The most notable thing I remember from art classes in school was building a model clay house when I was 15. Most people built nice houses, with smiles and flowers, and fences and a shrubbery. However, due to a mid-teens Tarantino infatuation, all the people in my house were gangsters, and half of them were dangling from windows, somewhat dismembered or missing… internal organs. They all had hats.

The odd thing is that I genuinely didn’t think anything of it at the time. I didn’t even understand the perplexed look my mother gave me when I brought it home months later. In retrospect maybe it was a little disturbing for the quiet, surly boy in the corner, with few friends and self-confidence issues to be clay modelling scenes of intense graphic violence.

Oh, teenage Ben. What an enigma.