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The First Scroll The Broadmoor Blues Delta
At the intersection of highways 49 and 61 in Mississippi, one rain-lashed and lightning-lit night in the 1920s, a blues singer called Robert Johnson acquired his gift from a scarlet gentlemen with horns and a tail, paying his instructor with an I.O.U. note for his soul.
English rock and roll does not work like this.
In the first of the scrolls to be unfurled, we learn of the recent adventures of Ian Ball, last seen circa 1974, being bundled towards Broadmoor in the wake of his attempt to kidnap Anne, the Princess Royal. Decades into his incarceration, Ball's attention is drawn to the existence of his namesake, a member of a bewilderingly popular beat combination called Gomez, currently being showered with cash, bathed in applause, and anointed with sponsored awards cruelly denied more deserving artists.
Ian Ball, confused enough as it is, becomes more so, and temporarily loses sight of the difference between himself and the Ian Ball frolicking in the garden of earthly delights which is the droit de seigneur of the third-division indie rock guitarist. The Broadmoor Ball decides that he fancies a bit of this; at the very least, he reasons, it will be an improvement on more bloody dominoes.
At the intersection of highways 49 and 61 in Mississippi, one rain-lashed and lightning-lit night in the 1920s, a blues singer called Robert Johnson acquired his gift from a scarlet gentlemen with horns and a tail, paying his instructor with an I.O.U. note for his soul.
English rock and roll does not work like this.
In the first of the scrolls to be unfurled, we learn of the recent adventures of Ian Ball, last seen circa 1974, being bundled towards Broadmoor in the wake of his attempt to kidnap Anne, the Princess Royal. Decades into his incarceration, Ball's attention is drawn to the existence of his namesake, a member of a bewilderingly popular beat combination called Gomez, currently being showered with cash, bathed in applause, and anointed with sponsored awards cruelly denied more deserving artists.
Ian Ball, confused enough as it is, becomes more so, and temporarily loses sight of the difference between himself and the Ian Ball frolicking in the garden of earthly delights which is the droit de seigneur of the third-division indie rock guitarist. The Broadmoor Ball decides that he fancies a bit of this; at the very least, he reasons, it will be an improvement on more bloody dominoes.
Hurdling the barbed wire one misty morning, Ball decamps for his own rendezvous with rock and roll destiny at a level-crossing near Basingstoke. Here, Ball is greeted by a grinning face beneath a haphazardly thatched haircut, an apparition long familiar from the television program popular with fellow inmates, in which he had orchestrated the realisation of viewer's dreams.
"Now, then," intones the shell-suited goblin, pockets his payment, and makes the necessary arrangements.
"Now, then," intones the shell-suited goblin, pockets his payment, and makes the necessary arrangements.
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