Russell was born in a public toilet addicted to heroin. His mother was an alcoholic, drug addict and prostitute who didn’t even know she was pregnant. The one saving grace was that he didn’t have HIV and may eventually grow up healthy. After the paramedics had fished him from the bowl and resuscitated him, he recovered well and was finally found foster parents who weren’t so proud to be put off by his mother’s shortcomings.

His new family were childless sheep farmers in the wet, grey depths of Lancashire. They were loving in so much as time allowed. As soon as he was able, Russell was set to work. That had been the main reason for his adoption, one which his parents conveniently failed to mention to the agency.

Russell knew no different. Never even knew he was adopted. His parents thought it better that way. He grafted on the farm, scraped through school until he was sixteen and continued on as he had done since childhood. The furthest he’d ever been was to Blackpool to see the lights, eat fish and chips and play in the amusement arcades. It was another world to him. The nearest town was fifteen miles away and he only went if there was no other choice. His only romantic encounter was a quick fondle and fumbled fuck with the school slapper in some rhododendrons.

Russell wasn’t interested. His passion was for his Lancashire countryside. The patch-worked fields, random windswept copses and the open far flung fells with low grey skies were his beauty and his pleasure. He took solace in it and even the bleakest, frostbite frozen day comforted and inspired him.

He painted. His paintings were bold, broad and unique. He had had little artistic influences and so developed a style of his own. A style like no other. Huge canvasses captured the open expanses, painted swiftly in thick impasto that was neither impressionistic, modern or other. But the art he created was beautiful and mesmerizing.

When the vet came on a routine visit Russell led him into the farmhouse to fill in some paperwork he was gobsmacked. Russell’s paintings hung proudly from every wall and he was visibly embarrassed answering the vet’s rushed question that he was the painter. Russell wasn’t keen to sell any despite the vet’s insistences, they were his treasures.

The vet returned early the next day. With a huge effort and coaxing Russell finally agreed to have an exhibition. It was a triumph. News spread throughout the art world and beyond. Collectors clambered, galleries begged. Eventually, just for peace and to get back to his normality, Russell conceded.

The rest, as they say, is history.