Live Forever

In the summer of 2025, for one magical moment, it felt as though we were back in the 1990s. In my mind, I was no longer in my mid-forties; with a beer-gut, a mortgage and an office job I hated, I was a skinny teenage student once more. For one night only, we could all revel in our lost youth. 

Almost twelve months earlier the unthinkable had happened. The announcement came that music fans of my age had been dreaming of for years. Oasis declared that they were reforming. The biggest band of my generation was back. Oasis were getting back together after fifteen years apart. A lot had changed since then. The world and everyone in it, had changed. But now we had a portal back to our youth, for this one evening. The band, our band, were reuniting. There was hope after all. The optimism of the 1990s was back. We could all feel it. 

The comeback gig in Heaton Park, in Manchester, was going to be epic. As the date of the homecoming concert neared, excitement grew to a frenzy. 

I squeezed through the turnstile and waded into the summer festival atmosphere. In Manchester it tended to rain all year round, and when the sun did appear it was usually reported as an unusual orange object in the sky, that nobody had ever seen before. Not this afternoon. The sun bathed the concert field in glorious sunshine, giving it a wonderful, dream like quality. Our dreams were about to come true.

I hadn’t been to an Oasis gig in almost two decades. Seeing the band’s iconic logo on the stage, and being surrounded by like-minded music fans, all wearing band t-shirts and bucket hats, my mind went back to those crazy days of the 1990s. 

Being a teenager in Manchester in the 1990s was like being in the centre of the universe. When local band Oasis hit the big time, we suddenly found the way we spoke and dressed, even our outlook on life in general, was suddenly the coolest thing in the world. Across the country people were copying the way we did things, trying to match our swagger. I can only imagine this was what being in Liverpool in the 1960s, at the height of Beatlemania, must have been like. Maybe all cities have this zeitgeist moment. I was just glad to be there at the right time. 

My best friend all through high school was a lad called Andy. We had the same silly sense of humour. We would set each other off into fits of uncontrollable laughter, hysterics. We were always reciting lines from our favourite comedy shows, Alan Partridge, The Fast Show, Monty Python. We were just so on the same wavelength. We were into the same stuff, music, films, books, television. Basically, everything but sport, really. Music was always something special to us. Maybe it was the film buff in him, but Andy would always insist that music was the soundtrack to our lives. 

When we left high school in 1993, the city and the world was waiting for us, ours for the taking. There was one thing Andy loved more than anything and that was his record collection. These days they call it vinyl, but to us it was ‘records’. Whenever he was home, he’d have a record on the turntable, and he always had the latest albums by the coolest bands.

We both enrolled at the local college, excited to see where life would take us next. There was always one Oasis track that spoke to us. With its anthemic lyrics and haunting guitar solo, the song seemed to sum everything up. Live Forever. We would raise our beer glasses, the toast always the same, stating our case for greatness and immortality. 

Live Forever! 

Live Forever, mate! And we’d clink glasses. 

To this day, I’ve never been as drunk as I was those nights. We would hit the town, wandering from one pub to the next, usually ending up at an Indian restaurant in the early hours of the morning. The restaurants would open late into the night, happy to serve food and drink to those not ready for home. We would dine on wonderful curries, washed down with pints of beer, while putting the world to rights and making these great elaborate plans and talking about music. Did you see Oasis on the White Room on Channel Four? Mind blowing stuff! They say they’re doing the Glastonbury festival this summer. Can you imagine?

We took full advantage of the social scene at college, there was always something going on, some organised event, some party or other, that we just had to attend. Andy and I grew closer than ever. We were more like brothers than best friends. The whole vibe of college life was just so cool. We’d turn up at the house of a friend of a friend, for a party. I would bring a pack of beers, and Andy would have his case full of records. Andy would get the party truly started by picking out a cracking record to play. By the end of the night, Andy and I were on first name terms with everyone there. 

College life suited us both. We had a sense that this was it, these were the days. Looking back, these were the golden, heady, summer days, almost like a second childhood. Even in our gloomy city, the sun seemed to be always shining, and the beer was always flowing, and there was always a great rock band about to step on stage. 

The first year at college rolled by far too quickly. Before we knew it, we were starting our second year of further education. 

In the second year of college, I was still revelling in the student life, despite the second year being more demanding than the first. The courses were ramping up the pressure, as homework, coursework and weekly tests were dished out. We were now second year students, and it was time to step up. I was just about managing and hoped Andy was doing the same.

There was also the social aspect that changed in the second year. The college crowd had changed since we were freshers. Some of our group had graduated from college, some had dropped out. There were a lot of new faces, and many of the guys from last year were no longer around. Andy suddenly found he didn’t really fit in with the new college crowd. He became quieter and more withdrawn. One lunchtime in the college canteen, he joined me and the rest of the group. He looked around at the faces gathered and leaned in.

‘Where did everyone go?’ He whispered. 

‘Relax, man. These guys are cool.’ I insisted.

‘This lot listen to cassettes, not records. What is the world coming to?’ He replied, shaking his head in disgust.

Rather than engage with the group and give them a chance, Andy would merely eye the group with suspicion. It was around that time I started smelling booze on him in college. Even at nine in the morning, on our way to the first class of the day, he would be slurring slightly and have alcohol on his breath. I was all for the party and having a few drinks and letting my hair down, but Andy seemed to be not so much burning the candle at both ends, as dousing everything in petrol. 

We were leaving college one afternoon, when a teacher called out for Andy. My friend simply hurried away, marching out the door, and heading for the bus stop. When I caught up with him, I asked what that was all about.

‘He’s chasing for that last assignment.’ He shrugged. 

‘Are you on with it? If you need any help, I’ll have a look. If I can’t help, I’m sure one of the others will be able to give you a hand.’ I said.

‘Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ll sort it. We okay for a pint later?’ Andy asked. 

‘Can we do tomorrow instead? I’ve got lots of homework I need to get cracking with. We could study together, if you like?’

‘I’m going out on the lash, mate. Studying is for-’

‘Students?’ I suggested.

‘Funny guy.’ Andy replied with a grin.

Maybe I should have done more, should have checked in with my friend more, but Andy wasn’t the type of guy you could sit and have a heart-to-heart with. If he wanted to talk, if he opened up, then you listened, but if you tried to get him to talk when he wasn’t in the right mindset, you’d get nothing but a mouthful of abuse. 

While Andy was struggling, I felt I was coming into my own. For me being a student in 90s Manchester, was like being in the eye of a wonderful, powerful storm. I felt as if I was just coming into my own. It was hard work juggling the relentless college work with enjoying a decent student social life. Andy seemed to be drinking more and more and studying less and less. It did occur to me that his visits to college were getting less frequent. Considering we had daily classes, I would only see him on campus a couple of times a week.

A few months later, we were leaving a gig, our ears still ringing with the wonderful jangling guitar music, and heading down the street. Andy threw an arm around me.

‘I’ve been kicked out.’ He said.

‘Of what? The band has finished playing.’ I said, pointing back to the venue. 

‘They’ve kicked me out of college.’ Andy said.

‘What? Why? They can’t do that. You should appeal.’ I insisted.

‘They say I’m too far behind with coursework.’ 

‘I’ll help you, we all will. Tell them you’ll make the work up. We can fix this, mate.’

‘And they say I was drunk in class.’ Andy said.

I said nothing.

‘I mean, they’re right.’ He shrugged.

I swore and asked what he was going to do now.

Andy shrugged again. 

‘I need a drink.’ He said. ‘You coming?’

Still reeling from Andy’s news, I simply nodded.

A few hours later, we walked home, through the early morning darkness, talking about the new Shed Seven album, Let It Ride. We agreed there was some absolute bangers on the LP.

When we reached Andy’s street, he paused. Normally, he’d simply call out, good night, and stagger away. Tonight, he lingered across the street from me.

‘You okay, mate?’ I called out.

Andy crossed back over the road and hugged me. 

‘See you around, mate.’ He said.

He walked away, without looking back. As I watched him leave, I sensed that something, a chapter of our lives, had just come to an end. 

That was the last time I saw Andy. Having been kicked out of college, he stopped hanging out with us. There were no rules to say you couldn’t hang out with students, if you weren’t studying, but I sensed it was a little to painful, to raw, to associate with people who were members of the college you’d just been expelled from. I did try calling and phoning in the weeks that followed but there was never any answer, or his parents would tell me that he wasn’t home. Maybe he was there and couldn’t face it. 

As I was leaving the park after Oasis’ big comeback gig, filing out of the gates, with the rest of the throng, all buzzing over the fact that we saw history, again, I saw him. Andy was up ahead. I was sure it was him. I pushed and shoved my way through, swimming through the crowd, trying to reach the familiar figure. I hurried after him out through the gates.

Out on the street, I turned 360, looked around for my old friend. He was gone. I was surrounded by hundreds of music fans wearing Oasis t-shirts and bucket hats, but none of them was my friend. If it had been Andy, he was gone, evading me once more. 

I never knew what happened to Andy. I like the think that he sorted himself out and found a place for himself in this life. Maybe he settled down. Maybe he has a family. I can see him with a wife and children, showing his kids his treasured record collection and buying them their first Oasis t-shirt. I would like to think that, like Oasis, we’ll all Live Forever.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom