When I was at school I was a scruffy bastard and our delightfully acerbic and wholly eccentric geography teacher, Mr Fox, used to call me his little 'Stig of the Dump'. He had a name for most of his pupils. Jon Bates was known as 'Master Bates', a joke we didn't get until we were young teenagers. But when we did we chortled and guffawed until our balls dropped.
To be honest, it wasn't really a nickname. Other than Foxy, no one actually called me Stig. They preferred 'Steve' or 'Stevyn' or 'Colgate' or 'Spastic' or 'You filthy boy'. But I adopted the name anyway as my artistic nom de plume, using it to anonymously claim authorship of my dodgier, more teacher-critical or downright naughty cartoons.
Stig of the Dump circa 1977. A vision in cheap denim.
When I left school the nickname, such as it was, was left behind me in Cornwall. I moved up to London to work and became plain old Steve again. That is, until a curious coincidence occurred ...
The resurrected Stig in 1990. Not quite rid of the New Romantic hairstyle.
So what did I do? I did the same thing as I'd done in the 1970s. I embraced my inner Stig. I claimed him. It was, presumably, my destiny. Or something. Stig Goblin became my monicker whenever there was a caricature to be drawn or acid essay to be written for some scathing newsletter or circular. Stig was back and he was edgy!
So there. A potted history of Stig.