Oasis: The Truth

by Tony McCarroll

  He wandered off down the drive. After a moment, he returned and announced, ‘They say it shouldn’t be a problem. They come across this type of problem regularly. I can run it down there for you now, but it’s not going to be returned until Wednesday. I reckon yer need to get the Escalade out, Becks, and get yerself down to OT. Don’t want to miss signing your contract.’

  Beckham looked really sad.

  ‘Sorry, Becks, it’s the best I can do,’ apologised BigUn.

  After Becks had departed, BigUn returned to the car and began to fiddle with the metal frame of the hood. Then he went to the front of the car, pressed one button and hey presto, the roof lowered and clicked into place. With a wicked grin, he hopped out singing the chorus to a Beatles song, subtly altered to: ‘BigUn, you can drive my car.’ ‘I rang the General,’ he laughed. ‘He’s a mechanical genius. I’ll drive my motor and you can jump in the Ferrari.’

  After an afternoon testing the various performance capabilities of the car, we decided to head back towards the pub. It had now completely overflowed into the car park. An assortment of striped T-shirts and Rockports through a haze of marijuana smoke. After filling our usual seats, we sat and had a drink.

  I finished my pint and headed off into the evening. As I left, I noticed that the car park was rammed, the warm night air clouded with smoke. The Ferrari was filled with youths who were posing in it while smoking weed and photographing themselves with their mobile phones – like monkeys who had finally made a breakthrough at the safari park. Hope they don’t burn the upholstery, BigUn.

  I had spoken to a school friend who had become a youth social worker and was interested in opening a recording studio to help local children. I told him to find the building, cost it and let me know the outcome. For the time being, I just wanted the court case over and for my life to move on to the next chapter. It wouldn’t be a long wait.

  My friend Roy was true to his word and after a six-month refurbishment, the recording studio opened its doors to the musical youth of Manchester. I ended up advising and tutoring many bands who passed through that studio. It was all voluntary, it felt good to be back in the music business again and it helped with the musical withdrawal from my life on the road with Oasis. I needed a complete break, though. Somewhere far away. Alone. I decided that after the court case, which was only a few days off, I was gonna get off come what may.

  Finally, we were ready to go. We were due at the High Court to finally put this sorry affair to bed. Or so I thought. No matter what the outcome, I knew I was the loser. My time with the band was over.

  Me, BigUn and my brother Adi arrived in London and booked in at The Savoy. That evening, we received a phone call from Jens telling us they had just agreed a settlement with the Oasis legal team. A wave of relief ran through me. This meant that I wouldn’t be in court for the next two weeks, or meeting the band the next day. I was an extremely relieved man. Still, although it also meant that I would get some financial compensation, even with my near-worthless contract, it still felt wrong. It was never about the money.

  The next day, we stumbled through early morning commuters as we marched along the road towards the court. In the distance, you could see a gathering of what I took to be a large Japanese tourist group. We still had to have a formal court hearing to sign the settlement agreement. That day, the court list read like the back of a Now compilation album. In Court 29 was Robbie Williams, who was having it out with a former manager. Spandau Ballet were just up the corridor and had been appearing regularly there for the last month or so. Me, BigUn and Adi would sit in Court 17, where Bruce Springsteen had just finished.

  As we neared the courts, I realised that the large gathering was in fact not tourists but a herd of media and press. It seems that no one had informed them that neither Liam nor Noel would be present. BigUn sent Adi in first as my decoy, as we have a close resemblance. The cameras and tape recorders immediately bit. They descended on a very welcoming and smiling Adi, who offered to answer any questions they might have. The lights flashed as a volley of questions were fired at him. He actually appeared in the papers that day and was on constant loop on all the 24-hour news channels; he was very impressed with himself. Not too sure his boss felt the same, though, as Adi had rung in sick at work in order to attend. We sneaked behind him and headed into the court.

  The courtrooms were small and could bring fans within feet of their idols without the intervention of burly minders. And unlike rock stadiums, entrance was free. There was a large group of girls, all fans of Liam and Noel, sitting in the court. They stared me down and I laughed at their front. I didn’t want this to be personal. As expected, there was no turnout from the rest of the band. The barristers cracked their wigged heads in one corner, then Jens quickly approached me.

  ‘The band would buy you out of any future royalties and put this to bed,’ he told me. He also said that considering the contract I had signed left me with virtually no entitlements whatsoever, it was in my interest to sign..

  Although it was a good offer, £550,000, it hurt me to agree to it. It broke the previous five years into a financial figure. Black and white. On a page. After legal expenses and a visit from Her Majesty’s tax man it would leave me with enough to buy land in Ireland. Just.

  As we made to exit the court, I saw a large group of photographers some twenty yards back, under control of the police. There was no Robbie Williams that day. No Liam or Noel. No Spandau Ballet. Just little old me in a dodgy-looking suit. As I left the court, I raised my hands aloft in relief that it was finally over. We tore it up for the rest of the day and returned to the hotel.

  BigUn banged on my door at The Savoy early the next morning. That morning, the papers ran the story in their headlines. ‘Is this the Stupidest Man in Pop?’ cried the ‘Bizarre’ page in The Sun. Below was a large photo of my good self leaving court the previous day. Perhaps what the journalists hadn’t realised that, because of the contract I had signed, I had no choice but to accept the settlement offered. I didn’t know why Noel had been upset about my exit from the courtroom; I thought I played it down.

  We were in London to catch a game. Charlton Athletic were playing Sunderland in a Wembley playoff final. I was sitting in the bar beforehand with Adi and Ray Winstone. I had met Ray previously and it was good to catch up.

  ‘Do you get much mither at the games?’ Adi asked him.

  ‘Not really,’ replied Ray. ‘You’ll always get some nugget who will roar, “Where’s your fucking tool?” If I had a penny for every time I’d heard that I’d have over a tenner,’ he said with a laugh.

  BigUn entered the bar and scanned the room. He spotted us. I looked at him as his eyes lit up and knew exactly what was going to come out of that mouth.

  ‘Oi! Where’s your fuckin’ tool?’ Hollered so loud by BigUn that it even made Ray Winstone jump in his skin. Who the fuck had given BigUn drink?

  After a thrilling game, we headed off into the London evening. BigUn had a brainwave. Why don’t we go track Liam down in Primrose Hill? He told the taxi where to go and thrust a fistful of money at him.

  We arrived in Primrose Hill and BigUn was now full tilt. Not a pretty sight. He charged into an old corner boozer, doors flung wide and started to ask, very loudly, where Liam lived. This question was posed to the whole room; everyone had now stopped drinking and they stared apprehensively at the sight before them. Before BigUn could decide where to begin his individual interrogations, he spotted an old Lambretta parked outside a flat opposite the pub.

  ‘Found the fucker. Let’s do it,’ he slurred, his eyes glazed.

  He had to be fuckin’ joking.

  He wasn’t.

  BigUn had deduced that we were in Primrose Hill and the flat had a Lambretta outside, therefore we had discovered Liam. I asked him if there was a Parka coat hung on the gate and a John Lennon statue in the front garden. BigUn looked out the window again and then said ‘Nope. Neither. But I still reckon it’s him.’ With that, he was off out the doo
r.

  Fuck me. I thought he had gone mental.

  ‘Right, let’s go now before he finds some student who’s dressed like Liam,’ said Adi.

  We went outside. BigUn had hopped over the old iron railings guarding the flat he had spotted and had started to bang on the windows like a fuckin’ lunatic.

  ‘C’mon, you little bastard, let’s have yer.’

  I told Adi to just humour the fucker. He was cuckoo. BigUn being cuckoo was not great. In the 12 years I had known him I had seen him drink once and that had been enough. BigUn was one of those people who did not need any artificial stimulants to ride high on life. He had an unquenchable thirst for mullah that led him to front most everything and everyone he crossed paths with. Add to this the build of an All Star American Wrestler and he could come across as quite forceful. He also had the habit of imitating accents while conversing with people. I had tried explaining to the mad cunt that it didn’t work, but he disagreed. His Asian, East European and Irish accents were all highly insulting to Asians, East Europeans and the Irish respectively, and I’d seen many people absolutely bewildered by him when he began mimicking one. But BigUn ploughed on through with a smile. And one thing you were guaranteed with BigUn was an adventure. You just had to keep it at the back of your mind that it could always go tits up at any possible time.

  The day had drawn to a close, though the same could not be said of BigUn’s frustration at not locating a Gallagher. ‘Right, Noel’s gaff can’t be far,’ were the words that started the journey that eventually led to his arrest.

  An unlucky taxi driver braked to a halt. We left the drizzle behind and jumped in, onto a smooth, worn leather seat. ‘Noel Gallagher’s house, please, I believe it’s called Supernova Heights.’ BigUn was now using the voice of the Queen Mother. He called this his ‘posh’ voice and was intended to create the illusion of wealth and education. It didn’t.

  ‘Whose house?’ the taxi driver replied, in a strong Dublin brogue.

  Fuck me, here we go. I knew it made no difference which part of Ireland the driver was from – BigUn did not have a wardrobe to choose from when it came to accents. His Irish attempt would alternate between Ian Paisley or Frank Carson and it was always a full-blood-and-spittle affair.

  ‘Noel Gallagher’s house please, Michael,’ he roared into the grated separator. It was Ian Paisley tonight. I watched as a solitary spittle drop sloped its way slowly down the mesh on the separator and the driver tried frantically to weigh the situation up.

  ‘What the fuck are you calling me Michael for?’ he spluttered, angrily.

  ‘Bejesus, because you’re Irish,’ came the matter-of-fact reply.

  I had already explained to BigUn that his Irish impersonation didn’t offend everyone in Ireland. Just those that heard it. His eyes rolled wildly round his head, which made the taxi driver jolt back like a kid at a horror movie; Boris Karloff had met the Reverend Ian and the resulting vision was now foaming on the back seat of his cab. I watched as BigUn sat and stared at the double-cardigan-clad driver. He had reached a chemical tipping point and was struggling to make the transition from thought to speech, so I decided to take control. ‘Don’t worry about him, mate, he’s not trying to be offensive, he’s on a programme.’

  ‘What? When Mad Feckers Attack?’ the taxi driver muttered.

  ‘No a different kind of programme, kinda mental health thing. Look, if you just take us back to Euston I’ll make sure he keeps quiet. What’s your name, fella?

  ‘Michael,’ came the reply.

  Fuck. ‘There you go. Who’s the dickhead now?’ he said, triumphantly. And then, ‘Fuck going home. I want to see Noel and I ain’t going anywhere until I have. Brezhnev owes me. Not money. An explanation. That’s all I want from the nugget.’

  The taxi driver put his foot to the floor in an attempt to reduce the time he would spend with BigUn. After finding Supernova Heights, BigUn went into overdrive. Fuck this, I thought. Someone is likely to die at this rate. Maybe Noel, if BigUn managed to wrap his huge hands round his neck. Maybe BigUn, if he shovelled any more bugle into himself.

  I stared across the road at Supernova Heights. I had nothing to say to Noel, so with a quick nod to BigUn I said, ‘Do what you gotta do, BigUn. Not my style. We’ll be in the park.’

  Adi and I made our way towards a large park in Hampstead. As we left, I watched as BigUn stood transfixed in front of the house. Then suddenly he leapt the front gate like it was a seventies football turnstile and hopped up the steps fronting the Victorian property. As the tip of his nose touched the paint on the front door he raised his right arm and began to beat on it, not loudly, but surprisingly in time. An upstairs light flashed on and off. Then nothing. I imagined Noel in his underpants at the crack of the upstairs curtain. Probably his worst nightmare had come true. His own personal Begbie had come to pay him a visit. I quickened my step, to the sound of BigUn’s shouts. ‘Hey Robo Dwarf, get your childlike buttocks down here. You’re wanted for crimes against Manchester and your friends and music and hairstyles and yer brothers and…’

  BigUn had developed a whole dictionary of derogatory names for Noel over the last two years. I was sure most of them would be put to use until the police arrived. His shouting faded as we moved further off. Adi walked with his back to the wind, facing towards Supernova Heights. He laughed at the slowly shrinking scene.

  ‘He’s running up and down the steps trying kung-fu kicks on the front door. Now he’s throwing stones and shit.’

  I didn’t even turn round. We needed to get the fuck out of there. I lowered my head, upped the collars of my jacket and with Adi providing a running commentary beside me, headed off. The autumn streets were a carpet of greens and browns as we shuffled along. We melted into the night and the relative safety of the park. The sirens were already singing their way towards us.

  CHAPTER 9

  ARISE SIR NOEL, THE LORD MAYOR OF LONELINESS

  ‘I feel you have the right to know that the level of verbal and violent intimidation towards me, my family, friends and comrades has become intolerable. And the lack of support and understanding from my management and bandmates has left me with no other option than to get me cape and seek pastures new.’

  This was Noel’s official statement on the day Oasis finally called it a day.

  He cites verbal intimidation as a factor in his decision to quit the band. He’s gotta be joking. Noel’s sardonic outbursts have been aimed at those around him for years. Perhaps Noel simply did not like the taste of his own medicine.

  I guess Noel’s life story just shows how you can have it all yet still not have enough. He’s the singer and songwriter in one of the biggest rock groups the world has ever seen. He’s adored by millions. He’s got his Bentley and his mansion. His cleaners and his personal assistants. He has drinks with Elton and Russell ‘Scissorhands’ Brand. He has even built a replica of the five-a-side court we played on all those years ago in his back garden. To me, he still doesn’t seem happy, though. He will probably show you his veneers and tell you he is, but I’m not so sure.

  Over the years, Noel has reshaped the beginnings of Oasis. It started early, with the loss of the videotape of our first gig, and he has carefully handled all public revelations since. To this day he is insistent that he did it all alone; he goes out of his way to make the point. ‘Everyone else was a monkey.’ Not true. He had four friends with him all the way. He had the sound we had created in a basement of a hotel. We had our songs performed by a mesmerising and gifted frontman.

  In Tony and Chris Griffiths, he also had a songwriting team who had a lasting effect on the way he composed his melodies. He had Louise, who gained us a national television and radio audience at a critical stage. He even had BigUn, who gave us work when work was scarce.

  ‘I arrived at the first rehearsal wearing a badge that read “the Chief” with a bagful of songs I had already written.’ He was welcomed quietly as a friend. The ‘Chief’ days did not arrive until the record contract wa
s signed and he had the power to match his ego. His bag only contained three good songs when we arrived at that studio in Bootle. The rest came from a combination of Noel, rehearsals and the Realies. McGee thought that Noel had 50 songs written by the time he was 20. Noel had written none of the original Definitely Maybe compositions until after we had formed.

  Then there’s his claim that he and Liam often fought with each other. I lived, worked and played with them for over a decade. I never once saw them come to physical blows. Not once.

  And his claim that we used to burgle houses? Bollocks. As in any circle of friends, there would be a dodgy character or two around us. But never did any of the band commit burglary. It’s a working-class crime. You paid heavily.

  The Beatles were our greatest influence? Not true. This Beatle connection first came from the work with the Realies. They had always been compared to The Beatles stylistically. After we played at King Tut’s, Alan McGee spotted the musical similarity that we now had with the Fab Four. After openly declaring us to be the next Beatles, it was ‘decided’ that they would be our musical influence.

  How about the line that we signed to Creation Records because we liked what they stood for? In fact, we never signed to Creation at all. We just said we did because it sounded much cooler than us signing with Sony.

  ‘After Tony McCarroll left those songs haven’t sounded quite the same. Tony had his own thing – anti-drumming if you like – and I don’t think Definitely Maybe would have sounded so good without him. He was the right man for the job.’