Falling out of a milk cart with Liam Gallagher

No, really.

My night with Liam - a true story

This story is true, no exaggeration, no creative flourishes. It starts like a scene from a Christmas advert, carols around a tree, adorable children with rosy cheeks, and ends with me tumbling out of a milk float, drunk beyond reason, alongside Liam Gallagher and his girlfriend, Debbie. As you do.

milk float on tour

The Setup

So, here’s how it began: I got invited to contribute to an art installation celebrating the anniversary of the Magna Carta. You know, that document from 1215 for medieval English barons. Anyway, this was no ordinary arts-and-crafts project. I had to sew. It was an utterly serious, profound moment in British history, and there I was, needle in hand, learning sewing for the first time. It ended up in a giant tapestry replicating the Wikipedia page of the Manga Carta and was displayed at the Bodleian Library. I was, of course, ridiculously proud of myself.

After that historical high point at the Bodleian, I stayed with my friends Fraser and Sophie, who live near Oxford. They are lovely people, but their lifestyle is the opposite of everything I’m about to tell you. We spent a virtuous day in Oxford, drinking organic coffee, eating wholesome food, and sundry activities that make you feel like you’re improving your carbon footprint just by existing.

Then, because fate had a sense of humour that day, they took me to Soho Farmhouse for Christmas carols. Now, Soho Farmhouse is populated by people who look like they just stepped out of a Boden catalogue. There were brass bands (possibly Salvation Army, though I might have hallucinated that), twinkling lights, and people drinking artisanal hot chocolate out of mugs so expensive they probably had mortgages. It was all very charming in a “whoever curated this scene deserves a BAFTA” kind of way.

But after a while, the enforced jolliness started to wear thin. My undiagnosed ADHD needed a break from the overwhelming wholesomeness of it all. So, naturally, I wandered off into the night like a Dickensian ghost, and that’s when I found Liam Gallagher.

The Drinking

Now, picture this: Liam Gallagher, sitting alone, looking like the angel of rock ‘n’ roll doom in the middle of all this festive cheer. So, what do I do? I ask him if he fancies a drink. Because why wouldn’t you?

Liam, being the seasoned professional he is, led me to a tiny hidden bar far from the madding crowd. We perched ourselves on stools, and I launched into a rambling monologue about my day because clearly, what Liam Gallagher needs in his life is an in-depth analysis of the Magna Carta.

The drinks started flowing, Jack Daniels and Coke, because obviously, if you’re with Liam Gallagher, you drink something with a bit more punch than mulled wine. And it turns out that Liam Gallagher is bloody hilarious. He’s quick, he’s sharp, and he’s got this amazing ability to sum up the entire vegan eating class of North London with just a look. He tells me he watches Prime Minister’s Questions from his Hampstead home, usually over a quinoa salad. Yes, let Liam Gallagher and quinoa sink in for a moment.

I, of course, try to get all serious and talk about how small music venues are closing down, making it hard for new bands to get their start. Even Oasis would find it hard to break through in today’s climate. Oops. Did I just say that? Liam looks up at me, deadpan, and says, “That’s bollocks, mate. Oasis were always going to be a stadium band.” And you know what? Fair point. Who am I to argue with rock ‘n’ roll destiny?

By this point, I was drinking Jack and Coke like it was, well, Coke. Things were getting… loose.

Enter Debbie and the Hairdresser

And then Debbie shows up. She’s been looking for Liam, and she’s not exactly thrilled to find him in a tiny bar with me, both of us several drinks deep. But Liam, ever the charmer, smirks and says, “Shut up, love, we’re talking tapestries here.” Yes, tapestries. We’re talking about tapestries like some 18th-century gentlemen at a Pall Mall club. We both found that hilarious, though Debbie... less so. I’ll leave the rest of her commentary from the newsletter out of respect for everyone involved. Let’s just say she’s even quicker on her feet than Liam, which is saying something.

Then things got even weirder.

This bloke comes over, sporting a tattoo of the Stone Roses lemon on his arm, and proudly announces that he’s David Cameron’s hairdresser. Yes, that David Cameron. The man who brought us Brexit apparently also had a personal hairdresser who looked like the secretary of the Stone Roses fan club. And the guy was frisky, eager to show Liam his tattoo. It looked like someone had drawn it with a yellow crayon, but that may have been my double vision. He was desperate for us to be impressed. And maybe Liam was. Or maybe he wasn’t. I couldn’t tell. But when the bloke mentioned that he had cut David Cameron’s hair, you could see Liam’s face change. It was like he’d just found a worm in his quinoa salad.

Ignoring the hairdresser, Liam just looks up and says, “I tell you who I can’t fucking stand.”

That fuckinng Shrek.”

“Shrek?”

“Yeah, Shrek. I can’t fucking stand him.”

Shrek? Who’s Shrek? After gentle probing, I realise he’s talking about Alex Salmond. And you know what? Once you picture it, it’s hard to unsee it.

Anyway, the hairdresser’s admission that he cuts David Cameron’s hair didn’t exactly win him any friends at our bar. Liam wasn’t impressed. I started to realise that things might take a turn if this guy didn’t stop talking about David Cameron and tattoos.

The Milk Float

When it looked like the night might descend into chaos, the bartender evaporated. No more Jack Daniels. The world suddenly seemed a much darker place. But then, as if out of nowhere, this mysterious figure appeared, a bit like the tailor from Mr Benn, if Mr Benn was set in an exclusive Oxfordshire private members’ club. He guided us through a secret door, and before I knew it, we were gripped by the cold of winter.

Next thing I know, we’re being bundled into a milk float. Yes, a milk float. Now, this might have been some quirky, eco-friendly chauffeur service, but to the three of us (Liam, Debbie and me), it felt like the strangest rollercoaster ride ever conceived. I started to question whether David Cameron’s hairdresser had spiked my drink with LSD.

We zigzagged through the dark, wintry night, the countryside lit only by the moon and the dim glow of my sense impending doom. And then, as if scripted by some drunken Christmas ghost, the milk float hit a hard stop, and the three of us tumble out. I vaguely recall Liam sliding down steep steps and landing at the door of what looked like a wooden shack owned by the Waltons. Why? Who knows. It just seemed like the inevitable conclusion to a night that had gone completely off the rails.

I don’t remember much after that, except for Fraser finding me sprawled in the car park. He had this look on his face, half awe, half concern. I woke up the following day at their house, greeted by the comforting smell of fresh coffee and the less comforting memory of what the hell had happened the night before.

And that, my friends, is what happens when you drink with Liam Gallagher at a carol concert. Surreal, ridiculous, and somehow perfect. I love him very much in all his vulnerable bluster and self-deprecating humour. God Bless you, Liam. And God bless Oasis.