When my mate Pete collapsed on my kitchen floor thanks to an access of incohol, I used a tub of table salt to draw a white line around his prone body.
How we laughed.
I don't doubt I've told the story, but as students we borrowed a reel of 'police' tape from, not the police, but our gangster landlord who used it to discourage people looking at stuff that they shouldn't be looking at ('plenty more where that came from, lads'). Anyway, we spent our drunken evenings with me prone on various garden paths and street pavements while my partner-in-crime chalked my outline. Then we'd seal off the scene with the police tape. We trapped my girlfriend in her house for an entire weekend because she thought someone had been murdered on her doorstep.
I thought it was you!, she said. How close she was. If she'd ever found out, it might have been me.
It got a bit out of hand, our faux crime spree was even featured in the Liverpool Echo. At that point, we decided to fade into the background, and let's face it, Liverpool has enough real murders to have eventually put us out of the faux crime business.
