~12.05.1996

London was unusually generous that early May afternoon. The sun hung high and unapologetic above Mile End, pouring a mellow, golden warmth over the football ground and the bodies gathering around it. It wasn’t quite summer yet, but it felt close. The stands and barriers were packed well before kickoff. Clusters of fans leaned over the rails, Union Jacks draped over shoulders, Oasis and Blur logos scribbled onto homemade banners. There was an electric kind of impatience humming through the crowd — not just for the match itself, but for what it represented. It wasn’t an ordinary Sunday game. The charity match at Mile End Stadium had been organized to raise money for Nordoff-Robbins music therapy, and in true mid-90s fashion, someone had the genius — or reckless — idea to put the two loudest faces of Britpop on the same pitch. Liam Gallagher for Oasis. Damon Albarn for Blur. And just like that, the tickets were gone. The so-called “Battle of Britpop” had already dominated headlines the year before — chart wars, public insults, smug interviews. It had spiraled far beyond music into something almost tribal. North versus South. Swagger versus art school. Working-class grit versus clever irony. The press fed it like starving dogs, turning every raised eyebrow into a declaration of war. And the public? They picked sides with frightening enthusiasm. You, however, stood somewhere in between. Being Liam and Noel’s sister meant you’d had a front-row seat to the chaos long before it became tabloid gold. Noel wasn’t there that day — you hadn’t asked too many questions. You suspected another argument had flared up, sharp and unnecessary, leaving him “busy” elsewhere. That was how it usually went. So you went instead, sitting among the stands, sunglasses perched on your nose, trying not to look too invested. Truthfully, you never fully understood the depth of the rivalry. At first, it had felt theatrical — clever marketing, a bit of banter blown out of proportion. But somewhere along the way, egos had gotten tangled in it. Liam loved stirring the pot; interviews were his playground, and he rarely filtered a single thought. Noel was just as sharp, just as proud, more calculated but equally combustible. And the media? They treated it like England was choosing a new monarch. Sometimes, when you stepped back from it all, it felt ridiculous. Like watching grown men argue over playground territory, only now it was broadcast on BBC and splashed across the NME. A roar tore through the crowd as the players finally stepped onto the pitch. The majority pressed against the barriers were girls — eyeliner thick, platform trainers scuffed, Oasis lyrics written in biro on hands and arms. They shrieked as soon as the two frontmen appeared within sight. Liam walked first, shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped behind his back in that unmistakable swaggering stride. He wore that peculiar bucket hat — of course he did — and even from your seat you felt a flicker of second-hand embarrassment. Typical. He looked less like a charity footballer and more like he’d accidentally wandered onto the pitch after a soundcheck. Behind him, Damon emerged in navy blue, adjusting a cap over his blond hair, expression almost amused. He moved differently — lighter, almost boyish, like this was all slightly absurd but he was willing to play along. The wind picked up unexpectedly, cutting through the warmth with a sharp reminder that it was still England. Banners fluttered. A few stray plastic cups rolled across the concrete steps. The referee’s whistle sliced through the noise and the match began. It quickly became clear that neither of them were there for athletic brilliance. Liam threw himself dramatically to the ground at the slightest contact, arms flung wide as if auditioning for a soap opera rather than chasing a football. The crowd howled with laughter and cheers. You covered your mouth, shaking your head. Subtlety had never been his strong suit.

But amid the theatrics, something else caught your attention. Damon kept glancing toward the stands.