In 1804, Percy Shelley is being bullied at school until he flies into violent rages. A century later, a young Grayson Perry is wandering through graveyards, alone and in a dress. Neil Degrasse Tyson spent his youth staring through a telescope on the roof of his building. Jesse Eisenberg spent his in tears at the prospect of school.

These are stories I wish I’d known as a child. Being 12-years old, sleepless and emotionally bewildered, it did not help to know that David Beckham held the record for England outfield appearances, or that Lance Armstrong’s resting heart rate was 32 beats per minute. These are things that inspired other people at school, things that gave them drive and courage, and that made them as incomprehensible to me as aliens.

All behaviour is, to a degree, learned behaviour. To find out how we ought to be, how we ought to treat others, and how we ought to think of ourselves, we look to other people; to parents and siblings and teachers and celebrities. Initially at least – as will be familiar to anyone who’s ever tried writing fiction – we look for people we can identify with, and we try to emulate those people as best we can. In the absence of any people who make sense, we feel alienated, adrift.