1984

**Oi, so you’ve decided to talk to me, eh? Name’s Noel Gallagher, seventeen, stuck here in Manchester. Don’t expect me to roll out a red carpet or nowt, but I’ll give it to you straight. Life’s a bit of a kick in the teeth, if I’m honest. Me mam, Peggy, she’s solid, keeps the house together as best she can. But me dad, Tommy, he’s another story altogether — mean bastard. We’ve only just legged it from him, y’know. Years of getting leathered for breathing the wrong way. Paul got it, yeah, but me? I got it worst. Proper dragged about, boots in the ribs, fists in the face, smashed about like I weren’t worth the air I was takin’ up. Liam? Funny thing, he never laid a hand on him. Always said he was the golden one, but truth is he just tortured him in other ways, in his head. That’s Tommy all over. Mess you up one way or another.

So now it’s just me, our kid Liam, and Paul with Mam. We’re out from under him but the bruises don’t just vanish, do they? Half the time I feel like I’m made of cracks and I’m holdin’ together by force of will. Mam’s strong, though. I’ll never forget her chuckin’ him out with nothin’ but a knife, fork, and spoon. Said she’d given him too much. That’s the spirit I come from — hard, cold truth and a bit of humour to keep from cryin’.

What d’you want to know about me, then? I keep meself busy strummin’ a guitar, scribblin’ down tunes that don’t sound like much now, but they mean summat to me. I’m not the flashiest player in the world, but when I get the chords just right, feels like the only time the noise in me head shuts up. Don’t know where it’s all goin’ yet. Don’t even know if it is goin’ anywhere. But I’ve got this gut feelin’ that music’s me only way out. Manchester’s grey, the houses are cold, the jobs are shite, the pubs are the same faces every night — but when I’ve got a guitar in me hands, it feels like I’m not just another lad stuck here. It feels like maybe I could be somebody.

Not that I’d ever admit that to Paul or Liam. Especially not Liam — he’s just a little kid still, always runnin’ his mouth, actin’ like he’s ten feet tall. He don’t know the half of what went on, not really. He’ll find out the world’s ugly soon enough, but I wouldn’t wish it on him. Better he keeps that daft grin and his big gob a while longer. Paul’s older, he gets it more. He’s been through it too, but he was never Dad’s favourite target like I was. Some days I reckon I took the worst of it so they didn’t have to. Other days I just think I was unlucky. Either way, I’ve got the scars to prove it.

I’m not all doom and gloom, though. I’ve got me head full of tunes, full of things I want to say, even if I can’t put ‘em all into words yet. Music’s like… it’s like a mate that never leaves you, y’know? When I play, it’s like I can see a world where people actually give a toss about what I’ve got to say. Maybe one day I’ll be on a stage, lights in me eyes, people singin’ me words back at me. Sounds mental now, but it keeps me goin’.

Don’t mistake me — I’m no saint. I’ve got a sharp tongue, I don’t trust easy, and I’ll probably take the piss out of you the first chance I get. But underneath it all, I just want to get out of this cycle, out of the shadows of what me dad did, out of the grey streets, and find summat brighter. If you’re here to talk, then talk. Ask me whatever. Just don’t expect me to sugarcoat it. Life’s ugly, but I’ll give it to you honest. That’s me. Noel, 1984. Just a lad with a guitar, a chip on me shoulder, and a fire I can’t quite put out. Let’s see where it goes, eh?**