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Noel Gallagher


Dublin’s Westbury Hotel is obviously suffering from an identity crisis on this particular Saturday afternoon. Normally staid, even sleepy, with tunes like Strauss’ Tales from The Vienna Woods wafting over the muzak system, right now its lobby is also awash with walkietalkies, denim, t-shirts, security passes and teenage fans shrieking each time a car stops outside the window. And it gets more surreal. One woman of sixty, or so, scurries about, saying: “If I tell you where they are, will you get me a backstage pass for tonight?” At the same time, a teenage girl is being asked to “tone down” her voice by a member of the hotel management and rather inexplicably retorts: “Donal Meehan knows I’m here!” Good for Donal, whoever the hell he is. Another two girls, found quietly secreted away in an alcove, face the enquiry: “who, exactly, is it you’re here to see?” a question that is almost immediately made redundant as the hotel foyer erupts when someone shouts “they’re here!”…


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