Andrew Brel is creating Words in a sensible order
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About me begins in Johannesburg in the sixties in a Greek home. My first language was Greek. I was Andreas Broulidakis, for my first ten years growing as the handsome princely inheritor of an intellectual atheist father who volunteered to kill fascists from 1939 until 1945, serving as an infantry Captain in the British Army.  The only thing he shared with me from that experience is that when his medals arrived he 'returned to sender'.  Awarding him a medal from the safety of an Office desk in Whitehall was insulting. We had no flags in our house.
    Manos Broulidakis was a larger than life character who built and lived in the finest house in Johannesburg in the fifties that is now a museum, the house on Hobboken Road, which he sold to L.Ron Hubbard in 1960. 
    Manos died when I was ten starting my second life chapter, my education decade in which my Greek Orthodox Mother, 36 at the time of being widowed with three young children, blessed me with the need to support myself from an early age. Something I accomplished by replacing the missing father presence with the collective-unconscious reserve of the music I immersed myself in. Music as a repository of all that is most noble about humanity. I found Bach.
    By fifteen I was able to command a fee for entertaining with guitar and voice. My first band was named HOBO and in the early seventies we ruled the Bryanston party circuit.  
    Although my birth home was one of privilege, including a library filled with books my father chose, being particular to Biographies of the great leaders of his generation, my formal schooling was initially poor.
    I grew up in classrooms watching Nazi Nationalist Party recruits follow the State curriculum in a typical Apartheid era school run by a white supremacist fascist christian Afrikaner who loved rugby and hated soutpiels.
    Headmaster Viviers resented my observations of his position and authority but  was none-the-less serially outwitted on every occasion in the conflict between headmaster and young teen-aged Greek pupil. Providing me with an early life lesson in the possibilities for superior intelligence. So, not a hopeless educator then.  A typical example:
    "Pupil Broulidakis report to the principals office immediately."
    Once there, standing to attention in from of his desk, variations of  this argument began.
   "You have hair visible under the top of your ear. That is an offense. You will now receive six of the best. Bend over."
Mr. Viviers walks to his cane rack to select one of his favorites.But wait. The boy speaks.
   "Mr. Viviers. Do you understand what homo-erotic gratification means? I am fourteen years old. What do you really think will happen next."

Turns and leaves. Walks the six miles back to home. No more lessons that day.
    By fifteen, in standard nine, my ethical position made it impossible to continue in right-wing State education when I refused to attend Afrikaans lessons. The language offended me as much as it's speakers. My Black peers revolted because their allotted educational curriculum deemed they would have no need for Arithmetic and Science, being born to labor. I revolted in solidarity. Determining that I would have no need for Afrikaans in my life. My first political activism.
    My education took a swift upturn when, ironically enough thanks to an Afrikaner, Mr. Brummer,  I completed my schooling at Damelin college in Johannesburg  where I was awarded the Diligence prize; which I returned to sender before starting the journey to Psychiatrist at Wits medical school.
    1970 to 1980 was my student listening decade, traveling from a fatherless self-accountable ten year old to a hardened veteran of confronting right wing conformists by the age of twenty, which included being incarcerated for two years in South Africa's Apartheid military.
    A bad thing that, as is so often the way with bad things, turned out well when I enjoyed a grandstand view of the war raging in Southern Africa that was a rich resource for a writer. My rank was bandsman.  I was the guitarist in the SADF Entertainment Corps show-band established by the Prime Ministers office for free musical entertainment which alternated between morale building shows for the troops and black-tie functions for the ruling elite.    
    It was at one of those ruling elite ministerial functions, playing 'The girl from Ipanema' in F that I came face to face with the Commander in Chief of Apartheid South Africa, PW. Botha, in which three words were exchanged. 'Your bum stinks.' I never found out what 'The old Crocodile' made of our brief meeting.
    After that  PTSD legacy, my life threatening two year conscription in the 'Border War'  my third decade, 20 - 30 started with an energetic work ethic available only to the early twenties.  
    Performing ten top dollar shows a week for much of the time while completing three years of Computer Science, before graduating, leaving the week after final exam with the £1,500 allowance on offer at the time by foreign exchange control and showing up at Heathrow for a new life away from the bludgeoning fist of the fascist government in South Africa. I knew no one. Literally. I started my first week in England in a £50 a week rented room in a house in a place where I woke each morning not knowing where I was. Literally. I only knew where I was not. I did not miss my South African home, in Chartwell, on 500 acres next to a Lion Park. Or regret my reduced living arrangements.  I had work to do.
    I got lucky fast. I secured my first paid gig a week after arriving. (Buffers wine bar in Weybridge.) I was working 7 nights a week within three months.
    Andy Brel live. "Perspicacious music for percipient people
."
    Thirty years passed in a blur of words and music. I worked with many truly great musicians and met many of the worlds finest human beings as close friends. I loved England so much I made it my third nationality. I lived in a charming house on the Thames riverbank, bought one year after my arrival in the UK.  I lived well as an Englishman. I loved meeting the people who came into my life, many of whom I knew about only from their albums that formed the soundtrack to my colonial upbringing. I consider myself extremely fortunate to have enjoyed the friendships that came my way. I learned the value of gratitude early. And gratefully accepted its rewards. Especially when it came to attractive women.
    I have two English children, born twenty years apart. My oldest, and clearly not a child anymore,  is beautiful John, named after Manos, my father, in the Greek tradition. He has a Phd in Cognitive Neuroscience and assists our awareness of ADHD.
   His younger brother is beautiful Byron. The subject of an ongoing story in which British family law is the subject of an ongoing story.
    I published my first book in 2011, The Emergency Bouzouki Player, which opened up a world of new opportunity as an author.
    My second book One Day in Paris followed in 2015.
    Prolific as I am, expect my third anytime before the next election.
    If you hear 'Everyone has a book in them' remember, while that is true, not everyone has the years it takes to get that book out of them.
   In 2013 I embarked on my fourth nationality as a Californian. Which is where I live, pursuing wellness through music, words and kindness. In any combination of those words. Pursuing kindness through wellness, music and words.
    Decades ago, while Tim Berner's Lee was still in beta,  I had a London record label, Bridge Recordings and this idea to sell music on the internet. I sold the first CD sold on the interweb in England at a time when no music had been sold over the web. That idea caught on quickly. Now no music is sold over the web.
    After that, I had a web page for publishing my short stories and getting over a million reads on some of them. But I could not figure out how to monetize. I had the idea that grateful readers would pay for the creative work of writers in an honor system rewarding merit. My header on the web page I launched to seed interest for this idea was 'Tis the duty of the wealthy man to patronize the artisan.'   I got busy with other stuff and that went into the fourth page of the maybe-later list.

Now I have a Patreon Page. And I could not be more excited.
Andrew Brel



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About me begins in Johannesburg in the sixties in a Greek home. My first language was Greek. I was Andreas Broulidakis, for my first ten years growing as the handsome princely inheritor of an intellectual atheist father who volunteered to kill fascists from 1939 until 1945, serving as an infantry Captain in the British Army.  The only thing he shared with me from that experience is that when his medals arrived he 'returned to sender'.  Awarding him a medal from the safety of an Office desk in Whitehall was insulting. We had no flags in our house.
    Manos Broulidakis was a larger than life character who built and lived in the finest house in Johannesburg in the fifties that is now a museum, the house on Hobboken Road, which he sold to L.Ron Hubbard in 1960. 
    Manos died when I was ten starting my second life chapter, my education decade in which my Greek Orthodox Mother, 36 at the time of being widowed with three young children, blessed me with the need to support myself from an early age. Something I accomplished by replacing the missing father presence with the collective-unconscious reserve of the music I immersed myself in. Music as a repository of all that is most noble about humanity. I found Bach.
    By fifteen I was able to command a fee for entertaining with guitar and voice. My first band was named HOBO and in the early seventies we ruled the Bryanston party circuit.  
    Although my birth home was one of privilege, including a library filled with books my father chose, being particular to Biographies of the great leaders of his generation, my formal schooling was initially poor.
    I grew up in classrooms watching Nazi Nationalist Party recruits follow the State curriculum in a typical Apartheid era school run by a white supremacist fascist christian Afrikaner who loved rugby and hated soutpiels.
    Headmaster Viviers resented my observations of his position and authority but  was none-the-less serially outwitted on every occasion in the conflict between headmaster and young teen-aged Greek pupil. Providing me with an early life lesson in the possibilities for superior intelligence. So, not a hopeless educator then.  A typical example:
    "Pupil Broulidakis report to the principals office immediately."
    Once there, standing to attention in from of his desk, variations of  this argument began.
   "You have hair visible under the top of your ear. That is an offense. You will now receive six of the best. Bend over."
Mr. Viviers walks to his cane rack to select one of his favorites.But wait. The boy speaks.
   "Mr. Viviers. Do you understand what homo-erotic gratification means? I am fourteen years old. What do you really think will happen next."

Turns and leaves. Walks the six miles back to home. No more lessons that day.
    By fifteen, in standard nine, my ethical position made it impossible to continue in right-wing State education when I refused to attend Afrikaans lessons. The language offended me as much as it's speakers. My Black peers revolted because their allotted educational curriculum deemed they would have no need for Arithmetic and Science, being born to labor. I revolted in solidarity. Determining that I would have no need for Afrikaans in my life. My first political activism.
    My education took a swift upturn when, ironically enough thanks to an Afrikaner, Mr. Brummer,  I completed my schooling at Damelin college in Johannesburg  where I was awarded the Diligence prize; which I returned to sender before starting the journey to Psychiatrist at Wits medical school.
    1970 to 1980 was my student listening decade, traveling from a fatherless self-accountable ten year old to a hardened veteran of confronting right wing conformists by the age of twenty, which included being incarcerated for two years in South Africa's Apartheid military.
    A bad thing that, as is so often the way with bad things, turned out well when I enjoyed a grandstand view of the war raging in Southern Africa that was a rich resource for a writer. My rank was bandsman.  I was the guitarist in the SADF Entertainment Corps show-band established by the Prime Ministers office for free musical entertainment which alternated between morale building shows for the troops and black-tie functions for the ruling elite.    
    It was at one of those ruling elite ministerial functions, playing 'The girl from Ipanema' in F that I came face to face with the Commander in Chief of Apartheid South Africa, PW. Botha, in which three words were exchanged. 'Your bum stinks.' I never found out what 'The old Crocodile' made of our brief meeting.
    After that  PTSD legacy, my life threatening two year conscription in the 'Border War'  my third decade, 20 - 30 started with an energetic work ethic available only to the early twenties.  
    Performing ten top dollar shows a week for much of the time while completing three years of Computer Science, before graduating, leaving the week after final exam with the £1,500 allowance on offer at the time by foreign exchange control and showing up at Heathrow for a new life away from the bludgeoning fist of the fascist government in South Africa. I knew no one. Literally. I started my first week in England in a £50 a week rented room in a house in a place where I woke each morning not knowing where I was. Literally. I only knew where I was not. I did not miss my South African home, in Chartwell, on 500 acres next to a Lion Park. Or regret my reduced living arrangements.  I had work to do.
    I got lucky fast. I secured my first paid gig a week after arriving. (Buffers wine bar in Weybridge.) I was working 7 nights a week within three months.
    Andy Brel live. "Perspicacious music for percipient people
."
    Thirty years passed in a blur of words and music. I worked with many truly great musicians and met many of the worlds finest human beings as close friends. I loved England so much I made it my third nationality. I lived in a charming house on the Thames riverbank, bought one year after my arrival in the UK.  I lived well as an Englishman. I loved meeting the people who came into my life, many of whom I knew about only from their albums that formed the soundtrack to my colonial upbringing. I consider myself extremely fortunate to have enjoyed the friendships that came my way. I learned the value of gratitude early. And gratefully accepted its rewards. Especially when it came to attractive women.
    I have two English children, born twenty years apart. My oldest, and clearly not a child anymore,  is beautiful John, named after Manos, my father, in the Greek tradition. He has a Phd in Cognitive Neuroscience and assists our awareness of ADHD.
   His younger brother is beautiful Byron. The subject of an ongoing story in which British family law is the subject of an ongoing story.
    I published my first book in 2011, The Emergency Bouzouki Player, which opened up a world of new opportunity as an author.
    My second book One Day in Paris followed in 2015.
    Prolific as I am, expect my third anytime before the next election.
    If you hear 'Everyone has a book in them' remember, while that is true, not everyone has the years it takes to get that book out of them.
   In 2013 I embarked on my fourth nationality as a Californian. Which is where I live, pursuing wellness through music, words and kindness. In any combination of those words. Pursuing kindness through wellness, music and words.
    Decades ago, while Tim Berner's Lee was still in beta,  I had a London record label, Bridge Recordings and this idea to sell music on the internet. I sold the first CD sold on the interweb in England at a time when no music had been sold over the web. That idea caught on quickly. Now no music is sold over the web.
    After that, I had a web page for publishing my short stories and getting over a million reads on some of them. But I could not figure out how to monetize. I had the idea that grateful readers would pay for the creative work of writers in an honor system rewarding merit. My header on the web page I launched to seed interest for this idea was 'Tis the duty of the wealthy man to patronize the artisan.'   I got busy with other stuff and that went into the fourth page of the maybe-later list.

Now I have a Patreon Page. And I could not be more excited.
Andrew Brel



Recent posts by Andrew Brel

Tiers
Facebook posts
$2 or more per month 0 of 1000 patrons
Current affairs in the life of Andrew via Facebook
Polythinks
$5 or more per month 0 patrons
We all have opinions
Includes Discord rewards