A guest posting by Fraser Pettigrew (aka our New Zealand correspondent)

Over a couple of months in the summer of 1993 you would have variously found me swanning around backstage with performers at the Fleadh in Finsbury Park, then working on the set-up of the first Phoenix Festival at Stratford-upon-Avon, and later helping out at a photo shoot for a wannabe pop star alongside legendary producer Martin Rushent.
I’d love to tell you that amongst all this involvement with the music biz I witnessed some epochal live performances and had unforgettable encounters with a few rock icons, but instead it most notably saw me handing out free condoms from the back of a van while the bands I wanted to see were playing elsewhere.
This was not for pleasure but for work, you see. I had recently taken a blind leap into a new job with a small public relations agency based in the sleepy fenland town of Ely, ten miles north of Cambridge. The agency’s major client was the London Rubber Company, producer of the Durex brand of condoms. As often in the world of PR, the agency had been founded by a former exec at LRC’s old agency who had left with the express purpose of stealing the account for himself.
Said former account director and MD of the new agency was a man to whom I will refer simply as the Big Nosed Cunt. You may feel such an offensive epithet is excessive, but I can assure you it is purely descriptive, for he had a very big nose and he was a cunt. I’ll call him the BNC henceforward in order to reduce the cunt-count.
For my first few months in Ely I was unaware of the full extent of the BNC’s true cuntiness, and so I was an eager assistant in executing his plans for Durex. The PR strategy was to strengthen association between the brand and the world of rock and pop, on the sound basis that teens and young adults were the ones doing all the casual shagging, not older couples in long-term relationships for whom the increasingly antique phrase ‘family planning’ meant The Pill or lust-crushing parenthood.
In pursuit of this racier brand alignment, the BNC secured the main sponsorship rights to the first Phoenix Festival that July at a disused airfield near Stratford-upon-Avon. Vince Power’s Mean Fiddler organisation conceived The Phoenix as rising from the supposed ashes of the Reading Festival, deemed incinerated by a business dispute, but ultimately Reading ’93 went ahead under new management, while Power forged ahead with the rival event.
Preparations for July saw me organising production of large pvc banners emblazoned with Durex logos and liaising with Mean Fiddler over logistical matters. To get a feel for how things would work backstage, a VIP pass was procured for the Irish-themed Fleadh festival in Finsbury Park in June and I was told to go and check it out.
The headline act was Bob Dylan, preceded by Van Morrison, preceded by a string of other acts including The Pogues, John Martyn, Kirsty MacColl, The Men They Couldn’t Hang and Stiff Little Fingers. The only problem for me was that a very good friend was having his stag night in Cambridge on the same evening. I realised that it was either Bob and Van or my friend Martin.
Martin won, but I did go down to Finsbury Park early and hung around backstage where the only person of note that I recognised was Bruce Foxton. If you’ve ever wondered, backstage in the VIP area at a rock festival is pretty much like front of stage, except people are better behaved at the bar, and there are seats that would otherwise be stolen away by punters. The weather that night was dreadful, possibly making it easier for me to pass up Bob and Van and catch the train back to Cambridge after seeing The Pogues. Martin’s pre-nuptial rite turned out to be the most uneventful stag night I have ever been to, apart from my own – a few quiet pints and a chicken jalfrezi at The Curry Queen on Mill Road.
If you’ve also ever wondered how one of these huge festivals comes together I sincerely hope it is nothing at all like how it came together at the Phoenix because it very nearly didn’t. We took up residence in Stratford three days before the opening Friday and experienced 72 hours of mind-boggling chaos and frenzy. Right up until the first act was due to take to the stage I was convinced it would never happen, such was the apparent state of disorganisation and panic behind the scenes.
I contributed to a flood of questions both petty and serious with which the poor site manager was incessantly bombarded concerning anything from plastic chairs and spare rope, to scaffolding, power supplies and perimeter fence security. Every single decision about anything could only be answered by this one bloke who basically didn’t sleep all week and was physically and mentally fucked by the time the curtain went up.
To add to everyone’s explosive stress levels, on the Thursday night a bunch of ticketless crusties tried to storm the entrance to the camp site, initiating a ruck with security and a lengthy stand-off that blocked passage for everyone else, leaving people still pitching tents after midnight.
Although I knew I would be working, I was hopeful of being able to see several bands at the Phoenix, including my new faves Stereolab. Some I’d seen already – Fatima Mansions, New Fast Automatic Daffodils, Gil Scott Heron. Several others I wanted to see, including Sonic Youth, Julian Cope and George Clinton. There were lots of bands that no one had ever heard of in 1993, like Pulp and Cornershop, and many others you still haven’t heard of.

Sadly, the list of bands I saw was very short on account of having to work shifts dishing out free condoms to fans from the window of a converted ice-cream van, or going backstage to make sure the corporate bores from Durex had someone to talk to. Stereolab would have to wait a few more years, but at least I did get to see most of Sonic Youth’s headline set, which was fantastic, a raging crepuscular drama in the midsummer twilight. The Young Gods were an interesting surprise, being 1-Swiss, and 2-sounding full metal without even having a guitarist. George Clinton was a no-show. The BNC was of the opinion that Sonic Youth were rubbish, but The Black Crowes were great. If you think I was being uncharitable to him before I bet you think differently now, eh?
Backstage we didn’t see too many stars in our sponsor’s marquee. Richey Edwards was one. Vince Power himself was another, and he introduced me to a bona-fide multi-millionaire. “This is Mr Murphy,” said Vince, eager to get rid of me. Mr Murphy and his friends looked like a group of elderly Irish farmers in tweeds and flat caps, which is not far off what they were. If you’ve lived in the UK since the 1970s, especially round London, you’ll have seen many of Mr Murphy’s big green lorries hanging around road works and building sites. As Wikipedia records, “At his death in 2009, his worth was estimated at £190 million. He valued his privacy and was known to spend little on luxuries, instead preferring to spend time with his own workmen and other Irish friends.” Mr Murphy didn’t have a lot to say to a soft-fingered office boy like me.
A few weeks after the Phoenix the BNC took me on another poptastic outing to deepest Berkshire to photograph ‘pop star’ Mike Fab-Gere “playing live inside a giant condom.” This was the kind of worthless PR shit that ex-tabloid hacks like the BNC excel at. Pointless, patronising, inaccurate, trivial, titillating, sub-moronic trash.
Mike Fab-Gere was another Durex sponsorship property, the alter-ego of one Mike Southon, a former IT entrepreneur who’d sold his business for enough cash to live on forever and rededicated himself to getting onto Top of the Pops dressed in platforms, spangle flares, chest wig and droopy Jason King tache. Tapping into the first wave of 70s revivalism like Björn Again he carved a niche for himself playing swinging 60s and glam rock covers to halls of drunk students, chucking buckets of Durex rubbers into the crowd.
We found Mike all dressed up and ready to go in a small field in some unremembered village, accompanied by his pal Martin Rushent, erstwhile producer of several discs in my collection by The Stranglers, Buzzcocks and Generation X, and later of The Human League’s chart successes. I think he and Mike were neighbours who had bonded over a few jars at their local pub on Millionaire’s Row. Rushent looked like a porky middle-aged plumber with a scruffy beard rather than the sonic architect of some of the finest new wave albums of the age. I was just 30 and guessed Rushent was maybe hitting 60 and had retired from producing. In fact he was 45. God knows what I look like to 30 year-olds, but by 63 – my age today – Martin Rushent was sadly dead.
I tried to chat but didn’t get far, failing to elicit any interesting anecdotes about Billy Idol or Pete Shelley. He was probably as irritated by this little PR twat as he was by the stupidity of the whole scene before us. Needless to say, there was no giant condom, it was a Durex-branded hot-air balloon, part inflated on its side so that Mike could get inside it and pretend to perform (there was no live music) while the BNC’s brother took pictures. All this to provide some promo shots no one would ever publish to plug Mike’s forthcoming single (a Rushent-produced cover of I Am The Walrus) that would not secure a TOTP appearance. Utter, utter bollocks.
Mike Fab-Gere never got onto TOTP, and a few years later Mike Southon had gone back to being a businessman. I had escaped from the BNC and gone on to do PR for entrepreneurs far less pleasant than Mike and my brief brush with the music industry was, quite thankfully, over. As you probably guessed, the BNC carried on being a cunt and will by now be a retired cunt, boring people with fabricated tales about ligging with The Black Crowes back in ’93. Me, I’m still working and boring people with my tales of ligging with Mr John Murphy, elderly Irish roadmender. Rock and roll, baby!
Side one
London You’re a Lady – The Pogues
100% – Sonic Youth
The Night Dance – The Young Gods
John Cage Bubblegum – Stereolab
Razzmatazz – Pulp
Side two
England’s Dreaming – Cornershop
Hanging Out And Hung Up On The Line – Julian Cope
Go Home Bible Mike – Fatima Mansions
It’s Not What You Know – New Fast Automatic Daffodils
I Am The Walrus – Mike Fab-Gere and The Permissive Society




























