Noel and his family life to the Esquire.
6 | “Ice cream for breakfast and liquorice for lunch”
Do you know what time my wife got in this morning? Half-six! She was out last night with her mates. I was woke up this morning with a tap on the head from my eldest. I looked at the clock and it was half-six, and he went, “She’s just got in.” So I told her, “I’m not doing your PR no more. I don’t get any back.”
I know it’s extremely fucking un-rock’n’roll to say this, but the person I prefer to hang out with more than anyone is my missus. She’s my favourite person to go on holiday with, to go to dinner with, 12-hour lunches, go to the party. She just, yeah, she means everything to me. She’s a fucking good girl.
I fucking love women. I much prefer hanging out with them. I remember my upbringing being pretty much my mum and her sisters, and even when we went to Ireland the men were never around. I’d much rather hang out with girls. I mean who wouldn’t? Fuck me, if you’ve got the choice of a night out with six birds or six fucking geezers, thank you very much but I’ll go with the six women. I never go on lads’ nights out. Ever.
I’ve said to Sara many times: she wouldn’t have lasted 10 minutes in the Nineties. All the scene around my house would have devoured her. She was too pretty for the Nineties. There was too much chaos and drugs and all that kind of thing. And I met her just at the right time – I’d given up drugs, my first marriage had pretty much broken down and there she was. Of all the fucking places, in Ibiza. You’re supposed to have one-night stands in Ibiza, you’re not supposed to get a girlfriend, far less a wife, far less two fucking children.
She can be a bit of a ditherer. She changes her mind mid-sentence. Then again, that’s like most women though, isn’t it? Dithering fuckers.
She’s very funny and it goes without saying that she’s gorgeous and all that. Yeah, she’s top, man. She is great. And I’m looking forward to getting home today because she’s going to have the fear. It’s one of my favourite parts of having a relationship, is when she has the fear because I’ll pounce on her like a lion – and I don’t mean sexually. I’ll stoke the fear for a good four or five hours before she goes to bed. And I’ll be just looking at her going, “You looked like you’d exploded out of your knickers when you got in this morning.” Mentally breaking her down. I’m such a cunt.
By sheer definition, every songwriter is a romantic. But all my efforts in that department go into songwriting. If I ever found myself walking down the street with flowers, I’d have a moment of clarity and I’d have to take them back to the garage: “Can I swap this for a Starbar, please?”
All the PR I do for that woman, I didn’t even get a fucking birthday present last time. Fucking hell! She pulls out that one: “But you’ve got everything! How many more effects pedals can I buy you?” One more! One fucking more will do. One more! The amount of times she’ll say to me, “You couldn’t give us a fucking rub there?” “No! Go to a fucking spa! I’m not massaging any fucker.”
She’s bad cop. I’m good cop. I’d let my kids get away with murder. Sara’s a bit more of a stickler for the rules. I’d let them have ice cream for breakfast. And liquorice for lunch and sit round watching telly all day. Because it’s like, you’re away most of the time and you can’t be coming home and then laying down the law. The kids’ll just think, “Who’s this cunt?” I tell my kids a lot: “You lucky fuckers.”
My daughter, who comes from a broken marriage, she works in TV now, she’s very fucking into it. I was quite lucky with music, I latched onto something that I loved and I became obsessed with it. If those two lads find that thing then it’s just up to me to steer them, guide them towards it. But I’m not going to overthink it, either. I mean, they’ll probably both end up working for me. Donovan’ll be the tour manager and Sonny will be head of security. I’d love that.
The amount of rock stars’ kids that make something of themselves you could probably count on one hand. We’ll find out, I guess. But if my lads never lift a finger for the rest of their lives, on my deathbed I’ll say to them, “Fucking good on you.”