Welcome back to the home of the oxymoron. Evil genius. He asked the newspaper to print his obituary early so he'd enjoy it. That's like hiding at your own funeral. Yeah, it's a big, great gig. I'm Russell Kane. Join me to weigh in on whether the biggest players in history are more evil or genius. Becoming that rich, I'd say that at some level of genius. It also helps that it's a long time ago, right?

It's like the podcast version of telling your kids the ice cream van plays music

when it's out of ice cream.

Listen to Evil Genius on BBC Sounds.

My name is Sophie Colombo.

But a year from now, after the fuss from my wedding has died down, it could be something rather different.

For me, to change my surname to that of my partner, would profoundly affect my sense of identity. On the one hand, it might bind us into a family unit and make it easier to know what to write on the birth certificates

of any children. But on the other, it would make me first and foremost a wife, while my husband

would remain quite simply himself.

Introducing myself as Sophie Hardiman would mean that saying I do had fundamentally changed the answer to the question, who am I?

If I chose to take my husband's name, I'd be far from alone.

A Eurobarometer survey conducted in 1994

suggested that 94% of British women

took their husband's names when they got married.

Recent smaller scale research, however,

suggests that this proportion has shrunk significantly

over the last two decades,

especially among highly educated and younger women.

In 2013, academic Dr Rachel Thwaites found that 75% of respondents took their husband's names.

And just last month, the Discourses of Marriage Research Group,

a multi-institutional network interested in marriage equality, found that only

54% did so. Since in Britain, it has always been legal to call yourself whatever you like,

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