The Captivating Cult of Happiness and Joy

February 21, 2012


Strong – but want to be stronger?

Successful – but want to excel?

We cordially invite you…

…to join our cult.


The Captivating Cult of Happiness and Joy

Launch: March 2012

© 2012 Luke Andreski. All rights reserved.


An interview for Brian Feinblum’s Book Marketing Blog

February 8, 2012


An interview with Brian Feinblum for his Book Marketing Buzz blog……  

Feedback welcome!



Luke Andreski


A letter to my friends

February 3, 2012


Dear friends, colleagues and fellow lovers of the written and spoken word – three items of news which I hope you will welcome… 

  1. On Saturday 28th January I launched my first video on Youtube – an exciting experience and one which I hope is successful… Please visit (or google “Luke Andreski Youtube”) and decide for yourselves.
  2. Today I launch my first four podcasts. You’ll find them on at the bottom of the ‘Who I am’ page on my website ( I hope you approve. 
  3. This week I have released a new version of Instalment One of my work-in-progress, Green Messiah, which can be downloaded from my website. Those of you who have downloaded the earlier version should already have received a free update. Please let me know if this hasn’t come through.

 As a footnote, I have published my poem Touch Me (a Je T’Aime for the alienated 21st Century) on SoundCloud:

Comments and thoughts on any of the above are welcome.

With very best wishes,


Luke Andreski

and…;;;;;;;;; and


New version of Green Messiah Instalment One released

February 1, 2012

After much soul searching I’ve made some significant amendments to the first instalment of my work-in-progress Green Messiah

I’ve updated the instalment available on my website and all those who have already purchased the download will be receiving a free update. Please contact me if this doesn’t come through.

There will be no further updates to this instalment prior to release of the full work.

Here’s what the very first scene is now looking like (formatting aside!):

 Green Messiah


William Tarkovsky


Jan 2012

Your children are going to die.

Even if you are rich and powerful, your children are going to die.

And it will be because of you.

It will be because of what you have done to our world.

It will be because of what you have failed to do to preserve our children’s world.


Chapter One 


12.30 a.m. – strung out across the landscape of his parents’ lounge like Gulliver caught in a Lilliputian trap.

12.30 a.m. – bream, perch, roach drift through the depths of the blighted River Avon.

12.30 a.m. and the wind, the wind, the tireless wind is chafing and fretting and scraping and scratching, snuffling and gasping and grunting and gnawing, clawing and tearing and poking and pawing at the roofs and the doors and the windows and walls of the shops and the factories of the city of Bristol.

Just past midnight.

       Tower blocks and terraced streets.

Five hospitals, six cemeteries, four hundred and twenty-two thousand inhabitants – layered like slate between the cold and the dark.

In Victoria Park breezes like demons lay siege to the trees.

In Bedminster the wind, the wind, the raucous wind rattles at windows, hammers at walls, sets off alarms, pounds at doors.

In Clifton and Redland and Westbury Park the wind – the wind? – the devious wind slips into cat-flaps, wriggles through keyholes, flutters in chimneys, plummets down flues.

In Montpellier and Southville outlets and drainpipes gurgle obscenities, ejaculate cold.

In St. Andrews, St. Pauls…

Down in the docks the stays of the yachts – and the awnings of ferries moored by the locks – crack like whips, snaffle like drums, chatter like teeth, rattle like guns.

Citizens of Bristol, the time has come! Surrender your defences! Sacrifice your children! Succumb to the encroachment of the pestilential sky!

Cold inhabits Bristol: lip-splitting, bone-chilling. Cold spins hoar frost across the surface of the world.

The homeless have no intention of staying homeless. They gather in hostels and wrestle with proximity – or scrounge grudging hideaways from relatives and friends.

Either that… or they’re dead.

Home owners have no intention of straying from their homes.

They pull shut their curtains and barricade their doors.

Petrol stations dwindle.

Bars fall prey to loneliness.

All-night supermarkets wither on the vine.

Marshal is on the sofa in his parents’ lounge.

He settled here a thousand years ago, giving up on Amy, abandoning his friends, turning his back on their irrelevant nightclub culture, retreating through ice-mired streets, sometimes running, sometimes walking, impatient with himself, angry at the arctic landscape Bristol has become, angry at his family, impatient with the wind.

12.30 a.m…  and this is who I am:


university drop out


supermarket employee

burden to my parents






The wind is a like lover at the door. The television is a lover, pinned up against the wall. ‘Pay attention!’ the two lovers cry. ‘Pay attention!

Marshal clenches his fists, fights to resist their strident demands. The wind will soon blow over, it always does –  and the television never trumpets anything but lies.

Marshal refuses to believe what it tells him.

He refuses to believe anything much at all.

My parents have destroyed my ability to believe.

The belief-thief Graham Dean made a meal of my soul – and my mum and dad gave him the plate and the knife and fork.


Marshal wrote in his diary the previous evening, Molly, I love you.

He had written that by mistake. He quickly crossed out his sister’s name, ran a line through it half a dozen times until the name was illegible, then wrote in its place the word he’d meant to write: Amy.

He had always meant to write Amy. Never Molly.

Now his diary read, Amy, I love you.

As it should have read all along.

01:45 a.m. The television rants and raves:


Pay attention! Pay attention!

This is highly important.

Pay attention!

Then it’s three a.m.

Slick presenters, cool presenters, narcissistic presenters, anorexic presenters, frenetic presenters, splenetic presenters, sycophantic presenters, apoplectic presenters vie for viewers.

Beyond the walls of his home, role-playing the end of the world, the city of Bristol subsides into a death-like slumber. Upstairs, huddled together in their bed, his parents pay court to the fickle and rebellious sleep of the bored.


Three fifteen a.m. and this is who I am:


a question mark

a cypher

a potentiality

an unexploded bomb

Marshal often feels this way late in the evening, beer in hand, as if there’s something wonderful that he needs to do but that his home, his family, the sheer pointlessness of the world and everything within it are impeding him, are tying him down with a thousand tiny ropes, pinning him like the captured Gulliver to the furniture or the floor… as if his lungs are bellows and he’s on the edge of blowing up a storm, as if I’m on the brink of discovering something wonderful, something I can’t quite understand but know is there – a feeling of unfolding power and unimaginable strength – but a strength and potential and promise that are undermined and utterly foiled by his family and friends.

They are conspiring against me.

That’s how he sometimes feels.

That’s how he feels now.

His pills are is still in his jean pocket.

My pills are conspiring against me.

Three tablets, to be taken twice each day – a poison manufactured and branded by Schleer Pharmaceuticals. Marshal had meant to fling them into the bloated river Avon as he ran through the dark.

Anything is possible, he’d told himself.

I am capable of anything.

That’s what he had imagined out there in the cold, his lips so frozen he could hardly speak. That’s what he had written in his diary only the previous evening.

Anything is possible.

But not tonight.

In an urban landscape as inhospitable as the surface of Mars, amongst the schools and the churches and the shops of the city of Bristol, between tower blocks and factories, between the steeples and the chimneys and the aerials and the masts, a wicked wind wickers and whines. In the bosom of his parents’ home Marshal tries not to care. He thumbs the remote controls and entire worlds transforms.


Pay attention! Pay attention!

This is important.

Pay attention!


A presenter approaches orgasm over a subterranean home cinema.

The camera follows her upstairs – where she climaxes repeatedly at the pinball machines, the juke box, the two pool tables, the crossed Samurai swords.

Not to mention the bedrooms with ceiling mirrors, the bathrooms with floor mirrors, the kitchens with wall mirrors, the play rooms with mirror balls and the one-way mirrored doors.

There are unused swimming pools, deserted acres of garden, security cameras and surveillance towers, gurning gulag walls.

There are quad bikes and motor bikes and copters and sea planes.

And then there are their owners…

The presenter exhausts herself with love.

Rock stars, pop stars, porn stars, film stars.

Old wealth, new wealth, oligarchs, financiers.

The super-rich…

The ultra-rich…

The ultra-super-rich…

Christ, they make me sick.

Marshal changes channels – takes another swig, holds the liquid on his tongue – lets alcohol evaporate up into his skull, drift down into his lungs.

I am self-medicating. This is therapy. I’m finding bindings for my wounds.

Less than a week ago he decided to abandon the sodium valproate he’s been taking on and off for all these years. He imagined his position in the cyclic history of his mind to be poised upon the brink of thrilling hyperactivity.

That had been a mistake.

I was desperate for the upward lift, the existential thrill…


Instead I’m lying here, in my parents’ lounge, twenty-two years old, suppressed, oppressed, repressed, regressed, the television ranting and raving like a street-corner messiah, the inertia of my history and mass of my family and the momentum of my condition pressing down upon me as if funnelled and compressed into a single leaden weight…

No, not the expected adrenalin-fuelled rush of hyperactivity, my brain fizzing and spitting like spark plugs in some gargantuan machine – not that, but desolation.

He dries at his eyes with the back of his hand.

Takes another swig of beer.

Tries to understand what the television is trying to say.



Pay attention!

This is very important.

Pay attention!

Polar icecaps are calving, never to reform.

Vast landscapes of tundra are releasing methane to the sky.

Icy continents are dwindling. Before long, says the presenter, they may not even exist.

Seal hunters and polar bears will very soon be homeless.

Someone says that Hugh Maxwell of NASA is concerned.

Hugh Maxwell himself says he is more than concerned.

He is very, very concerned.

Our whole society, he says, everyone everywhere, all the decent scientists, all the half-way decent scientists, all intelligent laymen on both sides of the Atlantic, scientists in China and researchers in the Ukraine, technicians in Algeria and post-grads in Japan, each and every one of them, is beginning to acknowledge, in their deepest gut-instincts, the impending Armageddon – our entire species facing eco-apocalypse like rabbits in the headlights of a car.

‘We need to do more,’ Hugh Maxwell says.

Then there are images of glaciers, calving into the sea.

Marshal draws back into the sofa as it its cushioning depths might offer some avenue of escape.

‘Bloody hell,’ he whispers. ‘Is this the end of the world?’

In his heart of hearts he suspects that it is.

End of this excerpt.

 © 2012 Luke Andreski. All rights reserved.