Phoenix Festival, 1996
I worked as a steward at a couple of festivals when I was a student, one of which was the Phoenix in 1996. Bowie, The Prodigy, the Sex Pistols, Björk – I missed them all because I was either (a) manning a fire-tower a gazillion miles from the stage, or (b) shivering in my tent with sunstroke from too much of (a). But I digress…

Fire tower duty essentially meant doing nothing more than watching the campsites and making sure that noone lit a fire. (“Mr Case” was PA-system code for a little fire, “Mr Ash” for a larger one, and “Mr England” for “Fuck! RUN!” – so if you’re ever at a festival and here an announcement that Mr England is in campsite A… you know what it means.) We – one of the guys I was stationed with and I – would occasionally wander around the site on patrol.

Flat on her back, asleep in the sun outside her tent, was a brunette. Somehow her skirt (shorts? Can’t remember) had ridden up her legs and it was plain for all to see that she was going commando.

Oddly, we got particularly worried that that area of the campsite might catch fire, so it was important that we went back to check its safety quite a few times over the next half-hour or so. When she woke and moved, the fire hazard miraculously subsided. Odd how these things coincide, isn’t it?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 12 Oct 2007, 10:02, Reply)