Читать книгу Oasis - Tony McCarroll - Страница 7

I was born at seven o’clock, on a typically grey Mancunian morning, in the summer of 1971 at St Mary’s Hospital, Hathersage Road, Victoria Park, in Manchester. My parents are Tony and Bridie McCarroll – Irish immigrants and dream-makers both. I was their first child, and as my dad held me aloft on the ward he was already making plans for my musical upbringing. Whether to pass times on long cold nights across the water or to commemorate a fallen hero or freedom fighter, the Irish have always held musicianship in high regard. Guitars, accordions, keyboards, whistles and drums were like toys in our house. Combined with a record turntable constantly on the go, it made for a great place (and time) to grow up.

I was the first of three boys. All three of us would become addicted to playing and enjoying music. We lived in a traditional red-bricked two-up two-down on Wetherall Street, Levenshulme, 3 miles south of the centre of Manchester. The city had become a second home for many Irish since its rise as an industrial power. My dad ran a construction business, which left my mother to chase us around the house. I had a very loving and happy upbringing – though if we stepped out of line, there would be the whoosh of the brush to dodge. I guess it’s easy to look back on bygone days in a misty, wistful kind of way, which can be misleading, but I can honestly say I enjoyed every challenge or dare that came my way. I was that type of kid.

My first challenge in life came early on, when I was only five years old. An old wooden World War II demob hut still stood on Chapel Street in Levenshulme. The building had been turned into a dole office first, then a nursery. I was busy minding my own business at this nursery one day when I was plucked up and sat in front of a television camera. The cameras had arrived, along with a group of oddly dressed strangers who didn’t dress and talk the way my mum and dad did. They laid in front of me an array of toys and games and a very nice young lady told me I could play with whatever I wanted. I immediately grabbed a pair of wooden drumsticks that lay on one side and began to hammer away on anything within striking distance. The film later appeared on a flagship BBC children’s programme called Playschool: when the camera shot through ‘the square window’, I was revealed clutching that pair of drumsticks, banging away. A spark had been lit.

The sun beat down on the street outside my house, transforming the tarmac to a warm, pliable liquorice. It was the summer of 1976 – famously, a scorcher. I was using the melted tarmac as paint to daub my name on the baking pavement when I first heard the noise. Boom-boom-thud. Boom-boom-thud. Boom-boom-thud. The noise came from a very large drum strapped to a teenage member of the Boys’ Brigade who was ferociously beating out his rhythm despite the blistering conditions. Behind him came the rest of the boys, marching in time while completing rolls on the snares. I was amazed. A Boys’ Brigade band, kitted out and in full uniform, and marching down those tight Mancunian terraced streets on such a hot day – did they actually want them to faint, or what? The sight of that large bass drummer had left me captivated, though. Each blow delivered to his skins directed and drove the other musicians wherever he wanted to lead them. Like the Pied Piper, he would speed up the tempo when they were marching through some of the area’s more dangerous spots, then slow down if the route was lined by the more senior citizens of the community, who would wave and reminisce around the days when the British Empire still meant something. I ran behind the drummer and shot questions at him: ‘How can I play the drums? Who taught you to play? Will you teach me?’

Now, I understand that the combination of the pressure of leading the band and trying to stay hydrated – not to mention staying conscious, and keeping in time – can lead a person to become somewhat short tempered. But still I don’t believe it justifies cracking a six-year-old kid in the face with a fucking drumstick! It stung, but funnily the main thing I remember now was that he never lost the beat; he simply slipped the assault into a break in the music.

Despite this potentially off-putting attack, I was totally transfixed. The love affair had begun. I immediately raced home to tell my mother and father that I had abandoned my ambition to become the Six Million Dollar Man and instead was intent on forging a career as a drummer. I reminded them of my first TV appearance, as if it had been destiny. They smiled, as they always did when I came up with one of my grand schemes, but after a few days they sat me down and counted out the jam jar money that sat on a shelf in the kitchen. With just enough to cover the deposit, we made our way towards Manchester city centre, where I was to choose my first set of drums. Although this gift meant nothing at that time to an excited six-year-old, it was a sacrifice for my mother and father: after all, they were giving up any ‘spare’ cash they might have set aside.

Peggy, an Irish friend of my mother’s, stopped us as we made our way to the bus stop. After being told the details of our impending journey she seemed very happy for us to take her son’s old drum kit. (I’m not so sure her son was as happy.) The joy on my father’s face seemed to light up the whole street. In those days, the Irish community in Manchester was a very strong one and the offer was gratefully received.

Such generous moments notwithstanding, times were extremely hard back then. Levenshulme was a very poor working-class suburb of Manchester. The Irish had descended upon it in their droves during the fifties and sixties, to the extent that it had acquired the name ‘County Levenshulme’. By the seventies, as in most deprived areas, crime was rife; you learned fast to take care of yourself. I was no exception. I guess the drum kit was my parents’ way of trying to keep me away from the violence and crime – and to be honest, at first it worked. The drums became an obsession for me and I played morning, noon and night. This led to the inevitable complaints from the rest of the street and eventually to the police visiting and enforcing a curfew: no drums after 7pm or I’d be lifted. So: during the day, I would attend St Mary’s primary school on Clare Road, across from Errwood Park, where I spent more time running drum patterns through my head than learning maths or English. Each evening, I would sweat until the appointed hour, banging away on my kit like a little man possessed. Afterwards, as instructed by the police, I would stop hitting those skins and see just how much trouble my friends and me could manage to find. I guess that was proactive seventies policing for you.

My musical Mancunian life was brought to an abrupt halt in 1979, when I was told that I would be moving to Ireland. No arguments. No negotiations. My dad had landed a contract there. At first I simply refused. I could not understand why I could not stay in Manchester and take care of myself and the cat. I had a really strong set of friends there, and the thought of leaving filled me with dread. After nearly 10 years in my rainy northern city, I found myself suddenly transported to a remote corner of County Offaly. It was as far removed from the tarmac streets of terraced Manchester as I could get. For the next two years I would spend most weekends beating out the pheasants for visiting American tourists, or ploughing fields and delivering livestock. One constant throughout, however, was the music. I loved the fact that music can translate all languages and connect all cultures. Every evening people would gather around the peat fire in the cottage where we lived, with an assortment of instruments. My brothers would sit with their guitars while I would sneak off to a caravan at the end of the garden, where my old drum kit from Manchester sat waiting. I would listen to the distant sounds and shiver. The cold soon left, though, after I started to drum along. I taught myself to play songs by lots of different artists, The Beatles and Johnny Cash to name but two.

The village was situated at the bottom of the Slieve Bloom Mountains, the oldest mountains in Europe. They were covered by caves and log cabins and their slopes were lush in a carpet of beech trees that reached towards the sky. Naturally enough, they became our playground; it was paradise for an adventurous young boy and his two brothers. The sort of place, in fact, that Roald Dahl is probably much better qualified to write about. From trying to catch rabbits with pepper and rocks to shooting foxes at midnight with my Uncle Patsy, it was all one crazy adventure – and I loved every minute of it. The only thing that brought me down to earth was the fact that I had to attend the local school. We were taught only in Gaelic, and the Mancunian twang of my previous classroom was soon gone. I struggled with my own version of the language, as it didn’t exactly sit well with my accent, but I had enough to get by.

For two years this was my home and I loved it; I had almost forgotten Manchester. Then, one evening, my mother and father announced that his contract had ended and we were to return to the city. I still remember the dread that filled my stomach at this announcement. Funnily enough, the last time I’d had such a feeling was when I left Manchester, and this took a bit of the sting out when it came to saying goodbye. I had grown to love the village and the simple way of life that it offered. But we live our lives in the city. There ain’t no easy way out. I made myself a promise, though, that one day I would return to this place for good.

By the summer of 1981, I was back in Levenshulme. We moved into a new house on Lonsdale Road, just up the road from where we used to live. My timing was impeccable: the first night of our return saw the beginning of the Moss Side riots. The riots were Manchester’s turn in a Mexican wave of violence that had the people standing up, arms raised, in Brixton, Liverpool and various other parts of the country. As an act of support, Levenshulme decided to have not so much a riot as a profitable tantrum. My mum and dad had decided that such an event probably wasn’t the place for me, so I was confined to my bedroom. I watched enviously from my window as my friends made their way down the street armed with hammers, bricks and pieces of wood. The solitude and tranquility of the Irish midlands had been well and truly banished. In the distance, over the terraced houses, I could see a faint orange glow emitting from Stockport Road, where the people did not need much encouragement to start fires and cause general unrest. I waited by the window for the rest of that evening until, a few hours later, I saw my friends returning, with shopping trolleys full of goods removed from now windowless shops. They waved at me as I watched, their faces lit with the intoxicating activities of the evening. I’ve always thought that those riots heralded a change of culture in Manchester. Afterwards, everything seemed to become that little bit more dangerous. Reports of knife and gun attacks in the city began to appear in the evening papers and gang names were whispered on the streets. These events would lead to the organised formation of armed gangs, which went unchecked by the police for the next couple of years. It would also lead to a feeling of distrust against the forces of law enforcement, and a belief that if we were bold enough we could get anyway with anything.

After my return to Manchester, old friendships had been resurrected and after a month or so it felt as if I had never been away. That was when I first spotted him. I didn’t know the fella’s real name. I just made sure I stayed out of his way. Everybody did. He was five years older than us and he was huge. ‘He’s a fuckin’ psycho, he kills cats,’ whispered my mates.

I had finished my evening session on my old drum kit and wandered across to catch up with my friends in the park. On the way, I had found a dog-chewed golf ball, which I was bouncing and catching, rather clumsily. As I reached the park gates, I hurled the golf ball as far as I could. I watched as it sailed gloriously through the golden evening summer sky. It landed on a piece of concrete that the council had recently sunk as foundations for a new six-seater, state-of-the-art, horse-headed see-saw. The concrete threw it back up in the air at a ferocious speed and over towards the swings. This was when I first noticed the Cat Killer, who was pushing his luck there with a local schoolgirl. As he sat next to her on the swings, the golf ball arrowed towards them. Ping. Like a microwave oven – a new sight back then – that announces when its work is done, the golf ball connected with the psychopath’s head. I was confused by the metallic sound. Was he a fuckin’ robot? His head slowly turned and his angry eyes focused on me. First my legs started to shake and then, as he released a guttural roar, the rest of my body followed. I managed to pluck up all the courage I had and ran towards home as fast as I could. I was approaching the bottom of my street, only to realise that the Cat Killer had raced around to the top end. As I turned the corner, I spotted him 200 yards in front of me. We stopped and stared at each other, like two gunslingers in the Wild West, weighing each other up for potential weaknesses. I was 11 years old, 5ft 4in and 8st if fully clothed with bricks in my pocket. The feline slayer? Sixteen years old, 6ft 4in and a trim 16st. Taking these statistics into consideration, I decided to make a run for it. The only problem here was the fact my house and safety was a hundred yards away in the direction of the raving lunatic. I pondered the dangers of the situation in which I found myself until, with another roar (he liked roaring), he set off towards me. In a state of panic, I decided to make a dash for home. Who knows what went through the Cat Killer’s mind as he saw me hurtling towards him, rather than away? He slowed at first, and then picked up speed again. As he neared me, the anger on his face became more apparent. I could see the spit on his screaming lips. He was at full charge and full volume as he tore towards battle. I kept running at him until we were less than 10 yards from each other. Then, with a nervous smile and an almost apologetic look, I darted to my right up the garden path and through my front door, which was slammed shut behind in one movement. ‘DAAAADDDDD!’ I slid to the floor behind the door, happy to have made it safely home.

It was a Saturday night and, as usual, my mum and dad were on their way to the Carousel Club on Plymouth Grove in Longsight, Manchester. This is where those who had made the journey across the Irish Sea would congregate to enjoy themselves. They would sit in large groups normally defined by county of origin and dance to frill-shirted show bands that reminded them of home. With my mum and dad would be Peggy and Tommy Gallagher, who had travelled over at the same time from Ireland.

Normally, Kathleen, the daughter of one of my mother’s friends, would babysit, and after a bagful of harassment from me and my two younger brothers she would let us stay up late to watch Match of the Day; we couldn’t wait to take the piss out of Jimmy Hill’s chinny-beard-and-pullover combo. It seems that she couldn’t make it that week, but she had arranged for her younger brother to stand in. Mum and Dad headed out as the new babysitter was hurried through the door. My dad shouted that the babysitter’s name was Jimmy the Butt. Jimmy the Butt? I was thinking that maybe Jimmy the Butt should consider a name change if he wanted to further his career in babysitting when the living room door opened to reveal…the fucking Cat Killer! He casually entered the room, an assassin’s ease about him. I’m a dead man, I thought. My throat immediately dried as I tried to squeak a warning to my parents that I was about to be murdered. Nothing came out. The only sound was the slam of the front door as my parents left. This sound perfectly masked the noise of the small fart I omitted as I sat in my skin-tight Muppet Show pyjamas, staring up at the gigantic man. He moved towards me ominously, but then gave me a big, lunatic smile. ‘We need to talk,’ he said.

And talk we did. The first part of the conversation had me stuttering an apology for hitting him on the head with a golf ball. Jimmy laughed it off. We then talked about anything and everything. He explained that he wasn’t a psychopath and had never killed a cat, which reassured three very wide-eyed young brothers. ‘Just a tramp,’ he added. Jokingly.

And then he had me and my brothers in awe all night with his tales of chivalry and adventure. Well, if adventure involved fighting at United away games and chivalry came in the shape of fingering the local schoolgirls. He also explained how he had been attacked the previous year outside a boozer. Jimmy had argued with a couple of lads over something or nothing. They had lain in wait for him and then repeatedly stabbed him in the head. After they had finished, though, Jimmy had set about each of them. Although hampered by the blood pouring from his head wounds, like a blind bear he managed to pulverise each of his assailants before staggering off and collapsing. After days of surgery, the doctors decided the only way Jimmy would survive was if they inserted two metal plates at the front of his skull. This was groundbreaking surgery at the time and in a matter of months a new, stronger Jimmy was released back on to the streets of Levenshulme.

He immediately tracked down the gang responsible for the stabbing and although he had already hospitalised them once, felt it fair that he repeat the process. This time, though, he used his newly acquired weapon. The news of Jimmy hammering this gang by sitting on them and crashing his heavy metal-plated head into their faces soon spread across Manchester and a new name was being whispered on the streets: Jimmy the Butt. ‘He’s like the Six Million Dollar Man,’ we laughed the following day. In our eyes, technology had rebuilt Jimmy the Butt and now he had superhuman capabilities. Fuckin’ hell, he’d actually achieved one of my childhood ambitions. Jimmy taught us a few things over the next few years. Although he was a solitary figure, he never affiliated himself with one gang or another, but he taught us the meaning of loyalty and friendship. Once you were on Jimmy’s side he would treat you like his own flesh and blood. First sign of any mither and Jimmy would be in. His steel skull would flail around, destroying everything in its path. ‘If they are willing to fight then I think they’re fair game,’ he told us.

That was the reason for his fortnightly football excursion; it was the perfect tonic for Jimmy. He would release everything, with no guilt, on his day away and the streets of Levenshulme felt that bit safer for a couple of weeks after. It wasn’t for kudos or notoriety that Jimmy fought. Firstly, it came from a strong belief in right and wrong; and secondly, because of ‘a buzzing in me head that goes away after I’ve kicked off’. This noise had started after he had been stabbed. His hearing was slowly deteriorating as well. It was not that he was disrespectful when others gave their opinion. He just knew that the way he thought had always been different to the way other people thought. He had learnt that arguing his point inevitably led to a fight, so had taken to saying what he had to, when he had to, which was not very often.

Jimmy continued to babysit for us and over the next couple of years I’d grow to admire him. Away from group pressures, he was a completely different character and would open up and be vocal. He also encouraged me to dedicate more and more of my time to the drums. ‘It’s a way out,’ he would say. ‘Don’t want to waste your time on the streets.’

He had a friend who ran a football team and one spring evening in 1983, he brought me down to meet him. The friend’s name was Vinny, and he was the polar opposite to Jimmy. Where Jimmy was a standalone guy, Vinny was probably the best-known man in the area. This was due to his larger-than-life personality, which was not constrained by normal social pressures. If Vinny had something to say, it got said. From the boys at the match to the men about town, everyone knew Vinny. That included the police and the priests. Jimmy and Vinny made quite a double act. Vinny, the staunch City fan and willing to let everyone around know it. Jimmy, the quiet United fan, but heaven help anyone who challenged him. The team that Vinny ran was called the Northern Rebels. They had started a junior side and I was desperate to play. They trained on Greenbank playing fields, which was – conveniently – at the bottom of our street. One evening, we lined up against the outside brick wall of the changing room ready to undergo trials. There were about twenty local boys there, of all shape and sizes. The head coach sauntered over and started pointing and laughing at the group, singling out inadequacies as a way of determining which ones had the strongest character. You had to be tough in Levenshulme. His way of weeding out the less socially skilled or confident was brutal but effective, though he would probably be jailed for it nowadays. Next to me was a quiet lad who I recognised as he lived across the road from the local baths. He was a touch overweight, which led to some direct ribbing from the coach. I could clearly see that the insults were starting to have an effect on the poor lad and so I whispered, ‘Tell him he’s got big ears.’

The kid looked back with shock in his eyes; he seemed a touch unsure of my advice. He had a large mop of black hair shaped into the most enormous flick I had ever seen. There was an air of innocence about him. I can understand why he was unsure, but I knew that if he defended himself the coach would respect him for it and all would be well. I nodded at him and raised my eyebrows. ‘Trust me. Just do it,’ I urged. He turned and faced the head coach.

Suddenly he screamed at the top of his voice, his face exploding with rage. ‘Shut your stupid fuckin’ face, you ugly, jug-eared cunt!’

I nearly choked. I thought he had been a bit fuckin’ harsh – and I was the one who had told him to do it. The head coach looked proper angry at the venom of those words. What the fuck must he be thinking? We quickly found out that he was thinking of kicking the kid’s head in, as he stormed over with a vicious snarl on his face. The rest of the group went deathly silent. The poor kid was in for a right beating, so I moved myself between the oncoming coach and the little fella next to me.

‘Don’t go near him.’ I squeaked. ‘It was you that started it.’ My words of protest didn’t seem to register with the approaching coach. Something else did, though: Jimmy the Butt’s booming voice

‘Go near that kid and I’ll put the fucking head on yer,’ he informed him.

The coach came to an abrupt halt and stood glaring at me and the kid behind me. I nodded my appreciation towards Jimmy, who had spotted the commotion and made his way over. As usual, Jimmy defended the weak or vulnerable. One saying that Jimmy used a lot has always stayed with me: ‘Right is right, even if everyone is against it; and wrong is wrong, even if everyone is for it.’ I suppose these words gave you a good idea of just how Jimmy’s mind worked.

After saving both mine and the kid’s bacon, Jimmy then turned to me and in no uncertain terms very loudly told me never to get involved in anyone else’s business like that again. ‘But you did well,’ he whispered, with a smile.

I then took it too far by trying to add about ‘right being right, even if…’ but Jimmy quietened me down by threatening to hide my Muppet Show pyjamas the next time he babysat. I was 13 years old and knew I shouldn’t be sporting Kermit and Fozzy Bear across my chest. A shame that Auntie Dina in County Offaly didn’t see things the same way. So, in front of the whole group, I went redder than a Royal Mail postbox. If Jimmy had threatened to beat me, then at least that threat would have given me some credibility among the rest of the team. To have my pyjamas outed in public was quite different. Seeing my crimson shade, the whole group began rolling about with laughter and, with everyone now relaxed, there followed a successful trial both for the fat little kid and me.

At the end of the trials, the kid came and thanked me for sticking up for him. ‘Not a problem,’ I told him.

‘My name is Paul McGuigan, but people call me Guigs,’ he replied, offering his hand. Guigs, pronounced as ‘Gwigs’, was the first member of the future Oasis I met. Although short in stature, he had a wide pair of shoulders from which he would hang thick Starsky and Hutch-style cardigans. He seemed like a good kid. Guigs lived on Barlow Road, Levenshulme, a stone’s throw from the local baths. This was less than a hundred yards from where I lived. Unlike most of the local Irish youth, though, Guigs was Protestant, so he attended Burnage High School. I guess that’s why our paths did not cross earlier. After a couple of practice games our friendship grew and we were soon spending time listening to music in the shape of Joy Division and A Certain Ratio. His bedroom became our main place of musical enlightenment.

We went to watch both Manchester City and United in an attempt to form a sporting allegiance. This helped Guigs integrate himself into the Levenshulme mob that I had grown up with. He was a friendly and unassuming young fella, always ready to listen and offer good advice. Some might say he was a lonely lad who relied heavily on those around him. I didn’t feel that Guigs’s neediness was an issue, though. We all need someone sometimes.

Guigs was always interested in what other people were up to, and he took particular note of my drumming. I had now been banging those skins for some seven years. Guigs would sit in my bedroom and watch as I practised roll after roll. He was always trying something new, something different; I called it the Mr Benn syndrome. One day he would be a cricketer, the next day a boxer, and I guess in that mode he sort of just carried on until in later years he became a scooter boy, then a practising Rastafarian. If a notion crossed his path, then Guigs would have a go. He had a strong character, though, and would try harder than anyone else when he had a new project, even if he didn’t actually possess a talent for it. That attitude would serve him well when he met Bonehead a few years later.

We also started boxing around this time. Another constant in my life. The old dole office on Chapel Street had finished its days as a nursery and had been reborn as Levenshulme ABC. The whole of Oasis, bar – not surprisingly – Bonehead, would pass through this gym. It was always full and you had to make sure you arrived early if you wanted to train. A family of six brothers, all ex-professional boxers, ran it. The first time Guigs and me went along, it was a dark November evening. Outside, there were two people arguing. They noticed us and lowered their voices, but we could still hear the anger. As we passed, the taller one smiled at us. ‘All right, boys?’ he asked, in a flat northern accent. He was 6ft plus, with strong shoulders and long, powerful arms. His hair was blond and cropped close to his head. His friend was slightly shorter, with dark hair, also cropped. After we were inducted into the gym, we sat on a long bench in the changing rooms. I slowly pulled the horsehair from the ripped boxing gloves I had been given on my arrival.

‘Oi!’ I sat up, startled.

‘What are you doing to those gloves?’ asked the large blond-haired fella from outside, who had just entered the room.

‘Nothing,’ I stammered. ‘Sorry.’

‘They don’t come fucking free, you know,’ he said, as he pulled the gloves from my grasp and slapped me over the head with them, playfully. ‘I’ve been told to look after you little fuckers, so listen up. No fucking about in the gym. No fucking about in the changing rooms. No fucking about anywhere. Simply no fucking about. Understand?’

Understood. We all nodded our heads as we looked up from our positions on the bench. There was definitely something intimidating about the man.

‘Who the fuck is that?’ someone asked, after the blond man headed off to spar with his friend. ‘He’s a policeman. My brother told me,’ came the reply.

I later found out that this wasn’t strictly true. The only connection to the police force was in the shape of a desk sergeant who had a football scout’s nose for criminal talent. He was convinced the blond fella had serious potential. He presented both of the boys to one of the brothers with a request that they be given a purpose in life and something constructive to do. But the name stuck and we would always refer to him as the Policeman.

My old drum kit was a roll away from total capitulation. I realised I needed a job to fund a replacement, so on a winter’s day in 1984 I walked down Stockport Road in Levenshulme, stopping at each shop to ask for work. There was no joy at the bakers or the candlestick makers, but the butcher was a good fella and asked if I could be up and ready for work at five the next morning. After my time on the farm in Ireland, I considered this a lie-in. I was offered the job and with it the means to earn enough to get myself a proper drum kit. I was ecstatic. The butcher shop was called Needham’s and had been trading since the turn of the century. Good times were ahead. And cheap sausages.

I was there every morning before going to school and every evening after I had finished. I thought nothing of picking up entrails and bollocks, brains and eyeballs, which seemed to impress the butcher. One freezing cold morning, I was emptying a bucket out back, my breath visible in the air, when I spotted a body lying motionless next to the tunnel that led to Levenshulme train station. Fuck me, it’s a dead man, I thought. Ever since the Moss Side riots, local drug wars had been raging and I expected this to be a tracksuit-clad casualty. I cautiously made my way over and the first thing that hit me was the pungent smell of urine-soaked clothing. In front of me was a tramp lying motionless on the ground. Horrified, I fled back to the shop to raise the alarm. The head butcher immediately ran over to examine the dead body, only to find that the tramp was still breathing. ‘It’s Trampy Spike,’ he told me. ‘He’s a local celebrity.’

A local celebrity. I was learning to like my life full of characters. Nowadays, Trampy Spike would probably be followed around by a film crew from some cable channel. That morning they would have captured some strange footage. It transpired that a culmination of morning dew and urine, mixed with the sub-zero temperatures, had left the celebrity tramp frozen solid to the cobbles. He could not move an inch. Someone fetched a bucket of hot water and we slowly poured it round him, watching in amazement as he came back to life. After we provided the Lazarus-like vagrant with a hot cup of sweet tea, he revived sufficiently enough to tell me his name was Spike, adding as far as he was concerned he owed me his life. He swore that he would repay me somehow. Without wishing to sound heartless, this promise didn’t fill me with excitement. After all, the only possessions he had were his piss-soaked clothes and a rusty wheelbarrow. In due course, though, I would find out that life’s gifts can come in many different guises.

My eagerness to work had left me with a few quid in my pocket for the first time in my life. Although the majority of it would be banked in my attempt to get a new drum kit, what remained went on cider and weed that would be consumed in the park at the weekend. I guess this was typical of the era we grew up in and happened in parks countrywide. It was Thatcher’s Britain and rebellion seemed right. As Greenbank and Chapel Street parks were right next door to the boxing gym, me and Guigs decided to move our drinking parties to Errwood Park in South Levenshulme. This, we thought, would give us some privacy and also stop any of the boxing brothers spotting us. After training all week, we felt it was a weekend reward. They (quite rightly) looked on it as a total waste of all the previous week’s work. I guess one thing that the gym taught me was to respect your body and yourself, something that could only be brought about through self-discipline – which, in itself, was a great attribute to have.

Errwood Park was as typical a city park as any, founded by the Victorians – though the pomp and circumstance of their day was now nowhere to be seen. The bandstand still stood, although it was now dilapidated and played host to the local glue-sniffers rather than any brass band. The bowling huts were still in good condition, as were the bowling greens themselves. Both were maintained by members of the bowling club who, if their beloved lawns were invaded, would exit the hut in a military formation and attempt to capture and punish any unlucky teenager. At night, the swings and roundabouts moonlighted as lounge bars and shabeens for the local teenagers intent on inebriation. Running through the middle of the park was the boundary between Levenshulme and Burnage. This was a point of conflict long before we had arrived.

After a quiet first weekend in the park, we arrived the following Friday evening with carrier bags full of grog from the local off-licence; the only identification required in those days was a picture of the Queen on a crumpled bank note. After an hour or so, a firm of about 15 arrived in the park. Darkness had arrived, and with no one else around they made their way towards us. They were fronted by two skinheads, both wearing sheepskin coats and both named Peter. They were referred to as the Two Peters. Said a lot about the group, I guess. They then made us an offer we could not refuse.

‘You’ve got a sixty-second start. Get out of the park and get home. If we catch you before you reach home, we’ll put you in hospital. Do you understand, you Paddy bastards?’

The group was a couple of years older than us and we were at an age when that really made a difference. This statement of intent was not good news to us, as we were of mostly Irish descent. I looked at Guigs, who was terrified by the prospect of a beating. He was also upset at being labelled ‘Irish’. He had recently taken to wearing a small Union Jack badge and in vain tried to point it out to the gang. They weren’t having it. We had seen this mob beat two young men under similar circumstances, leaving one in the Manchester Royal Infirmary. It was no fucking joke. These boys carried and were not afraid to put their tools to use. They also had the use of vehicles, which could make an escape difficult. It’s funny to think how prevalent such prejudices were, even two decades ago – and even that they still persist today in places. But these were the days when the IRA were conducting their most ferocious campaigns ever on the mainland and everybody seemed a little bit nervous and defensive.

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.