Free Getting High by Paolo Hewitt

dressing-room. Robbie Williams was also present.
    Bonehead had a copy of the New Musical Express with him. That week, Britain’s largest-selling music weekly had published a letter from an Oasis fan complaining about having to queue up hours for Earls Court tickets ‘only to find out that one-note-never-moves-on-stage-Guigsy is not playing because he is exhausted. Well, what about me who got to Earls Court at six in the morning.’
    â€˜The geezer’s not far wrong,’ Liam said with a cheeky grin.
    â€˜When that went down,’ Robbie said of Guigsy having to temporarily leave the band due to severe exhaustion, ‘I knew exactly how he felt. Been there myself.’
    Outside, as the roadies trundled down gangways pushing huge boxes, Marcus Russell and Noel stood surveying the hall.
    â€˜Bloody hell,’ Marcus said, looking at the fifty-strong road crew and local workers hired on the day to help out rushing around, ‘I remember when we played gigs where there weren’t this many people in the audience.’
    It had, of course, all changed now. Marcus had come up bearing astounding news, and it was this: (What’s The Story) Morning Glory? was outselling even their high expectations.
    Three hundred thousand copies had gone to the shops on Monday and by the afternoon there were re-orders for 17,000 more. Today, that number was up to 48,000. It looked like being the fastest-selling album in the UK, ever. Another poke in the eye for the disbelievers.
    â€˜So I’ve spoken to Johnny Hopkins,’ Marcus said,’ And I really think you should only be talking to the big dailies now and maybe a big Sunday paper, The Times or something.’
    â€˜Yeah, whatever,’ Noel said. Then he spotted Digsy walking across the hall. Noel called him over, told him the news about the LP’s sales.
    â€˜Can I swop bands?’ Digsy asked.
    â€˜You can’t swop tunes,’ Noel replied.
    â€˜Ah, that’s when you find out who your mates are.’
    â€˜How about swapping brothers?’ Noel offered.
    â€˜Nah, swop instruments, mate.’
    The pair laughed easily, much time already between them. On the bus, Noel picked up the Sun and shouted, ‘Liam, come here.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Look at this.’
    Noel turned to the gossip page where they had run a picture of Liam from the Megastore gig. His eyeballs were right at the top of his eyelids. He looked half-blind.
    â€˜Yeah, so? I was fucking E’d up. What do you expect?’
    â€˜I expect pop singers to look better than that,’ Noel said with obvious glee.
    At the hotel, everyone went down to the bar, except Noel. He stood by the lift, his white Adidas bag in hand. A friend of his then approached him.
    â€˜What are you doing, Noel?’
    â€˜Going to my room.’
    â€˜Do you want a line?’
    â€˜Nah, not for me.’
    â€˜You sure?’ The friend had obviously never heard Noel turn down the offer of cocaine before.
    â€˜I’ve got to get up early and drive back to London,’ Noel explained. ‘I’m doing some XFM [an independent radio] show on acoustic guitar and I don’t want to fuck it up. You going to the Bournemouth gig? I’ll see ya there.’
    Meanwhile, in the bar, Liam had Digsy on his shoulders and Scott was chatting to a woman. It was about five a.m. before the last person straggled out.
    The next day was travel day. Noel had left the hotel with Marcus, around ten. Two hours later the band got on the coach with Maggie. Liam had a copy of the film Head starring The Monkees. It is a wilfully psychedelic film from 1968 that had been written by Hollywood actor Jack Nicholson in an attempt to smash The Monkees’ clean-cut image.
    As giant hoovers dispersed The Monkees into caves or they inexplicably spoke with Italian soldiers in the desert, Liam said, ‘This is the kind of shit we should get into. Do a mad fucking film that will mess with