I think the death of JG Ballard deserves marking here because although he never (to my knowledge) smashed a guitar or threw a groupie out of a hotel window, his transgressive erudition was far more rock ‘n’ roll than that displayed by any number of posturing putative punks a third of his age. I offer you the thought of my virtual friend Ben (a pretty Ballardian concept in itself), who tweets as amuchmoreexotic:
I am going to crash my car into JG Ballard’s hearse, then have sex with his corpse. It’s what he would have wanted.
