Lucifer eagerly grasps the opportunity for a holiday on earth, and uses his host’s identity to re-write the story of Creation in a format that has Hollywood moguls kissing his feet. It’s not popular with Him Upstairs, of course, what with the Devil being portrayed as a maverick free-thinker and God as a humourless autocrat. But Lucifer’s having too much fun to care. He’s experiencing the pleasures of the flesh for the first time and everything – the odour of sweaty tube trains, cocaine, ice-cream, dirty sex--delights him. By the time the archangels are dispatched to bring him back, the Lord of all that’s inhumane can’t think of anything he’d rather be than human.

Lucifer befogs his audience, alternately spitting fury at them like some sulphur-charged Dennis Leary and then insisting that he’s a nice guy, just misunderstood. What’s clear, however, is that Glen Duncan is not merely one of those writers who can come up with amusing concepts. He’s a sharp, sometimes savage observer of the human condition, whose talents are as many as the legions of Hell.--Matthew Baylis

If at this stage you are reaching for your copy of 101 ways of dealing with Heretics i, Lucifer by Glen Duncan is not for you.(And if you thought you were getting a 60’s action thriller with Modesty Blaise kicking ass, are you in for a shock.) This book deals with the trials and tribulations of Lucifer as he gains the opportunity to experience human existence by living the life of a suicidal writer (whose soul is on hold in Purgatory) for a month. It’s told in a first person monologue with lots of flashbacks as he writes about the events in the Bible from his perspective for a screenplay.

The writing is funny, cheeky wicked and dark. Here Duncan manages to take a swipe at both the Christian Right and the PC brigade.

…Oh yes we got Mike downstairs. In fact now’s as a good time as any to tell you: if you are gay you go to Hell, Doesn’t matter what else you spend your time doing-painting the Sistine Chapel, for instant-knob jockey? Down you go( Lezzers are borderline; room for manoeuvres if they’ve done social work.) The entire masterpiece fuelled by the stiffened brush softened in the wrong pot. Another superb irony lost on His Lordship. Not a titter. Just consigned Michelangelo to my torturous care. Awful shame, really. (Had you going, didn’t I? Don’t for Heaven’s sake, take everything so seriously all the time. Heaven’s bulging with queer souls. Honestly.)

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