"...They've All Got it Infamy."

I plan to commit a crime so terrible, my house will one day be referred to as "The Old Ephgrave Place".

I want kids to dare each other to touch my front door (which isn’t a euphemism) and to devalue the properties either side of me. I want whole websites dedicated to the ins and outs of the horrors that went on at my eponymously monikered dwelling and for people to travel from all corners of the globe just to see where I lived. I’ve decided this is the best and most viable career move to take to increase my infamy as, after fifteen years out of drama school, I’m stretching the definition of “up and coming comedian” to the limit.

There’s a fine line to attempting to create a backstory akin to Michael Myers while also sustaining your employability; I haven’t quite figured out the mechanics to it. Firstly, do I pick a crime that’ll result in a brief prison sentence and then resurrect my performing career afterwards, or do I just enough to lift my profile without being put away for it? Stephen Fry did three months’ stir (I believe that’s the parlance) for credit card fraud and is now one of the UK’s most respected comic actor/writers, and Paul McCartney did ten days for smuggling weed into Japan to then be knighted (though not for that reason) so it’s possible, though neither instance would result in a folklore-laden premises; or perhaps it would, as Macca’s childhood home is now a National Trust House.

Speaking of Myers, I only recently discovered his disguise in the Halloween films is actually a souped-up William Shatner mask. Even the Great Bill Shat didn’t notice when he first saw it. This adds a whole new level to the saga. It’s also ironic, as when Shatner was the guest murderer in the first of the two Columbos he appeared in, his chosen disguise was so ineffectual he may as well have worn a mask of his own face too. 

If I were in the midst of the Gobi Desert and he accosted me in that outfit, I’d know it was him in an instant; even without prior knowledge that he was in the vicinity; no-one else leaves that many pauses in their dialogue, save Harold Pinter.

Perhaps I’d better save the criminal life for those more suited to it. I’d never get away with it anyway, due to the stream of dropped plectrums and biscuit crumbs I leave in my wake.