty about him, and you could trust him. He also had a quick wit and would fire sarcastic one-liners around that kept us all entertained. Noel was more withdrawn, but still a likeable fella. He always looked well dressed and obviously spent more time on his appearance than Paul – which, to be fair, wasn’t difficult. We would play football, drink, smoke, manhandle young women, fight and then play some more football. After some while, though, it became apparent that Noel was starting to spend time up the trees that hid the railway track. A strange place to sniff glue, I thought: surely there was a danger of falling out of the tree? Over the next three months, I would watch them all as slowly they all fell out of the trees, one by one. It could be a dangerous spot for dog walkers…
‘Bostik, Bostik, over here,’ came the shout from his teammates.
Noel giggled across the bowling green, with the football at his feet. He could only move sideways, it seemed, and it wasn’t long before he reached the bowling ditch and found himself in a crumpled, giggling heap.
Although he was quiet, you always felt there was more to him if you could scratch at the surface, but more often than not he simply wore that vacant look that a glue-sniffer develops. On the occasions when he wasn’t, I would discover that Noel’s upbringing wasn’t that far removed from mine, from six weeks a year in Ireland to the copy of ‘Four Green Fields’ on the record deck. I looked back at our first meeting, and thought he was a confused fella.
One evening, Paul Gallagher brought his younger brother to the park. Actually, I’ll re-phrase that. Paul’s younger brother accompanied him to the park. Immediately, it became apparent that the kid had more front than both his older brothers combined. When Paul tried to introduce him to the group, he was told to fuck off by his youngest sibling. After doing so, the young kid went round each person present and introduced himself. ‘My name is Liam. My name is Liam. My name is Liam.’
He stood weighing the group up as a whole; already taller than both his brothers, his head was freshly skinned and he wore a long raincoat. He had a huge cow’s lick on his hairline and a quick reply for everyone. Liam was already making an individual statement. I laughed to myself. I’d never met a kid with so much attitude in all my life. He stood in front of a group of 20 kids, all older than him, most with violent reputations and yet not a flinch. In later years, people would accuse Liam of being a celebrity ‘act’. Surely nobody can be that destructive and belligerent? It must be just an act for the cameras. Well, I first met Liam when he was 13 years old. The boy I met that day was as loud and as brash as Liam the man today. His whole ethos is: what you see is what you get. Even people who dislike him must recognise the honesty in that.
Liam started to frequent the park intermittently. I wouldn’t say he was part of the group, as he was too young, but he would turn up from time to time and play football. He was always loud and opinionated, but then again you had to be just to get heard. I liked Liam for his confidence and also the ability to get on with everyone. He made a point of talking to some of the more quiet and unobtrusive members of the group. I remember a football match during which a young, aggressive Liam came off second best to a larger, stronger lad named Chris Hutton (‘Huts’, for short). Liam reacted furiously to the challenge and showed that he had a fiery temper to match his personality. People ushered Huts and Liam away from each other, which I’m sure was to Liam‘s benefit as Huts really could handle himself. This altercation would be repeated on the same pitch but in different circumstances a few years later.
A particularly hard winter had left the stalwarts heating themselves by means of alcohol in Errwood Park, while the majority of us decided to warm ourselves by kicking a ball about. We left Errwood Park and made our way back to Greenbank playing fields, where Guigs and me had met. The council had just built a red-brick five-a-side court there, complete with floodlights. The floor was red tarmac and offered a slightly more comfortable landing than solid concrete. The lights were on a timer, but with a bit of ingenious tampering one smart-arse had overridden the controls and we now had the power to turn the light on and off ourselves. Most nights we would switch off towards midnight, which would be followed by shouts such as ‘Have you put the cat out?’ in the darkness. This move away from Errwood Park served Noel well, as he moved away from those who were encouraging him to sniff glue and fall out of trees. In turn, this helped him to come out of his shell more, and he developed into a likeable friend. He would shuffle along the red five-a-side tarmac, heavily weighed down by his knee-length mohair cardigan; he had an eye for a good pass and would work as hard as anyone. Noel was one of the oldest kids in the gang and was known for his verbal putdowns. For that reason, I suppose you’d be careful if you ever thought of taking a pop at him, even if in good spirit. Noel always had a sarcastic turn of phrase at hand, the humorous venom. He would put it to use very successfully later in his life.
The year was 1984 and the prospects for the older lads in the group were not great. Thatcher had tightened her grip on the country, and it was particularly hard felt in
the North of England. Most kids I knew, including Noel, had taken to working at Benjey’s, which was a government-funded workshop in St Peter’s Church, Levenshulme. It was a furniture makers, and local lads would expect to perform the minimum amount of work possible, just so as to match the minimal amount of money they would be paid. Most of them could not pass the amusement arcade nearby without parting with their money. Paul Gallagher was on the roads, while Guigs was stacking shelves at the local supermarket. Others simply worked the city centre, stealing from stores or targeting businessmen. There seemed to be a real sense of indifference towards the authorities at that time. No one was really concerned, even if they did get caught. In those days, although if the prison system was a lot harsher than it is now, life on the out was also much more difficult. Thatcher had created a rebellious underclass. I’ve always believed that this detachment was what drove Oasis as a group in the early days and these streets were where that detachment was born.
Manchester had been hit hard over the previous decade and riots and unrest were commonplace. I suppose 1984 was important to me for another reason, though. This was when I first heard The Smiths. Until then, I guess I had always considered that the music I listened to belonged to another generation. Another time. Suddenly there was a band that not only hailed from Manchester but said something to me about my life. The first album I ever purchased was the Smiths compilation Hatful of Hollow. I hunted it down in a shop on Oldham Road. Sixteen songs for a fiver. Bargain. It sat revolving on the turntable in my mum’s front room for months. It also joined the growing list of credible bands we listened to in Guigs’s bedroom. Bob Marley and New Order had company. The Smiths sang about trivial and mundane things in a unique style somehow made northern and acceptable.
When Noel discovered my fondness for The Smiths, he lambasted me. ‘The fucking Smiths, you faggot. What’s wrong with you?’ It seemed that although Noel had a passing admiration for the lead guitarist, the lead singer was not to his liking. I guess Morrissey’s irreverent and humorous songwriting was a bit too ‘gay’ or ‘student’ for him. Years later, Noel would cite The Smiths as one of his first musical influences. I certainly don’t remember him showing such reverence at the time.
CHAPTER 2
CONTEMPT BREEDS
FAMILIARITY: A MANCUNIAN CONCEPT
We don’t deny the fact that we take drugs such as cocaine, marijuana and ecstasy. We’ve been doing drugs since we were 14. In Manchester there are only three things you can do when you leave school – play soccer, work in a factory or sell drugs.
NOEL GALLAGHER
Noel’s career advice may sound like simply a useful sound bite for the Oasis cause, but it was not that far removed from the truth. We decided a life of crime was the only way for us to pull ourselves away from the violent streets. In an attempt to find a bit of peace, we formed a hooligan gang. (I know.) As a tribute to The Smiths, we named ourselves the Sweet and Tender Hooligans. (Like I said, I know.) Each member wore a green survival jacket with attached hood. This hood had goggles stitched into it, and we would hide behind these when in action. The coats were purchased from the army and navy store on Oldham Road and must have been made in the early days of the Cold War. There were four of us in the gang: Guigs, Me, Crokey and Fantastic. Noel had told us we were off our tits and refused to have anything to do with it. Maybe it was the Smiths connection he didn’t agree with.
Our first criminal enterprise was financial extortion. This dangerous-sounding idea was borne from watching Once Upon a Time in America on pirate VHS loop in Guigs’s house. We first targeted a television shop on Barlow Road – the road that Guigs lived on. The shop was even visible from the house itself. First unwise decision. What’s more, the shop was run by a bunch of Italians, who never seemed to spend time fixing televisions. They seemed to sit around and drink coffee and meet the different people who visited each day. You’d think that after we’d seen that video, this might have rung a few alarm bells. Oh no. So there came the second unwise decision.
One afternoon, Crokey was pushed through the shop door and mumbled some sort of demand in the dark and gloomy shop. When the large Italian lady standing tall behind the counter asked him to repeat himself, he turned on his heels and simply left. We all hurriedly returned to Guigs’s house and asked Crokey what he had said. He told us he had got nervous and lost the plot, so he’d used a line from Once Upon a Time in America. The only one he could remember. What was the line, we asked, expectantly? ‘Erm… “So what are you? You’re filthy! You make me sick! You crawl up toilet walls just like a roach! So what are you?” ’
‘That’s all you said? Just those words?’ I asked him. He nodded. The quote he had used in the shop was uttered by a young girl in the film and was aimed at a peeping tom she had caught. I spent a moment trying to see the relevance and then realised there wasn’t one; I shook my head in disbelief at Crokey and reckoned the old Italian lady probably had him down as a local lunatic. I was wrong.
Later that evening, we were sat in Guigs’s house when there was a sharp rap on the full-length, glass-frosted front door. We poked our heads out to see the hallway darkened by a huge, lumbering figure hovering at the door. ‘You get it,’ Guigs whispered.
‘Fuck that, you get it,’ came the general reply.
We had a silent whisper argument for 30 seconds, until Guigs cracked and trembled up the hallway. It was his house, so he was in a difficult position. As he opened the door, we all listened.
‘You come in the shop again we will come back with shotguns and give you some ventilation, capiche my little pig-like friend?’ Said in the thickest Italian accent I had ever heard.
I was dying to crack up laughing, as it had to be a piss-take, so I poked my head carefully round the door. It was no piss-take. Standing there was the most terrifying-looking man I had ever set eyes on, a man made for nightmares. His face looked like it had seen the wrong end of a couple of hundred brawls and his dark suit was bursting with the 200lb of pumped muscle it contained. He emanated evil and pain and possible torture. Well, I might be being a bit dramatic there. It was more a crack with a baseball bat and a severe warning.
Guigs whimpered, ‘Sorry, sir.’ At that point, the Italian simply growled back and thrust his head forward, as if to attack. Guigs immediately hit the hallway floor and took up a hedgehog-like defensive position. This went unnoticed by the Italian as, after growling, he had swiftly turned on his heel and marched down the garden path, slamming the gate behind him. We slowly coaxed Guigs from the hallway with a saucer of warm milk. The lesson we learned here was: never try to enforce a protection racket charge upon a large Italian organisation that obviously had fingers even in little old Levenshulme. I guess the life of a racketeer was not to be an option, so it was back to being the butcher boy.
Over the next year or so, I continued to work at the butchers and saved enough to eventually get myself that new kit. I also finished my secondary school education at St Albans High School in Gorton and was now able to make a small boat out of balsa wood as well as a pretty good apple crumble. So, armed with those two amazing talents, I was released into the adult world.
The five-a-side court had literally started to crumble around us and people had begun to move on. The only activity that still united the group was the fortnightly away trip with Manchester City and, for those that could afford it, a night out in the boozer at the weekend. We normally drank in the Irish boozers in Levenshulme, but would sometimes travel further afield. The Horseshoe, The Midway, The Church and The little Vic were the designated watering holes; if we were feeling adventurous, we’d head upmarket to Stockport or Didsbury.
One Saturday evening, we made our way to a club called Shakers in Stockport. When we arrived there was a large queue, but we found ourselves being shouted to the front. Standing at the front was a beaming doorman. It was the Policeman. He had been taught how to fight by the six brothers, which inevitably led him into the murky world of door security. There he stood, hand out re
ady to shake, looking extremely professional in his monkey suit and crew cut. We had trained together over the previous four years or so and had developed a strange relationship. The Policeman had proved to be quite an adept boxer and had, not surprisingly, taken to the ring. His only problem was that when he fought he could turn into a wild man, which made him difficult for the six brothers to manage.
An example. I was sitting in a dressing room as four hundred or so boxing spectators were baying for blood outside. It was Levenshulme ABC’s own show, so I was tasked with keeping an eye on the changing room and its contents. Easy work, I thought. If a thief were picking out a target, surely a boxer’s dressing room wouldn’t be that high up on the list? There was a right commotion going on outside. I peeked out of the door. The crowd was angry and was ferociously hurling obscenities toward the ring. The spotlights illuminated the wispy layers of smoke that hung over them. A loud, long booing rang around the old hall. Suddenly, the Policeman appeared, on his way back to the dressing room. He was sweating and scuffed, his face still reddened from the fight. ‘Right, fuck this,’ he snarled.
Oasis: The Truth Page 3