Say what you like. Call Be Here Now a coke-fuelled car crash. Call Standing on the Shoulder of Giants a cry for help. Call Liam a gobshite and Noel a control freak. But don’t say they didn’t matter. They mattered like broken glass matters to bare feet. They mattered like shouting matters to grief. They mattered because we needed something that sounded like a fight.

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.

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?

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?