WELCOME TO OZABALL MANOR

SEASON 1:1 "A thrilling and chaotic story of when the Bank of Pei Tian came to lunch at the manor—where mayhem and mischief collide to create an unforgettable day."

DEAR READER:

If you have not read the ‘premiere’ of The Loxley Chronicles - here is a brief resume:

Eddie Loxley: a retired rockstar, lead singer and songwriter of Stiff Lidd, a once successful band of the 80’s era.

Pru Loxley: Eddies wife, chief hustler and financial controller.

These stories are crafted to immerse the reader in vivid scenes and characters. With minimal dialogue, each story serves as a stage for you to step into, inviting you to envision the world and lose yourself within it. Are you ready to dive in?…. Let’s go!

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Ozaball Manor emerged from the misty Hampshire countryside, its 13th-century walls bathed in the amber glow of dawn. The grand estate exuded a timeless elegance, every weathered stone steeped in history and whispering secrets as the years rolled by. Beyond the paved terrace, flowerbeds bloomed in perfect symmetry, their vibrant roses and sculpted topiaries worthy of Capability Brown’s admiration. Down by the brook, ancient willows trailed their branches in the water, dragonflies darting here and there like scattered jewels as the morning chorus stirred the estate to life.

Life at Ozaball felt like a perpetual holiday, where comfort, style, and quiet grandeur made every moment a delight. The days drifted by to the sound of Eddie’s melodies from the studio weaving through the air, mingling with the tempting aromas of delicious food wafting from the kitchen. Yet beyond its splendor, Ozaball possessed a rare charm—one that made you feel instantly at home, where time slowed and life became softer, richer, and beautifully unhurried.

Twenty years ago, Eddie and Pru Loxley had chosen Ozaball Manor as their forever home, lured by the estate agent’s masterful tale that Robin Hood himself had once stayed the night, stolen the family silver, and vanished into a legend. Eddie, with a surname like Loxley, found the connection irresistible and promptly bought the house, enchanted by its supposed ties to folklore and his surname. Of course, the story was a complete fabrication—just another flourish of estate agent jargon to get the house sold —but it had since become one of Eddie’s favourite stories, the content becoming more elaborate as the years rolled by.

Eddie and Pru had seen their Stiff Lidd fortune dwindle—siphoned off by school fees for their twins, Beetle and Ez, or swallowed by the taxman. Now, their income relied on meagre royalties (a lingering sting from bad business deals and law suits), the odd private gig, revival concerts, and the lifeline of Ozaball Manor’s meet-and-greets. These drew a devoted Chinese fanbase—Stiff Lidd’s unexpected ’90s success in China outlasted their Western fame, making it their most lucrative and cherished market.

On this sun-drenched day, four distinguished gentlemen from the Bank of Pei Tian arrived for their exclusive day with Eddie Loxley. They had paid handsomely for a private studio session, a glimpse into his touring photo albums, and a lavish lobster lunch—courtesy of the world-renowned Brenda Brown, a so-called chef to the stars (though, in truth, a former care home cook).

Bren, the manor’s housekeeper, was the silent architect of its seamless chaos, steering every drama with quiet grace. She and her husband, Kenny, were the glue that held Ozaball Manor’s eccentric ecosystem together.

Kenny, officially the groundsman and chauffeur, was a retired civil servant with a deceptively dull past in waste management. In reality, his council job had been the perfect cover for a far more profitable venture—connecting people. From arranging meetings with hitmen to laundering money and moving stolen goods, Kenny had a finger in every shady pie. Yet, despite his dubious dealings, he remained a beloved pillar of the village.

As part of the annual bonus program, Mr. Xan, the CEO of the UK arm of the Bank of Pei Tian had crafted a one-of-a-kind reward for three visiting colleagues: a day with the legendary Eddie Loxley, lead singer and guitar virtuoso of Stiff Lidd. For Mr. Chen, Mr. Guo, and Mr. Zi, the chance to meet the rock icon whose anthems once echoed through the neon glow of 1990s China was nothing short of surreal.

The trio arrived at Abbotts-under-Edge railway station, their sharply tailored silk suits and gleaming briefcases looking misplaced against the quiet and rustic charm of the country platform. Ever a man of impeccable timing, Kenny was there to greet them with his trademark understated demeanour, standing to attention beside the open doors of Eddie’s vintage convertible Rolls-Royce. The car was unmistakable, bearing its infamous number plate: 5T1FF L1DD, its roof rolled back to reveal the gleaming chrome and leather accents. it was the epitome of rockstar luxury.

Visibly impressed, the bankers, climbed into the car with a mixture of curiosity and quiet reverence. Kenny, ever the consummate host, eased the awkward silence by regaling them with tales of Ozaball Manor’s history including heavy doses of Robin of Loxley a.k.a Robin Hood, sprinkling in just enough exaggeration to keep things interesting during the 15 minute drive back to the manor.

The Rolls purred slowly down the long tree lined gravel drive toward the manor, its stately approach marked by the satisfying crunch of tiny stones beneath its wheels. The gentlemen, looking slightly windswept, frantically combed their tousled hair in a flurry of nervous anticipation, eager to perfect their appearance before meeting their idol.

Eddie and Pru stood poised on the front doorstep, ready to greet their esteemed guests. On occasions like this, Pru always battled to get Eddie to wear something vaguely on trend, but he remained stubbornly devoted to his brown corduroy trousers, an old cardigan and his beloved gym shoes, attire that these dapper gentlemen would not associate with.

Pru, ever the quintessential rockstar wife, never missed a chance to play the part. She drifted around the steps wearing a flowing silk yellow kaftan that she insisted had been a gift from Yoko Ono herself. Her hair was styled in a neat chignon, large round sunglasses rested on the tip of her nose as she puffed on a cigarette held in an elegant long holder, she oozed the effortless air of Hollywood glamour.

As the Rolls came to a stop, the group of esteemed gentlemen stepped out onto the drive their mouths agape as they took in the grandeur of the manor and its beautiful gardens.

Just then, Lunch Time, the Loxleys’ overexcitable giant poodle, came barrelling out of the house. Ignoring Eddie and Pru entirely, he made a beeline for the guests, zeroing in on Mr. Chen with boundless enthusiasm.

Following his natural canine instinct to offer a polite “doggy handshake” of crotch sniffing, Lunch Time was blissfully unaware of the chaos he was about to unleash. Having just finished a hearty slurp of water, the height of his soggy muzzle and the coordinates of Mr. Chen’s crotch aligned with unfortunate precision, leaving a noticeable wet patch on Mr. Chen’s immaculate grey suit.

"Oh, Lunch Time, really!" Pru exclaimed, grabbing the dog by the collar and yanking him away from a visibly flustered Mr. Chen.

Eddie, ever the diplomat, waved off the commotion with a laugh, extending his hand. "Welcome, gentlemen, welcome!"

Poor Mr. Chen hesitated, unsure of which hand to offer for the handshake. His right hand was awkwardly pressed against the growing dark stain on his suit, which he hoped would dry quickly, while the other was poised awkwardly in mid-air, caught between formality and the discomfort of his predicament. He waved at Eddie instead.

Meanwhile, Bren stood in the hallway, holding a tray of chilled champagne (though, technically, it was supermarket prosecco, cleverly decanted into an old champagne bottle which was chilling in a ice bucket). The gentlemen each took a glass, exchanging eager words, their excitement unmistakable.

The group shuffled into the baronial hall, their collective chorus of “oohs” and “ahhs” erupted, echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings as they absorbed the sheer grandeur of the space. Their necks craned upward to take in every inch of the towering walls, adorned with intricate mouldings and Pru’s extensive and somewhat seemingly pornographic art collection.

With flourish, Pru gestured for the gentlemen to follow, her voice dripping with a velvet toned charm. “Right this way, gentlemen,” she said, as she led them through the hall, her heels clicking against the wooden floor and her orange blossom perfume leaving a hypnotic trail behind her. As she opened the double doors to the drawing room, she paused just long enough for dramatic effect, then swept her arm forward like a tour guide unveiling the crown jewels. "And here we are," she purred as they tentatively stepped into the next level of grandeur, wondering what on earth could possibly come next.

Pru’s flair for interior design was on full display—an opulent clash of contrasts and eccentricity. Gleaming yellow lacquered walls bathed the room in a warm, seductive glow, reflecting off Stiff Lid memorabilia, platinum discs, and bold contemporary art. Antique and modern furniture coexisted in a riot of layered patterns and textures, nothing matching yet everything harmonizing. Every surface overflowed with photographs, curiosities, and keepsakes, creating a space so rich in detail one could explore it daily and still uncover something new.

Above the grand stone fireplace hung a pink neon tube light looped sensuously in mid-air, casting playful characters around the room. If one tilted their heads just so and squinted at the cursive writing it suddenly became legible: "Fuck Me OR Go Home." Golly.

The gentlemen strolled slowly around the room, taking in every detail of pop history, seamlessly intertwined with Loxley family treasures. Photographs lined the walls, showcasing Stiff Lid alongside the icons of the '80s—from Tom Cruise to Princess Diana, Madonna and Freddie Mercury. Meanwhile, Bren cheerfully refilled their glasses, determined to get them a little drunk, hoping it would loosen their wallets just enough to make their day even more memorable than they had anticipated.

Among the many extraordinary curiosities in the room was heavily rhinestoned stiletto boots that were affectionally called ‘the girls’.

These were the very first gift Eddie had ever bought Pru, picked up during their whirlwind tour in Nashville back in 1983. Pru cherished "the girls," displaying them with pride and reserving their use for only the most special occasions—and, when Eddie was particularly fortunate, for their bedroom adventures.

Everyone circled around ‘the girls’ like they were an ancient relic, their eyes wide with awe, inspecting the boots as though they were the holy grail of pop culture.

Pru, who had seen this exact reaction from previous guests, in a voice as casual as one discussing the weather, declared, "Oh, Elton John gave me those." Pru loved telling glamorous stories – it was part of her fun hustle, her stories which could probably never be fact checked. She felt that sometimes private family stories should remain, well, just ‘private’.

Pru danced across the hall with her guests in tow, heading toward Eddie’s studio situated at the end of the hall next to the kitchen. Once the manor’s grand dining room, the room had transformed under Eddie’s influence and had become the cave where he disappeared to every day.

The room was vast, its wooden floors softened by threadbare Persian rugs. Electric guitars hung alongside stern portraits of ancestors, while shelves overflowed with sheet music, records, cassette tapes, and an assortment of percussion instruments. At the heart of the space stood Eddie’s beloved Steinway grand piano, the undeniable doyenne of the room.

Perched on the piano lid, purely for the guests' benefit, was a black and white photograph of Eddie and George Michael seated at that very piano. Eddie would often tell visitors, “This is where George wrote Careless Whisper,” a delightful tale designed to dazzle—though it wasn’t entirely true. The photograph was genuine, a memento from the weekend George spent at the house. As for Careless Whisper, that masterpiece was actually penned when George was just 17, during a holiday in the Bahamas. But the guests didn’t need to know that.

Eddie ushered the gentlemen to sit and once at his piano, his fingers danced across the keys, singing Stiff Lid melodies which filled the air with harmonious reminiscence, instantly setting a relaxed rhythm among the guests who were initially rigid and shy. They could not help but sway to the music in the same direction at the same time as they sang along with Eddie. This was truly a mesmerising experience which promptly reduced Mr Zi to tears.

Propped up in the corner of the studio was a shiny blue electric guitar. The week before, Pru, had bought it second-hand on eBay for £57.00. Eddie, always willing to entertain Pru’s money-making ventures, picked it up, plugged it into the amp, and launched into a medley of familiar, crowd-pleasing riffs.

As Eddie strummed away, he glanced over at Mr. Zi, who was doing his best to disappear into his chair, clearly mortified by his tears. “This one’s going to auction next week,” Eddie said with a casual shrug, “The missus has given me the ‘clear out your junk’ speech. Apparently, I'm a guitar hoarder, you should see the garage.”

Mr Zi erupted like a volcano, “I’ll take it!” “How much?” “I’ll pay double!”

“It does have a reserve of £20,000 at Christies but I am prepared to sell it for £15.000, as I played it on Shattered Glass” Shattered Glass happened to be Mr Zi’s favourite song.

Without hesitation, Mr Zi instantly tapped into his banking app on his mobile and transferred the amount into the Loxley account, the prized guitar was his. Eddie autographed it and many, many photos were taken to mark the star struck occasion. The guitar is now proudly displayed within a clear display box in Mr Zi’s office. Would you call this a hustle? Despite Eddie’s stories, he felt that his place in heaven would still be guaranteed. After all, Mr Zi had a very good outcome too didn’t he?

Bren had been up since the crack of dawn preparing the days menus and retrieving all the best Loxley china and silver platters out of the pantry. Despite having once been a cook at St Leonards House care home, using her artistic flare, she could turn a humble sausage and chips into something you would expect to find in a Michelin-star restaurant, Bren was expecting a simple victory with the lobsters that had been on the lunch menu – especially as the fishmonger had promised that the creatures would be delivered dressed and ready to serve.

Earlier that morning, Pru stormed into the kitchen, her hair wild from oversleeping and her kimono dressing gown flapping open, revealing very little underneath. She barely made it two steps before stumbling over the fishmonger's polystyrene delivery box.

The lid flew off and instead of the expected lobster, Pru and Bren were greeted with hundreds of crayfish, fully alive and eager to make a break for freedom across the kitchen floor.

"Are those… crayfish?!" Pru screamed in disbelief as tiny creatures crawled over her bare feet. “

Frozen in disbelief, Pru and Bren stood rooted to the spot as the scene unfolded before them. The crayfish—now on a full-scale kitchen invasion—scuttled in every direction, disappearing under cupboards, weaving around chair legs, and making a determined dash toward the open door. Pru let out a strangled laugh, while Bren in horror, let rip every single swear word she could possibly think of.

Bren, realizing she was the only line of defence against a kitchen overrun by the rogue crustaceans, grabbed a broom and swept them into a squirming pile of legs and claws, tangled amidst the usual mud and dog hair detritus one might expect to find on a kitchen floor. With a resigned sigh, she donned her gardening gloves, scooped up the wriggling mass, and dumped it—detritus and all—into a pot of boiling water.

Pru promptly burst into tears, suddenly struck by the thought that crustaceans are boiled alive as she listened to them screaming as they hit the water. (Though, for the record, the noise is merely air escaping their shells due to the rapid temperature change—not an actual cry of distress!)

By the time the last crayfish was tossed into the bubbling cauldron, sat at the kitchen table, Bren trying to calm Pru who mopping up the last of her nervous breakdown whilst wondering if she should turn vegan.

Pru paced frantically, her hands running through her hair. "Bren, these are Chinese guests—they’re sophisticated, they’ll know the difference between lobster and crayfish, won’t they? What if they... notice?"

“Don’t worry, love!” Bren chirped. “Drown it in Marie Rose sauce, and they’ll never know.”

“If they’re that refined, they’ll appreciate the fusion,” she added. “Crayfish is just lobster’s little cousin.”

Pru hesitated. “You think we can get away with this?” she asked, teetering on hysteria.

Unaware that Bren had already spiked the sauce with chili powder, Pru tossed in a heaped spoonful and gave it a hearty stir, unwittingly setting the stage for volcanic catastrophe.

They sat at the kitchen table, painstakingly extracting crayfish meat and assembling it into retro prawn cocktails, served in IKEA glasses. To compensate for the missing lobster, Pru decided those dreadful glasses had, in fact, been a wedding gift from Sir Mick Jagger himself.

While the music session played on, Bren and Pru went all out decorating the old dining room table, which was now in the Drawing Room, with flowers from the garden, the finest silver, and Pru and Eddie’s wedding china. It was chaotic opulence, a rock star’s dining table at its best.

The guests, still glowing from their exclusive personal session with Eddie in the studio, entered the Drawing Room looking relaxed, blissfully happy, and just a touch glassy-eyed. Their smiles were the kind that only a rock star's company could induce.

As they settled in, Bren appeared, gliding in with a gleaming brass trolley laden with vibrant flowers and the infamous ‘lobster’ cocktails that she garnished with some packet ready-to-eat prawns she found in the freezer.

Kenny poured wine from a crystal decanter, though it was a village shop bargain watered down to mellow the tang.

Pru, having heard the trauma of the crayfish hitting the boiling water, decided to skip them, leaving only the guests to indulge. Eddie, allergic to shellfish, joined her in munching on Waldorf salad.

With the first spoonful of the chili-infused cocktails, the Chinese bankers exchanged looks of confusion, their polite smiles giving way to wide-eyed disbelief.

The fiery punch of the sauce lingered far longer than anyone had anticipated. As the bankers sat uncomfortably at the table, they began to murmur among themselves, quietly asking Mr Xan how on earth they were supposed to finish their lunch. Mr Xan was ever the voice of reason, gave them a stern look and replied in Chinese, "Eat the fucking cocktail!”

Reluctantly, the bankers took another bite, sweating under the pressure of both the heat and the social expectations. Meanwhile, Pru, oblivious to their suffering, enthusiastically regaled them with tales of how these very cocktail glasses had been a wedding gift from Sir Mick Jagger himself.

The mention of Mick Jagger, however, did little to ease the tension. If anything, it only heightened it. The bankers, already struggling with the burn, began loosening their ties, their faces flushed, and they drank copious amounts of the wine in a futile attempt to cool their bodily infernos whilst Eddie and Pru carried on with their wonderful stories of life on tour during the 80’s.

Once lunch had concluded, Bren entered the room with a fresh pot of mint tea. Her arrival was met by a series of awkward shuffles from the bankers, who were clearly still reeling from the effects of the ‘lobster’ cocktail. There was at least some cool relief as they stood by the open windows, the summer breeze offering some comfort, though it did little to mask the palpable discomfort that hung in the air.

Mr Chen, his face flushed leaned over to Mr Xan and asked, with a hint of panic in his voice, if he could please find out where the bathroom was. Mr Xan gave Bren a subtle nod, and she quickly escorted the banker out of the room, leading him through the hall to the bathroom under the grand staircase.

The door had hardly clicked shut when Bren was startled by the unmistakable sound of a human wail, followed by the alarming splash of an unfortunate expulsion and a sigh of relief.

Meanwhile, as if the heat from the chilli had triggered some primal instinct, Mr Zi darted out through the French doors and disappeared around the corner of the house. Lunch Time who had been asleep under the table, thought the banker was taking him for a walk and eagerly jumped up and bounced out of the door playfully chasing the desperate man.

A strange, awkward silence settled over the room as the remaining bankers sat motionless, exchanging uneasy glances. Meanwhile, the distant sounds of panic echoed from the rose garden. The bankers looked on in disbelief as Mr. Zi peered over the bushes, fully visible from the dining table.

Lunch Time didn’t return, and opted to stay with the banker, who was experiencing an unmistakable sense of relief—much to the dismay of Pru’s prized roses of peach Double Delights she had only planted the previous year.

After a short siesta on the terrace, Kenny stood by the front door at 4 p.m, ready to take the bankers back to the train. The bankers shuffled towards the Rolls, feeling dishevelled but utterly jubilant. They bowed with gratitude and stepped into the car, the new guitar as an extra passenger.

“Well,” Pru said with a grin, “I think we’ve made quite an impression.”

Wrapping his arms around her, Eddie kissed her cheek. “My darling, you are an absolute marvel. And thank goodness Lunch Time behaved himself. Oh, where did he go? I haven’t seen him for ages.”

Mid-embrace, he glanced over Pru’s shoulder and, to his utter horror, saw Bren sprinting across the lawn, with her arms flailing above her head, shouting at Lunch Time, shooing him out of the rose garden.

Standing on the front step, where only hours before the day had begun, Pru and Eddie watched their guests heading toward the gates. Waving them off, they exchanged a satisfied look, the day had been a resounding success plus they were over £50,000 richer.

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Thank you so much for reading—I hope it brought you a little half-hour of fun. And let’s be honest, doesn’t the world need more of that?

Each week, we’ll meet a new member of the cast and uncover their extraordinary life and the path that led them to Ozaball Manor.

Expect intrigue, ambition, adventure, and murder—but at its heart, this is a story of friendship, trust, and the ties that keep the show on the road.

Stay with me, subscribe, and come join the family.

Best wishes, love and thanks

P. Rodwell