When Noel Gallagher visited Downing Street

You need to be yourself

It was 1997. Labour were in. Blair was grinning like he’d fixed the country before even unpacking his toothbrush. You had Be Here Now on repeat, trying to convince yourself it was genius, not bloat. And then there it was. Noel Gallagher, on your telly, outside Number 10. Looking half chuffed, half confused, like he'd wandered into a wedding dressed for the boozer.

You remember that. Not the headlines, not the soundbites. The feeling. That creeping wrongness. Oasis, who used to soundtrack your hangovers and bus-stop arguments, now playing court with the new Prime Minister. Noel, the lad who wrote "Cigarettes & Alcohol," shaking hands with the bloke who probably had a favourite Simply Red album.

Cool Britannia, My Arse

They called it Cool Britannia. Like we were all invited to the party. Like Downing Street cared what you were listening to on your Walkman. It was a pantomime. A rebrand. The same posh blokes in nicer suits.

Noel went. Of course he did. Said he was too nosy not to. Fair. You’d want a look too. But what was he expecting? A revolution? Solidarity? A PM who gave a toss about "Fade Away"?

What he got was awkward chit-chat and a tour. Blair cracked a joke about staying up late without drugs. Hilarious. Noel thought about drawing a moustache on Thatcher’s portrait. Didn’t do it. Said he couldn’t remember. Someone else says he bottled it. Should’ve done it. Would’ve been the only true thing about the whole bloody evening.

The Hangover

We got the photos instead. Blair smirking like he’d signed Oasis to Parlophone. Noel looking like he’d blagged VIP at Glasto again. For about five minutes, people clapped. Then the hangover hit.

Later, Noel called it a mistake. Said he was furious with himself. Fair. He’d been played. Same ties, different colours. Nothing changed. Just a bit more marketing gloss. A bit less hope.

But it wasn’t just Number 10. It was the whole period. Coke, chaos, shouting matches with Liam, and the weight of being Oasis when the world wanted saviours.

The Decline

Cool Britannia didn’t explode. It sputtered. Like a stereo running out of batteries. By the time Travis were headlining festivals, you knew it was over. Blair’s grin cracked around the time the bombs started falling. Britpop collapsed into itself. Blur went weird. Pulp went missing. Oasis played Wembley like it was a wake.

And you? You watched it happen. Helpless. A front-row seat to something that once felt pure being repackaged for policy launches and tabloid pull-outs.

That Photo

You still see it sometimes. Noel and Blair. Two lads who never should’ve shared a frame. It sticks. Like a chord that never lands. Not anger. Not pride. Just a dull thud in your chest. Noel was meant to knock on that door, nick the silverware, and leg it. Not pose for the family album.

He laughs about it now. Says it was just a piss-up. Maybe it was. But you know better. You were there. You saw what it meant. You felt the turn.

And you still care. Even if they don’t.