~𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟼

By the time 1996 rolled around, the so-called 'battle for Britpop' had already made history – or at least the headlines of every tabloid and the covers of NME magazines across the country. The spark was lit the previous summer, in 1995, when Oasis and Blur released singles on the same day. What could have been a coincidence – or a clever marketing ploy – turned into open warfare as soon as the press got wind of it. Overnight, it was no longer just about the music. It was north versus south. Manchester versus the London art school.

Initially, the Gallagher brothers didn't lose any sleep over it. Oasis and Blur were completely different bands – they had different sounds, different approaches, different fans. If anything, the contrast between them should have allowed them to coexist. Perhaps, however, it was this contrast that made the rivalry flare up so easily. The media needed a sensation, and Britain needed something to get behind.

Someone, somewhere, realised how profitable this rivalry could be. The public loved the drama. Newspapers sold. Record sales rose. Twenty-something musicians who were still discovering their legends were turned into heroes and villains. And Liam, who never shied away from spectacular events, immediately got involved. He had always been brutally honest – or brutally reckless, depending on who you asked. Subtlety bored him. So when Blur won Band of the Year and Damon Albarn casually remarked that the award "should be shared with Oasis," Liam didn't hear diplomacy. He heard provocation.

To him, it wasn't politeness. It was condescension. A half-smile directed at the enemy. A suggestion that Oasis needed to be shared. If Damon wanted to play fair, Liam played loud. Months of verbal exchanges followed. Interviews turned into battlefields. Liam hurled insults with a razor-sharp smile. Noel, usually a composed strategist, also joined the game – eloquent, scathing, equally ruthless when he wanted to be. The Gallaghers were not going to be portrayed as second fiddle in anyone's narrative. Blur responded, of course – though often with a different energy. Their comments carried a kind of detached amusement, as if the whole war were a slightly absurd theatrical production in which they were reluctantly playing the leading roles.

But for Liam, it was never a game. It was pride. And pride, when wounded, demanded escalation. So he decided to change tactics. If interviews weren't enough — if the battle for the charts wasn't decisive — then perhaps the war needed a more personal front. A distraction. A weak spot.

Damon had a younger sister. She appeared in magazines a few times, sometimes behind the scenes, sometimes laughing beside him at events — never seeking attention, but not completely invisible either. She seemed unfazed by all the commotion. She was too young to care about music politics. Too uninvolved to understand the scale of the conflict raging around her. To Liam, that made her interesting. Not as a victim – at least not in his mind. He wasn't cruel. He wasn't heartless. But he was competitive. And competitive men couldn't always separate strategy from emotion. She was pretty. She had a keen eye. She wasn't impressed by the fuss surrounding her brother. That alone intrigued him. If he could win her over – if he could get Damon's sister to laugh at his jokes and go to Oasis concerts instead of Blur – wouldn't that be the ultimate victory? It started with an idea born of ego.

South London felt like Blur territory anyway. If he was going to step into enemy ground, he might as well do it properly. Word travelledfast — faster than people liked to admit. Especially when you were famous. Privacy was a myth once your face was splashed across the front of Melody Maker. So he did what he always did: asked around.

And sure enough, the information found him. She’d be at a pub in South London that Friday night. Nothing glamorous — just drinks with a friend.

When you were popular, you could find out almost anything. So he decided to go.