Ah yes, after months of auditions and 'I'm a nobody with no discernable talent, please lock me in a shed for six weeks and film me slowly consuming my own bodyweight in earwigs' style competitions, where someone gets voted off each week via a premium rate number that goes straight against my bar tab at the Redgarth Inn, we have a winner.
Yes, the new 'Face Of Evil' for book number the fourth is... The Brother Formerly Know As Googling Brother!
Now some people would have effected this transformation by the cunning use of various Photoshop techniques and Sellotape. Not me: I just locked him in a room with She Who Must Proselytise At Great Length On The Subject Of Horses* And Fife** for fifteen minutes, till I couldn't hear him screaming any more.
But worry not: half an hour with a packet of Tunnocks Tasty Caramel Wafers and he was right as rain again. With only the vaguest of nervous twitches to belie the fact that he was ever less than sane***.
Mind you, he did get his own back, by bringing his daughter the pandemic with him. She spent a happy couple of hours covering everything in sticky baby handprints and saliva. And then infecting everyone and everything with her children germs. Next time she turns up, the whole house is wearing a hazmat suit. Honestly, she's like that monkey in Outbreak, only more dribbly.
Such is the nature of Book Number The Fourth that I need a pretty hefty supporting cast. None of whom will get much more than the briefest of glances, but will still be vital to the ambiance of the whole piece. He said, in a wanky, faux-artistic kind of way.
Which is always fun.
** Double shudder
*** Which is a lie: he's never been vaguely sane.