My old man invented road rage. When the new Ford Sierra came out it was a big thing. I remember him calling a guy in the street out of the window, “You fucking Sierra-faced bastard!” That’s poetry, man.
Esquire's December cover star, everybody.
My mum’s one of 11. I’d say seven out of that 11 all moved to Manchester from Ireland, and they’ve congregated around a five square-mile area and none of them are leaving. Someone got shot in the face outside my mum’s house about four months ago. She’s oblivious to the violence. She loves it there.
With those parents, it's no wonder there was a bit of extra energy in Oasis' music compared to others.
Also, Noel's a Kanye-fan (of course):
I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Fame’s wasted on these cunts today. Bar Kanye. You watch him on the MTV Awards and you think, “You can fucking stay, you’re alright.”
Does anybody give a fuck about what any of these current pop stars are up to? Who gives a shit what fucking One Direction do? Cocksuckers, all of them in rehab by the time they’re 30. Who gives a shit what Ellie Goulding is up to? Really? Adele, what? Blows my fucking mind. It blows my fucking mind. Nobody cares! Fame’s wasted on them, with their fucking in-ear monitors and their electronic cigarettes. And their fragrances that they’re bringing out for Christmas. You fucking dicks.
My fragrance? Oh it’s coming, it’s coming. Toe-Rag it’s going to be called. And the bottle’s going to be a massive toe.
That's fucking hilarious.