IF LAST SUMMER WAS, at the encouragement of Charli XCX, a ‘Brat summer’, this one was, thanks to the Gallagher brothers, a season of 90s nostalgia, bucket hats and fizzy lager (actually for me, it was much more about cricket, but that’s maybe for next month). Manchester in particular, a place I frequent, was for several weeks in the grip of a kind of (largely good-natured) collective madness. Every city centre hotel was full, Oasis T-shirts were de rigueur and the city throbbed to ancient singalong choruses.
It wasn’t really for me, frankly. That’s not to be rude about Oasis. I quite liked the first album, as one is bound by law to say. It’s just that the massed al fresco carnage of the outdoor festival has always left me…
