NME | 12 July 1997
They need to be themselves, they can’t be no-one else. Well, maybe. Right now, Noel and Liam Gallagher are each other. Same hair, same scowl, same swagger, same security guards: brothers. In matching Kangol parkas.
"I swear I didn’t know he was going to wear his," says Noel, fingering his designer logo. "Do you think I’d have turned up wearing the same clobber as that cunt on purpose?"
"Yeah, right," smirks Liam, "you were on the phone to Pats going, ‘What’s he wearing, what’s he wearing? I’ve got to make sure it matches’."
Noel rolls his eyes. “Er, right. We should make sure we get some money off Kangol for this.”
"Too right! Can’t wear anything these days."
"Yeah," agrees Noel. "Can’t wear anything these days without someone trying to give us money for it. Bloody terrible that is. Do you want a sarnie?"
"No, but I’m mad for a beer." Liam swivels round looking for his security guard. "Get us a couple of beers, mate. I’m going to hit fucking Paris tonight! I’ve been in for three days and nights doing fuck all, just watching Neighbours twice a day. I’m getting a thing for Helen fucking Daniels and it’s not healthy! I am gasping for a proper night out. It’s going to be top!" Noel momentarily brightens. It’s not been a great morning but the future smells sweeter.
"Yeah," he says, nudging his brother, "just you and me in Paris! We’re going to have a right party! Patsy and Meg will be panicking, ringing the hotel rooms, wondering where we are and we won’t be there. We’ll be out!"
"Yeah," agrees Liam decisively, "we’ll be right out!"