Eddy Says

Eddy Says: Getting the train to ManchestOH

By Eddy Temple-Morris | Published on Monday 21 June 2010

Last week Eddy brought us a tale of the point in time where Kasabian were just beginning to emerge as one of Britain’s biggest new bands. This week he’s casting his mind back fifteen years to a period where a not dissimilar band were just beginning their ascent into rock legend.

Okay, musically Kasabian and Oasis may not be entirely alike, but both arrived with a certain swagger. In the case of Oasis, an actual (rather than metaphorical) swagger which many of you will remember caused a great deal of men on the streets of the UK in the mid 90s to apparently partly lose control of their arms and legs as they attempted to copy Liam Gallagher’s famous walk.

Some did it in an attempt to emulate the then new rock star, others purely to mock those guys who thought they could reach anywhere near the levels of cool given off by Liam at that time. Here, Eddy remembers one occasion when he joined that latter group of mockers and ended up giving a spelling lesson.

The year was 1995 and I was Senior Presentation Producer at Radio One. In layman’s terms this meant, as part of a two man team with the brilliant Gem Godfrey, we made the jingles and promos, all the mad soundscapes and audio glue that held the station together.

Part of my job was to ensure that programmes produced OUTside the R1 building sounded like they were produced INside it. So, I’d go and meet up with the likes of Tim Westwood, Danny Rampling, and, in this case, Mark Radcliffe and Mark Riley. Or Mark n Lard, as they were known in the roaring 90s. Their brilliant show came from Oxford Road, Manchester and it was time to pay them a visit. So I grabbed Hannah, my lovely assistant, and we headed for Euston Station to catch the train north to meet up with the boys.

At that time, we – and I mean the UK, not just Hannah and I – were in the grips of Oasis fever. ‘Definitely Maybe’ had been the fastest and biggest selling debut album of all time, ‘What’s The Story, Morning Glory?’ was about to drop and take them to the status of gods. Everybody was talking about them, all the time. With that in mind, picture me walking down this long ramp on the way to the platform, with Hannah. In front of us are two men heading for the same train. The one on the left had the kind of Ian Brown walk, that loose limbed monkey swagger, that was – I kid you not – exactly like ‘the Liam Gallagher walk’ we all know and love now. From behind view, he looked like a stereotypical Liam-like Manc scamp, larging it with every stride.

Hannah and I’d had a lunchtime drink, because we’d got out of the office and it felt like a holiday, and we were both genuinely thrilled to be going to the centre of the indie universe. So, fuelled by the Dutch courage provided by our celebratory tipple, I began to take the piss of this guy in front of us. I started walking like him and pretending it was Liam Gallagher in front of us. I said to Hannah, with quite some bravado, and in a mock Liam accent: “Hey, dat’s the Manchestoh train, it goes to Man-chest-or, and I’m aah kid, goin ‘ome to Manchestoh to see me mam and that, in ManchestOH”.

Our fits of giggles and pisstakes carried down the platform, volume increased by alcohol, but as we neared the train, the two manc lads peeled left towards the First Class carriage. Hang on, First Class? I gulped. Monkey-boy on the left turned around to catch our eye, and to both our horror and delight, we got a flash of those gorgeous eyes topped with that neanderthal forehead moustache. Hannah and I looked at each other and gawped, as we realised the full horror of the situation. I’d just been rampantly taking the piss out of the most exciting and iconic new frontmen on Planet Earth. And he’d busted us.

At that point I wanted the ground to open and swallow me, as we headed to our normal, riff-raff class, licence-fee paid seats and took stock of the situation.

“He smiled at you”, said Hannah. “He thought you were funny”. Okay, there had been an undeniable smile-type facial movement there, but that could have been misconstrued, a simian-like ‘teeth bearing when threatened’. “You should go and say hello”, she continued. “Tell him who you are. For God’s sake, you took ‘Shakermaker’ into the playlist meeting, you’re a supporter, he’d be chuffed to meet you”.

I wasn’t so convinced. “I’m not so sure H”, I muttered. “I was taking the piss, and I hate invading famous people’s space. Besides he might twat me for being cheeky and I LOVE his band”.

In those days there were two kinds of people in the UK, Blur people and Oasis people. I was Oasis people.

“Look, fuck it, I’m going to go to the buffet car and find him”, said Hannah in that no nonsense way that girls like Hannah do – brave, independent, and slightly maternal.

“Noooooooo”, I called out as she stood up, but she was already on her way, leaving me with my head buried in my hands.

A fraction of eternity later, Hannah reappeared with a grin the size of Berkshire:
“He wants to meet you”.

“What the fuck?!”

“I’ve been talking to him, he wants to meet you”, said repeated. “I told him who you are and what you do, and that you’re too shy to say hello. He said to tell you not to be daft and come say hello, he’s at the buffet car hatchway”.

I swallowed some air.

“Fuuuck… really?”

“Really”.

I swallowed some more air.

Then inhaled a deep breath of it.

“OK, let’s do it…”

We got to the opening where soggy British Rail sandwiches and cups of shit tea were being handed to people for the price of a small car in eastern Europe. There was the inevitable queue, as the train pulled away from London.

Liam was just standing there, talking to his mate, at the front of the queue. I didnt want to interrupt but Hannah brokered our meeting: “Liam, this is Eddy, my boss, the guy I told you about… Eddy”, she motioned between us. “Liam”.

“Alright, our kid?” He flashed a knowing smile and continued: “Thanks for the support man, means a lot”.

He said he thought my pisstake was funny, because he WAS on his way back to see his Mam, and had a sense of humour about it. The touchpaper had been lit, and we spent the next two or three hours hanging out, shooting the shit, and leaning out of the window smoking cigarrettes. I smoked Camels daily then, and Liam took loads off me.

He talked about how ‘mad’ life had become now they’d started to blow up. Every now and again, we were interrupted by people who had got to the front of the buffet queue and recognised Liam. A really random selection of people, from one guy who said “Hey, I was at school with you… remember me?” to a bloke in a posh suit and voice to match, who said “I think you’re marvellous, I have your CD in my car”. Each and every approach was met with the same wide eyed wonder, genuine enthusiasm and gratitude. Liam was the same with the scalleys and the poshies, there was not a trace of bitterness or egotism.

We talked about the band, and he kept saying “I’m just a singer me, I don’t write songs, I’m just a singer”.

I had two overriding thoughts when talking to him, the first was that he was, in the academic sense, as thick as pigshit, but that he had an extremely intelligent trait: self-awareness. This was a man who knew his limitations and had no pretentions. He was totally charming, witty, self-deprecating, approachable, chatty and unspoiled by the ravages of money and success.

Towards the end of the journey he said: “My man, I’ve ponced so many cigs off yer, what can I do for you? Guestlist at any gig? Album? You name it, man”.

“I already get all those things from Dylan, your radio plugger”, I responded. “But there is one thing you could do…”

I’d told him about my girlfriend, and that I was planning on proposing the next time I saw her. She was a big Oasis fan, so I asked if he would write her a note asking her to marry me.

Liam looked nervous.

“I don’t like writing, I’m not very good with words…”

“That’s OK, I am!” I grinned, not wanting to miss this opportunity. “I can say the words and you just write them down and sign your name”.

He agreed, and I found a worthless banknote from Laos in my wallet and gave it to him with a scrounged pen.

“OK. Here goes: ‘Tai, please marry Eddy, definitely not maybe, love Liam'”, I proposed.

“Good one, like it”, he said and set about transcribing my words.

He wrote like one of those kids who can’t help but chew on their tongue when they write, and when he got to the the word ‘definitely’, he hit a wall.

There was a slightly awkward pause…

“How do you spell definitely?”

“Dude, it’s the name of your album!”

“I know, but I told you I’m shit at writing stuff. I can’t fooking write!’ He said, smiling with an awareness of how amusing this situation had become.

“D-E-F-I…” I began.

To this day, I cannot remember if it was my fault or his, but when he handed the note back to me, it said: “DEFINTLY NOT MAYBE – love Liam X”.

“Defintly”.

Priceless.

The note is now probably buried in a landfill somewhere, after my wife’s handbag got nicked on a London bus. I’ve since had a child, separated, divorced, had a bitter custody battle and I’m on the other side, happier than ever.

Liam, sadly, has lost all that wonderful boyish innocence now. I’ve not spoken to him since, but he did send me a nice message when I was on MTV, saying that I was “their top man on MTV”.

I often see or hear his words on radio or telly and think back to that time, when the novelty of it all still hadn’t worn off. I won’t hear a bad word said about him, despite all the knobbish things he’s said and done, because I know that, at heart, he is a good soul. A simple soul. But undoubtedly a top banana.

Eddy xx

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