Oasis: The Truth

by Tony McCarroll

  I didn’t think the Policeman was very happy. It seemed he had once again gone a bit mental during the bout and had butted his opponent three times. This had been at the end of a fight that he was easily winning. Apparently, his opponent had pressed a button by whispering something to the Policeman, prompting the violent outburst. This, in turn, led to the referee disqualifying the Policeman; he did so, quite wisely, from the other side of the rope.

  The Policeman was now swinging punches inside the dressing room as if he were still inside the ring. ‘Left, left, right,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘Left, left right.’

  Suddenly the dressing room door opened and in walked the victorious opponent. He was smiling until he saw the Policeman at the far end of the room. The Policeman walked towards him, also smiling. But I recognised the smile and realised the victor wasn’t going to enjoy his spoils for long. The Policeman motioned me out of the room with a simple look and nod of his head and as I pulled the door shut I heard the thick thud of his right hook connect. With perfect timing, the large brass bell rang out to start the next fight of the evening.

  By the summer of 1987, Guigs had got himself a job at Barclaycard in Manchester. At around the same time, he seemed to become more and more withdrawn. This, I soon realised, was due to his fixation with marijuana. Back then, if he wasn’t reading about it, he would be smoking or eating it.

  I finally got myself a good number in a local insurance office in Burnage. Right on my doorstep and normal hours. All I had to do was answer the phone and point people who came in to the right adviser. All of this and out of reach of the Mancunian rain. I considered myself fortunate to have landed on my feet. I was 16 years of age and on my first day found myself overawed both by the job and by a young girl who blushed when I asked her name. ‘Paula,’ was the reply.

  And then there was a large bang. In late 1988, an explosion of love hit the streets of Manchester. One little white pill had sucked the hatred and frustration from a scarred generation and replaced it with a weekend euphoria and a new belief.

  One winter night in 1988 found me sitting in The Millionaires Club in Fountain Street, Manchester city centre, surrounded by two hundred perspiring and grinning lunatics. They filled the dance floor and none of them were millionaires. Everybody had a prescription and all were ecstatic. It was Saturday night. Both City and United danced a communal dance, while all the girls were suddenly less interested in themselves and more interested in me. Or so it seemed. That situation was good for me.

  Not that night, though, as I had Paula waiting back at her house. I had progressed both as a insurance customer service adviser and in my pursuit of the young Paula, from Burnage. She was probably what kept me punctual and interested in work from Monday to Friday. After a couple of weeks of chasing, she succumbed to my caveman charm. Paula was a good girl and had a generous nature. Although I had only been with her for a few months I could sense something good happening. I was 17 years of age.

  After hailing a cab I weaved my way through the rainy city centre and arrived at her place. I was still chewing, still euphoric. A new-found joy pulsed through me. Paula stood in the doorway, waiting for me. Her arms were folded.

  ‘Hiya, Treacle,’ I said with a smile as I paid the taxi driver and walked up the short path. She ushered me inside and sat me down. I had a bad feeling. Something was wrong. She looked me straight in my dilated eyes and said, ‘You’re gonna hear the pitter patter of tiny feet around here soon.’

  ‘Why have we got mice?’ I replied. She ignored the joke.

  The cold light of the next morning brought the inevitable comedown and the sheer panic that the previous night’s news had created. I was bringing a kid into the world. I realised that meant I would need a new job. Paula would have to leave the office and what I was earning alone would not cover us. But none of that mattered, because I was bringing a kid into the world.

  I was still running around with the gang from the park. Not so much during the week, though, as I was in practice for the arrival of my firstborn. They had all shaken my hand when I told them I was going to be a dad, but celebrations were muted. We all knew that it meant a change. But I would still travel to City away games occasionally. Noel had broken his foot and had been shifted to the stores of the construction company where he worked. He seemed very happy about this. Guigs had given up filing for Barclaycard and was now filing for British Telecom instead. He didn’t seem so happy about this. Liam had just been thrown out of school for having an altercation with somebody that resulted in Liam being hit with a hammer. Big brother Paul was still working the roads.

  It was a bright Saturday morning in spring 1989, and I had a trip to Forest away. As usual, we met outside Johnny’s Café in Levenshulme. From there we made our way to Levenshulme train station and, with family rail cards in hand, headed to our destination. Our family consisted of one adult and 33 teenagers. This family had been causing havoc up and down the country for a good three years already. That day it was Nottingham’s turn. We laughed on the way down. The previous week, Vinny Collins, my football manager, had decided to have a pint in Stockport before City played them in a friendly. It had been a covert seek-and-destroy mission. His intention was to infiltrate County’s hooligan pubs and then guide the rest of City’s troops in. Vinny, though, had drunk a little more than he should have and went missing in action. Nevertheless, the City firm decided to go ahead and storm the local boozers. Can you imagine their surprise when they arrived to find a right handy mob being fronted by Vinny himself?

  ‘Get outta the fucking way,’ they shouted over to Vinny.

  ‘C’mon, shitbags,’ Vinny roared back, at the top of his voice. Then he put his hands to his face and blew an imaginary horn while making a noise that you would normally hear at the start of a fox hunt. He moved forward and beckoned Stockport to follow, right into the front of City’s firm, while he laughed. Back in Manchester city centre later on, some of the City lads weren’t happy with Vinny’s antics, but he soon had them turned round and laughing again. ‘It’s just a bit of pub fun,’ he would say.

  That morning, Vinny looked visibly excited about the trip. He asked if I’d seen Jimmy the Butt and told me to say hello to him. We all jumped on the train and soon arrived in Nottingham city centre. BigUn was leading the way, with his usual scallywag style. Burberry coat with collars pointing to the skies to reveal the trademark pattern underneath. At that time, it simply let everyone who mattered know you were a hooligan and ready for it. Now it seems it just lets everyone know you’re a ‘chav’. How times change.

  ‘BigUn’ was Paul Ashbee, who was about the same age as Noel. He was a local lad who stood 6ft 5in tall and 2ft 6in wide. I think he was best left described as entrepreneurial, although he was definitely a ‘Spartan’ (meaning ‘well liked and respected’). Over 30 of us had jibbed the train without any hassle at all. Fuck knows how much the travelling away fan cost British Rail in the eighties. We had met up with Richard Jackson and Bad Bill from Salford. They had a tasty firm, so we decided to split into two groups; I was with Noel and BigUn and Jacko, and we marched off through Nottingham city centre. Across a busy street we spotted a group of twenty or so appropriately dressed Forest fans outside an amusement arcade. Space Invaders and Donkey Kong were to be an electronic prelude to mass violence, it seemed. BigUn immediately started to bounce and then, without even a word to anyone else, he screamed, ‘C’mon, dickheads, let’s have it!’

  Not really part of the plan, but that never did stop BigUn. I’d always wish that he had been better at mathematics when deciding to start such things. The odds were already stacked against us as the opposing group started to rapidly increase as the inside of the arcade emptied onto the street. The Forest fans were now excited. Shit, I thought, I wish Jimmy the Butt was a Blue. We were the youngest of City’s firms and way out of our depth. The Forest fans reached about seventy in number, then suddenly began streaming across the road towards us. I looked at Noel, who looked back terrified. ‘Fuc
k this,’ he shouted and was off on his toes.

  His damaged foot apparently causing him no problem whatsoever, he was gone, a vanishing Mancunian flash. The rest of the group followed him. I panicked and looked around. As I turned to run, I saw BigUn in the middle of the opposing group. He was throwing his fists around, trying to stem an unstoppable flow of opposing supporters. Lunatic. I headed off into the more commercial part of the city centre, knocking shoppers out of the way. The Nottingham firm were buoyed by our retreat and poured after us. My cross-country training at school came into play and I moved from the back of the group towards the front. Then my 20-a-day habit kicked in, and I was soon being passed. As I glanced over my shoulder I saw Jacko run straight into a bus shelter and hit the pavement, scattering panic-stricken shoppers. He was quickly set upon by the following pack. I contemplated turning back, but there were just too many of them. Suddenly, as I rounded a corner, I spotted Noel and a couple of others slipping into a darkened doorway. A look of terror was pasted across his face. I followed and we headed down the dark stairwell into a cellar bar. We ordered a round of drinks and took a seat.

  The pub had long wire-mesh horizontal windows, set at street level. Outside, I could see thirty or so pairs of Adidas, Nike and Reebok trainers. Oh and the occasional pair of Patricks. If they clicked where we were, we would be in for a right slapping. I sat and watched the stairway, fully aware that it was the only way in and the only way out. Time seemed to slow down. The rest of the bar sat looking curiously at the four out-of-breath arrivals. I looked to Noel, who was as white as a sheet and murmuring something unintelligible over and over to himself. I quickly realised that my hooligan days should probably end before they really ever began. After watching Noel slowly stop shaking, we finished our drinks and headed swiftly and quietly to the ground.

  I was working my way down the tick list. I was no criminal. I was no hooligan. I had a moral issue with dealing drugs, so that wasn’t an option. What options had I left?

  Anyone seen me drumsticks?

  She had arrived. As my father had held me aloft only 18 years previously, in the summer of 1989 I raised my daughter to the world on the very same ward. We named her Gemma and sat in awe. I made some promises that moment. I will always love and cherish you. I will always be there for you. I will let no one harm a hair on your pretty little head. I decided it was time for a change. A new direction. If I was to look after the beautiful ray of sunshine that I held in my arms, I needed to find better work and a less chaotic place to live.

  Gemma was one arrival that changed my life in 1989. The debut Stone Roses album was another. The arrival of that LP would send a new swagger down rainy Manchester streets. The detachment and frustration of a generation had a new beat with which to march. And fuck me, it was a cool one.

  Spring 1990, and it had been a couple of months since I’d last seen Guigs. He’d rung earlier that evening, though, and said he needed to see me urgently. I was sitting in a Levenshulme pub called The Church, staring out the window at the insurance shop where I worked, which was directly across the road. I spotted Guigs slowly ambling up Stockport Road. It was good to see him. Two people accompanied him, one on either side. I recognised one as Huts, the lad who Liam had fought with in the park. I didn’t recognise the other one. As they entered the pub I was waiting at the bar.

  ‘Hiya, mate.’

  ‘Hiya, fella.’

  It was hugs and back-slapping between myself, Guigs and Huts. Standing silently behind them was a very happy-looking fella with an open face and eyes that seemed slightly unfocused. They then introduced me to one Paul Arthurs, better known as ‘Bonehead’. He stood before me with his hand out and an odd look in his eye, which was exacerbated by a Max Wall-like hair do. It looked like The Church wasn’t the first pub he’d been in that day. We shook and, after a short introduction during which Bonehead’s unique style of humour became immediately apparent, we made our way to a booth in the darkest corner of the pub.

  ‘We want you to drum for us,’ said Guigs, before we had managed to sit down.

  ‘We’re the new Roses,’ added Bonehead. With this outlandish statement, he swaggered off to the bar in an Ian Brown monkey-style slalom walk. I had been practising my drumming intensely over the previous 12 months and had rehearsed with all manner of different bands. My influences had diversified. I had been watching old videos of John Bonham in action, which had left me completely stunned and hungry to drum. I also found The Stone Roses’ drummer Reni particularly inspiring, with his unique lazy beats. Guigs went on to explain that he had met Bonehead at a student club called Severe in Fallowfield a couple of months earlier. Bonehead was a childhood friend of BigUn. It seemed that he was a talented musician, too. Guitars. Keyboards. Mouth Organ. Radiators. You name it, Bonehead could get a tune out of it. He had been able to play the keyboard at four years of age, which had led to the local kids naming him ‘Mozart’. He had encouraged Guigs to learn to play something and, as the bass could be played by a blind monkey, decided that that instrument was a good starting point. Guigs’s Mr Benn Syndrome had, hopefully, finally paid off. I had always known that his attitude would serve him well. You had to admire Guigs for his desire to try something different.

  Bonehead was a few years older than both me and Guigs and he had grown up in West Point. West Point was officially the ‘west point’ of Levenshulme, but like some rebel state, those there considered themselves a separate entity altogether. As if there wasn’t enough segregation at the time. Although massively outnumbered, kids from West Point would frequently clash with Levenshulme as well as Burnage. That, in itself, gave them some respect with the surrounding gangs.

  It didn’t take long for me to warm to this mop-haired plasterer. He had the ability to down alcohol like no one else I had met, a talent that, it seemed, he had developed at an early age. As a 13-year-old, he would be regularly returned home unconscious from the park. Once it started to flow it just couldn’t stop for Bonehead. Fortunately, he was that rare breed: a good drunk. His mother and father hailed from Mayo, but he wasn’t your stereotypical Levenshulme lad. He had attended a grammar school but had not enjoyed the experience in the slightest. It had left him with a wry and eclectic sense of humour, though, somewhat Spike Milligan-esque. He was also as talented as any musician that I had ever come across. Sober, he was as witty and sharp as anyone. Focused, but funny. Drunk, he was like a one-man circus sideshow. Always fun. In the sober moments he would become a close friend and a source of trust and support.

  He was standing at the bar in The Church, ordering drinks in fragmented German. The sturdy barmaid looked as if she was about to pot him, although Bonehead seemed oblivious to this. Guigs and Huts were obviously impressed with his musical nous, if not his mental stability, so I agreed to come to the Milestone boozer on Burnage Lane the following Saturday to see them in action. I watched as Bonehead frogmarched round the bar, his finger under his nose as a substitute Hitler moustache. It was like watching a mental patient on the loose. Luckily for Bonehead, it was the type of pub where you could easily have assembled a cast for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, so he carried on.

  Guigs told me that Noel had got a job for the Inspiral Carpets as a guitar tech and was touring all over the globe, which seemed pretty impressive and also explained his recent absence. I wondered how the fuck he had managed it. Good on him, though. Noel had played his acoustic guitar in the park for us; he wasn’t bad. Guigs and Huts were keen to get him on board with the band, or at least have a chat. I thought that Huts’s bowling-green altercation with little brother Liam would have got Noel’s back up, so even before they asked I knew it was gonna be a no-no. But I knew I had to make changes in my life if I was going to provide for the new arrival. Something already felt good about the band. Another kid that we had met through the park was Max Beesley. His father was a famous jazz drummer and Max was more than capable himself with the sticks in his hand. I asked Guigs to sort out a meeting for me with Max’s dad next time h
e was round.

  They finally left after Bonehead had got the whole pub in uproar with his antics. I liked him. After they’d gone, I sat staring out of the dirty pub window at the insurance office. Would this finally be a route out of my mundane, shithole job? Something good to break the monotony? I hoped my luck would kick in. Lord knows it would have been the first time.

  It was a beautifully cold day. The crisp air followed Jimmy the Butt through the front door. He would often drop by for a cup of my Mum’s sweet Irish tea.

  ‘How’s the music going?’ he asked.

  ‘Good mate, good,’ I replied, and told him about Guigs and Huts and Bonehead. Jimmy beamed and congratulated me on my efforts, but he didn’t look himself. There was a crack in the smile. As much as he tried to steer clear of trouble, it seemed it would always seek him out. It was difficult for him to be beaten one to one, so he was now finding himself up against two or three at a time. He had recently started a proper relationship with a girl and this seemed to be preying on his mind too.

  ‘Do you understand them?’ he asked. Must mean women, I thought, and shook my head. Now that I had a permanent girlfriend and a child, it seemed that Jimmy believed I understood relationships. If only. I told him to enjoy her and not think about it too much. Jimmy didn’t seem to be listening to my advice and just sat staring into space. After a few moments, he grabbed my hand in his massive paw, gave it a shake and told me I was a good kid. He then told me once again that some things are right and some things are wrong. Act on them. With that, he gave me the grin of a wild man and he was off out the front door. As he left, a strange, uneasy feeling came over me. I shook it away.