What was the Battle of Britpop?

It’s August 1995 and Britpop is at War

Blur or Oasis. “Country House” or “Roll With It.” You had to choose. Monday, 14th August. Woolworths. Two CDs in your hands. Two quid in your pocket. Pick wrong, and that was it for you. There was no sitting on the fence. Nobody sat on the fence. You were in it.

This wasn’t about music. It was war. NME screaming their heads off like it was life or death. Lads in tracksuits shouting at each other outside Our Price. Teachers pretending not to care, then sneaking The Great Escape into the staffroom player when they thought no one was looking. It was stupid. It was mental. It was brilliant.

And the songs? Noel called them “shit,” and he wasn’t wrong. “Country House” was too pleased with itself. “Roll With It” dragged its feet like a pub band blowing their last chance at glory. But that didn’t matter. The music? Just the excuse. It was about who you were, what you stood for, what you wanted to tell the world.

That’s what still gets me. Not that Blur won, or Oasis lost. But that, for a stupid, beautiful moment, it all felt like it mattered.

How Britpop Set the Stage

Two years ago, Britpop wasn’t a thing. Nobody cared because there was nothing to care about. No movement. No sound. Just a gap. Grunge had burned out, and something louder, sharper, more British was clawing its way in. Stuart Maconie called it Britpop in Select. Sure, John Robb says it was him first, but does it matter? It wasn’t about the name. It was the timing.

Blur had ditched the baggy crap with Modern Life Is Rubbish. Suede came out swinging, like Bowie had never disappeared. Pulp were these weirdos from Sheffield, turning the everyday into something strange and brilliant. Oasis weren’t even signed yet, lugging gear around Manchester and waiting their turn.

By ’94, it all blew up. Blur dropped Parklife, all cocksure swagger and chip-shop romance. Then Oasis slammed Definitely Maybe down like it owned the place. “Live Forever” wasn’t just a song; it was a promise, a dare. Suddenly, everything was about being British again. Union Jacks everywhere. Cool Britannia on every front page. Thatcher was gone, Blair was sniffing around, and for a second, you could feel it: something was happening.

And yeah, we bought into it. Adidas Gazelles, parkas, flags we used to hate. The press couldn’t get enough. The bands got massive. Then it started to fall apart, like all good things do.

But for a moment, it wasn’t just hype. It wasn’t just noise. It meant something. You felt it, didn’t you?

The Gloves Came Off

For a while, they almost got along. Oasis showing up at Blur’s afterparties. Blur acting cool about Oasis climbing the charts. Cigarettes. A few pints. Maybe a handshake if no one was looking. Then ’95 came along, and it all went to shit.

Oasis hit number one in April with “Some Might Say.” Liam made sure Damon knew it. Every bloody chance he got. Noel chipped in too, saying “Digsy’s Dinner” was a piss-take of Blur. Damon wasn’t having it. Called them bullies. Called Liam a gob on legs. By summer, the press had a field day.

“Northerners vs Southerners!” they screamed. Like it was some sort of class war. Gritty, working-class lads versus posh art-school kids with skinny jeans and cappuccinos. Oasis said Blur were fakes slumming it for street cred. Blur called Oasis a second-rate Status Quo. You couldn’t escape it. Everyone had to pick a side.

Then came the chart battle. August. Blur drops “Country House.” Oasis answers with “Roll With It.” Single against single. No turning back. It wasn’t about music anymore. It was pride. Ego. Spite. What a mess. What a time to be alive.

Chart Showdown

Both bands were locked and loaded. Oasis dropped “Roll With It” like it mattered. Blur heard, smirked, and shoved “Country House” to the front. 14 August 1995. A Monday. Felt like the whole country took sides. Blur or Oasis. Us or them.

“Roll With It” was a shrug, wasn’t it? Noel said it was about nothing, and you can tell. Strums along, half-asleep. Even the live B-side from Glasto couldn’t save it. Autopilot Gallagher. “Country House” wasn’t better; it was louder, sillier. A cartoon. Falsetto and a Damien Hirst video stapled to a wink that couldn’t hold the weight. No one’s listening to it now. It wasn’t meant to last. It was a move, not a song.

Blur played dirty. Double CD formats shoved down your throat. Call it what it was: marketing. Oasis stuck with one. Principles, they said. Sure. Then came whispers about WHSmith bins filled with Blur stock. Petty as hell. Gloriously petty.

Alex James turned up on Top of the Pops in an Oasis T-shirt. Not peace, not irony. Just taking the piss. Blur got it. It was all bollocks, and they leaned into it. Oasis couldn’t. That’s why Blur won.

Sunday 20 August

The numbers came in that weekend. Blur: 274,000. Oasis: 216,000. Blur had it. Fair play. Their lot popped the champagne, mocked the lads from up north, basked in it. Oasis? They cracked open another lager and carried on.

The press ate it up. Smart southerners vs thick northerners. Art school vs council estate. Blur had the headlines, the moment, the smug grins. Two weeks later, it was over. Michael Jackson knocked them off, and the big victory fizzled out like the last drag of a cigarette.

Oasis didn’t let it go. They stewed on it, that loss, that humiliation. It burned. And then they turned it into something bigger.

Who Really Won?

Blur had the numbers. Fair play. But Oasis? They didn’t just reply, they roared. Morning Glory dropped in October and didn’t move. Four million sales. “Wonderwall” was inescapable. You couldn’t leave your house without hearing it.

By ’96, Blur’s digs about “shite-life” were old news. Oasis had the Brit Awards, Knebworth, the lot. That summer wasn’t a gig; it was a reckoning. Blur couldn’t touch it. Nobody could.

Blur went quiet, went weird, went to Iceland. They came back different. Everyone did.

But you remember, don’t you? That week, that fight. Blur had the moment. Oasis had the legacy.

Thirty Years Later

Mad, isn’t it? Britpop. A scruffy, messy, overblown shambles. Cheap shots. Big choruses. No streaming playlists telling you what to like. Just chaos. It got ridiculous, sure. But it was ours.

I still hear it sometimes. Orange Walkmans clicking shut. The Chart Show on a Sunday like it meant something. It felt good, wanting fun and not saying sorry for it. Even the stupid shit—picking sides, falling out over Blur or Oasis—felt massive. Life or death, somehow.

Now? Blur and Oasis are mates. Noel and Damon writing songs together. It’s weird, isn’t it, seeing them grown up? All the fighting, the class jabs, the bullshit—it’s nothing now. Maybe it was always nothing. Maybe it just burns out in the end. Or maybe we lost something along the way.