“Let’s work the problem people. Let’s not make things worse by guessing.”
Who the Fuck is Guigsy?
Put the kettle on. Find a teabag that hasn’t gone soft in the box. And ask yourself this. Who the fuck is Guigsy?
Who the Fuck is Tony McCarroll?
Put the kettle on. Find a teabag that hasn’t gone soft in the box. And ask yourself this. Who the fuck is Tony Mccarroll?
Who The Fuck Is Bonehead?
Put the kettle on. Find a teabag that hasn’t gone soft in the box. And ask yourself this. Who the fuck is Bonehead?
Who the Fuck Is Joey Waronker?
Put the kettle on. Find a teabag that hasn’t gone soft in the box. And ask yourself this. Who the Fuck Is Joey Waronker?
Who The Fuck Are Oasis?
Oasis weren’t subtle. Not then. Not before the coked-up cameras or the press tours licking shots across saloon bars. And certainly not now, when the band’s myth, their fuck-you football-anthem tragedy, keeps rewriting itself in tabloid shreds.
Who The Fuck Is Liam Gallagher?
Liam Gallagher. The voice. The snarl. The frontman in an anorak, arms behind his back, chin thrust forward like he’s daring the mic to fight back. Noel wrote the songs, Oasis became biblical, but without Liam?
Who The Fuck Is Noel Gallagher?
Put the kettle on. Find a teabag that hasn’t gone soft in the box. And ask yourself this. Who the fuck is Noel Gallagher?